My Wildest Dream: Whisper Lake #2

by Barbara Freethy

  But he couldn't put any more pressure on her. She'd had a rough day, an even rougher couple of years. And she was getting enough stress from Austin and the paparazzi; he couldn't add to that. He needed to be patient, which was his least favorite thing to be.

  "Almost ready," Chelsea said, giving him a quick smile as she pulled some biscuits out of the oven that she'd apparently made from some mix he'd bought for pancakes.

  He got up from the table. "What can I do to help?"

  "I've got everything under control."

  "I'll get the plates and silverware."

  "That's great."

  "It smells delicious."

  "Hopefully, it tastes just as good." She slid the chicken breasts onto a platter and brought it to the table along with the biscuits.

  He set the table as she grabbed the rice from the stove and a bowl of sliced berries from the fridge.

  "This looks amazing, Chelsea. You're a magician. I had no idea my ingredients could turn into this. Do you cook a lot for yourself?" he asked, as he filled his plate.

  "It's relaxing, and it stops me from having to go out to eat."

  "So, it fits your hermit lifestyle," he teased.

  "I went out last night and today and look what happened," she said pointedly.

  "That's all on Austin."

  "Yes, but we're not going to talk about him anymore. I need a break from me. You never told me if Lady Jane ate all her food."

  "She scarfed it down, and she even let me give her a scratch."

  Chelsea paused with her fork in midair and gave him a dark look. "The little traitor. She never lets me pet her."

  "I have a way with the ladies," he said with a laugh.

  "You certainly do."

  "But this particular lady ran away quick. She was back under the Bakers' bed when I left."

  "I feel bad that she's hiding out there, but maybe she comes out when we're not there."

  "I'm sure she does. When will the Bakers return?"

  "A week from tomorrow. I keep thinking Lady Jane will get used to me, but I guess not."

  "Cats are funny creatures. I've always been more of a dog person. What about you?"

  "I grew up with dogs. My oldest brother Grayson was always bringing home strays that my family would end up adopting. We always thought he'd become a vet, but at some point, he decided to be a people doctor instead."

  "I didn't realize your brother was a doctor."

  "He's a trauma surgeon in Denver, and he loves it. It seems incredibly high stress to me, but Grayson has always thrived on pressure. Adam, too. Nathan, on the other hand, moves at a much different pace."

  "What does he do?"

  "Honestly, I'm not sure. He's a big traveler. He seems to take jobs in different parts of the world just for a new adventure. Last time I talked to him, he was in Dublin. He definitely got the roaming gene. Lizzie wants to convince everyone to move here, but I think Nathan will be a big challenge."

  "It must have been fun growing up in a big family."

  "Fun, chaotic, sometimes annoying, often loud. But I always felt very loved, not just by my siblings, but also by my parents."

  "Lucky girl."

  "I am lucky. I know you have some issues with your father. What about your mom? Do you see her much anymore?"

  "I don't see her, but we keep in touch at least a few times a month. She lives in Idaho now, near her sister, and she's seeing someone. I think she's happy. She never needed as big of a life as my father and I did. As I mentioned, she was an avid skier herself, so we always had that in common. Now, not so much."

  "You have to find other things to share." She paused. "Tell me more about your skiing career. What mountain was the most challenging?"

  "There was more than one challenging run, but the Titlis descent in Switzerland would be at the top of my list. The glacier provides one of the longest downhill runs in the Alps. It goes about eight miles and descends almost sixty-five hundred feet. There are parts that are incredibly tricky."

  "I can't even imagine skiing for eight miles. What speed would you get up to?"

  "Depending on the course, you could near a hundred miles an hour at times."

  She shook her head in amazement. "I don't even want to go that fast in my car."

  "It's fun."

  "That has to be a massive understatement."

  "It's a lot of fun," he amended with a laugh. "And challenging, too. But there's nothing better than conquering a mountain."

  "What races were you the best at?"

  "I competed in super G and downhill. Super G is a giant slalom. The gates are farther apart. The speed is faster. Downhill is all about the speed. But it's not just a physical test; it's a mental test as well. You have to be thinking as fast as you're skiing. You have to be able to anticipate and adjust in less than a second. The blink of an eye could make all the difference in a win or a loss, a successful run or a wipeout."

  "And you were never scared?"

  "Didn't have time to be scared. Racing is all about commitment. If you second-guess, that's usually when bad things happened."

  "Is that what happened on your last training race?"

  Her question brought an aching memory with it.

  "I'm sorry," she said quickly. "You probably don't want to talk about it."

  "It's fine. The course was very icy and beat-up. It was late in the day; I was one of the last skiers, but I'd faced those kinds of conditions before. I remember thinking ahead, about the race to come, which I never did. I always concentrated on the run in front of me. But in that split-second of distraction I caught an edge, and I was airborne. I guess my luck finally ran out."

  "Were you conscious when you landed?"

  "No. I was knocked out. I saw footage of myself being brought down the mountain, but I didn't wake up until I was in the hospital. I had a concussion, two fractured ribs, and my knee was a mess. But I was alive, and for a few days I told myself I'd make it back, no matter what the doctors said. Eventually, I had to stop lying to myself and accept reality. My friends, my family, tried to console me with reminders of everything I had won, but that Olympic gold was never going to be mine, and it was something I'd worked for and dreamed about for years."

  "I'm sorry, Brodie."

  "I was sorry, too, for a long time. But I've moved on."

  "It's great that you found a second career that you enjoy, but I have to say hearing you talk about skiing—it feels like you have some unfinished business. Maybe that's why you're contemplating your father's offer."

  "I have missed being in the sports world and this job would give me the opportunity to go back but in a different way. However, my father is a great salesman, and I know better than to trust his word without doing more research."

  "So, do more research. Find out what it's all about for yourself."

  "That's good advice."

  "Well, it's easier to tell someone else what to do."

  "I've always found that to be the case," he agreed. "Let's talk about something else."

  "Like what?"

  "I don't know. Tell me something about Chelsea Cole that no one else knows."

  "I can't think of anything."

  "Try harder."

  She thought for a moment. "Okay, this is kind of embarrassing."

  "Go on," he said, leaning forward with interest.

  "I have a Barbie doll collection. My mom started it back in the sixties when she was a little girl, and I kept it going. I have Barbies from all different decades. I have the cases, the cars, the dreamhouse. It fills almost half my closet."

  "What about Ken? Is he in there?"

  "Of course I have Ken. Barbie had to date someone," she said with a grin. "I also have Blaine, the Australian surfer who Barbie dated during her split with Ken."

  He laughed. "You make her sound real."

  "I also had her sister, Skipper, and the twin siblings, Todd and Tutti. I told you it was embarrassing."

  "Only if you still play with the dolls."
>
  "I don't play with them. I just collect them. Actually, I haven't added to my collection in a very long time. Do you collect anything?"

  "Nope. I've never been interested in that."

  "Well, there you go. We're not so similar after all."

  "I think you'd be heading for the hills if I told you I had a Barbie doll collection," he said dryly.

  "Maybe so. Now your turn. Tell me something none of your fans know about you and preferably something embarrassing."

  "That's easy. I'm afraid of frogs."

  Her eyes widened. "Frogs? Where did that fear come from?"

  "I stayed in Tennessee once with a friend of mine. His little brother wanted me to catch frogs with him, and I touched one, and it was slimy as hell, and then it jumped on my head. I almost threw my back out trying to get that thing out of my hair." He shuddered at the memory.

  She laughed. "I wish I could have seen that. The fearless Brodie afraid of a frog. Well, your secret is safe with me."

  At her words, shadows filled her eyes. "Don't go there," he said quickly. "Stay with me here, in the present, in the moment."

  She drew in a breath and let it out. "Okay. I'm back."

  "Good." He grabbed their plates and took them over to the sink. "I'll clean up. You relax."

  "Maybe I should go home."

  "Do you want to check the window first?"

  "Good point." She got up from her chair and left the kitchen.

  He cleared the table and rinsed off their plates, putting them into the dishwasher as she returned.

  "I didn't see Austin and Darla, but there are still two photographers sitting in a car outside. How long are they going to wait?"

  "Probably longer than you want. Why don't you check out my couch? We can watch a movie or something." He was more interested in something than a movie, but he didn't want to spook Chelsea while they were getting along so well.

  He started the dishwasher and then joined her in the family room.

  "It's very comfortable," she said, sinking into the soft cushions of his couch.

  "That's what I was going for." He sat down next to her and propped his feet up on the coffee table that had come with the couch. Side tables and lamps completed his new seating area.

  "I like everything you got."

  "So do I."

  She picked up the remote from the coffee table and turned on the television. "What do you like to watch?"

  "I don't care. Find something you like."

  She flipped a couple of channels and then paused, giving him a troubled look. "I feel like I'm overstaying my welcome. I should just brave the photographers and go home. It's not like they didn't already get photos of me."

  "You're not overstaying your welcome." He took her hand in his. "Chelsea, you know I'm interested in you. We almost drowned ourselves kissing each other at the lake."

  "I'm attracted to you, too, Brodie, but my life is already so complicated, and I'm not in a good space—"

  "Stop," he said, cutting off her explanation. "I'm not pushing for anything more than what we're doing right now."

  "Really? You want to watch TV with me?"

  "Sure."

  "And we're not going to make out during the commercials?"

  "Well, I can't promise that."

  A smile curved her lips. "And if I don't want to?"

  "Then we don't. You're calling the shots, Chelsea."

  "And you're being very easygoing."

  "That's who I am. Look, when we get together, I don't want you distracted by anything or anyone else."

  "When? Not if?"

  "When," he confirmed, looking straight into her pretty blue eyes. "Now find us something interesting to watch."

  "Since I'm calling the shots…" She handed him the remote. "I'll let you decide."

  "Deal." After several minutes of channel hopping, he settled on a suspense movie that was just starting.

  It was a gripping story, fast-paced, with car chases and explosions, but somewhere in the middle of the excitement, Chelsea put her head on the side pillow of the couch and fell asleep. He watched her for a few minutes, losing complete track of the mystery on the screen. She really was a beautiful woman, and in sleep there was no sign of the stress that had plagued her day.

  He forced himself to look back at the television, finishing out the movie on his own. Then he grabbed the throw blanket off the back of the recliner and gently draped it over Chelsea. When he got up from the couch, she stretched out her legs, and he didn't want to disturb her, so he settled on the recliner.

  He turned on a baseball game and kept the sound on low, thinking at some point she'd wake up and probably want to go home.

  But the game wasn't very exciting. As the score lengthened, he found his yawns coming more frequently. It had been a very long day. Maybe he'd just close his eyes for a few minutes…

  Chapter Seventeen

  Brodie woke up to the sound of a doorbell. He sat up abruptly, his gaze moving to the couch. Chelsea gave him a confused and sleepy look.

  "What's going on?" she asked.

  "Someone is at the door."

  "Is it morning…" Her voice fell away as she glanced at her watch. "Oh, my God. It's almost nine. I can't believe I slept all night on your couch."

  "You were exhausted."

  "And you slept in the recliner?"

  "It's very comfortable."

  "You should have sent me home."

  The doorbell rang again, three impatient times in a row.

  "Are you expecting someone?" she asked.

  "No. Stay here. It could be Austin again." He got up and strode down the hall. He was ready to bring harassment charges against Austin himself, but when he looked through the peephole, it wasn't Chelsea's ex on his porch; it was a tall, dark-haired man, from whom he'd inherited his brown eyes and broad shoulders.

  Shock ran through him, as the bell rang once more. He threw open the door. "Dad. What are you doing here?"

  "Nice greeting," his father said. "Obviously, I came to see you."

  "I thought you were in LA."

  "I was until yesterday when I realized that there was no way you were getting on a plane until we had a face-to-face conversation, so I flew to Denver last night, and headed up here as soon as the rental car agency opened."

  "You didn't need to come," he said, running his hand through his hair.

  "For God's sake, Brodie, I just drove two hours to get here. Let me in."

  "Dad, wait—" He had no time to finish his statement, as his father brushed past him and ran straight into Chelsea.

  "I'm sorry," his father said. "I didn't realize you had someone here."

  Chelsea tucked her tangled hair behind her ears, giving them both an awkward look. "Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

  Judging by his father's expression, his dad had just jumped to the wrong conclusion. "Chelsea, this is my father, Justin McGuire," he said. "Dad, this is Chelsea Cole, my neighbor."

  "A close neighbor, it looks like," his father said, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. "It's nice to meet you, Chelsea."

  "You, too." She shook his dad's hand, then turned to him. "I'm going to go next door and feed the cat. I'll head home after that."

  He glanced back through the open door and saw no one in front of Chelsea's house. "It looks like you're good for now. But I don't know for how long. I suppose you can always hide out at the Bakers."

  "Hopefully that won't be necessary. I'll see you later." As she moved down the hall, to leave through the kitchen door, he closed the front door and turned his attention back to his dad. There was a speculative gleam in Justin's eyes.

  "What was that all about?" his father asked. "Why does she need to hide out? Is she on the run or something?"

  "It's nothing like that. We don't need to talk about Chelsea."

  "Maybe we do. I'm beginning to understand where some of your reluctance is coming from. Why didn't you tell me you had a girlfriend?"

  "She's not a g
irlfriend."

  "She spent the night."

  "That doesn’t make her my girlfriend."

  "True."

  "Whether you believe it or not, nothing actually happened."

  "Sure, okay. Whatever you say."

  Clearly, his father didn't believe it. He sighed. "I need coffee."

  "I could use some, too," his dad said, following him into the kitchen. "This house is very…charming."

  "Only you could make charming sound like a bad thing," he said dryly. "I'm still furnishing it."

  "It's good you haven't finished. There will be fewer items for you to move to Los Angeles."

  He ignored that comment as he started the coffeemaker. Then he turned and leaned against the counter, folding his arms in front of his chest as he looked at his father. His dad might have gotten up early, but he didn't look at all tired. He was clean-shaven, his brown hair styled as always, his khaki slacks and light-green, short-sleeved dress shirt barely showing a wrinkle.

  He, on the other hand, was very aware he was still in the same shorts that had taken a dip in the lake and a T-shirt that needed a wash. Not that he'd ever tried to compete with his father when it came to fashion. He chose comfortable over stylish every day of the week.

  "I haven't said I'm moving, Dad."

  His father leaned against the opposite counter, clearly understanding the dynamic of being on eye level with the person he was trying to persuade to do what he wanted.

  "Not yet," his father replied. "But you also haven't said no."

  "I told you I was taking the weekend to consider your offer."

  "And I knew you'd talk yourself out of it if I gave you too much time. Did you tell your grandfather?"

  "I did."

  His father gave him a pained look. "I asked you not to do that."

  "I appreciate his counsel."

  "And what did his counsel involve?"

  "He told me I should make up my own mind."

  "At the same time reminding you of the selfless glory that comes with being a cop?" his father asked, a cynical note in his voice. "Never mind that cops don't give the same attention to their families as they do to their jobs."