by Elise Faber
Soph nodded, disappeared down the hall, and a moment later, they heard the water turn on, drawers opening and closing in the bedroom.
Rob was frozen, standing in the hall, his hands fisted at his sides.
And Chance understood why.
Misty’s hair was still stained crimson with blood, her face was bruising, her eye swollen and already blackening. The purple cast stood out sharply against her pale skin—he made a mental note to pick up a cast cover from the drug store the next day—but he knew the moment that Rob processed the color.
His face smoothed out. His hands relaxed.
Chance watched him visibly bank that fury.
He walked over, slowing when he got close.
Misty stood up and walked into his arms, and he held her like she was the most delicate glass, his head dropping as he whispered something in her ear.
She burrowed deeper, holding him tighter.
Only then did Chance move away from Misty and give Rob the space to comfort his sister. He went through her kitchen and found a bag he could secure around her cast temporarily, then went into the bathroom to comfort his sister.
Her eyes were red and a little swollen, but she wasn’t actively crying any longer.
The moment he crossed over the threshold, she launched herself at him and lost it again, her tears soaking his shirt.
He let her have that, stroked her back. Yes, it was pregnancy hormone related. But also, yes, it was her finding and falling in love with Rob related. She’d been too closed down due to the shit her bio parents had heaped on her to connect with anyone for far too long. Well, she was wide open now. She was feeling everything, and while he didn’t want her to lose her shit in front of Misty, he wasn’t going to chastise her for losing it with him in private.
“She’s okay,” he said, stroking a hand down her spine. “She’ll be okay.”
Soph lifted her head, met his eyes. “Of course, she will.”
Then she burrowed deeper into him and kept crying.
He held tight and let her.
19
Muffins
Misty
It had been two days since the robbery, since the baseball bat, and though the whole of Stoneybrook had given her space yesterday, mostly because it had been really late by the time Chance had brought her home from the hospital the night before, and mostly because she’d slept the day away (thus, she hadn’t been aware if anyone had come to visit or bring casseroles or just lay eyes on her), the denizens of Stoneybrook had decided Misty had been given enough space.
Case in point, that morning Frankie and Maggie had descended, Soph and Rob had redescended—they’d both stayed for a while after she’d lost her shit in Rob’s arms, after her brother had carried her to bed and held her tight in a way he hadn’t done since their parents had died. Eventually, she’d gotten it together and ordered him to take Soph home so she could rest.
They’d fought her, but Chance had stepped in.
He’d bustled them out.
But not before she’d met Soph’s eyes, taken her hand—a hand that had been holding Misty’s or bringing tissues or running her a bath she didn’t get around to taking because by the time she got her shit together to kick them out, the water had grown cold—and said, “You’ll be a good mom, Soph.”
Soph’s eyes had filled with tears, but she’d simply sniffed, nodded, and kissed Misty’s cheek.
Then they’d gone.
Then Chance had added more hot water to the bath, sat with her while she was in it, a plastic bag wrapped around her cast, so she could doze and pretend that a man who’d clearly been disturbed or on drugs or…whatever, had not taken a bat to her in order to get a couple hundred dollars in petty cash. And when she was done, he’d blown out the candles, hit the plug on the tub, and hefted her out before the water was fully gone, even though that had meant she’d gotten him all wet. She’d protested. He’d said he didn’t want her to get cold.
And if she’d been retaining any pieces of her heart, holding anything back, at that point it was a lost cause.
Her heart was Chance’s.
After wrapping her in a towel, he’d set her on the bed, slipped off the plastic bag, made sure every inch of her was dry, and then he’d tucked her under the covers, gone to her drawers, pulled out her pajamas, and had carefully helped her get dressed.
Her eyes had been drooping then, but he’d given her a sleeping pill and some pain medicine anyway.
Then he’d climbed into bed next to her, wrapped her in his arms, and had murmured, “You’re safe. I’m here.”
That drooping had transformed into out.
And when she’d woken the next day, her bed had been empty, it was almost dinner time, and Chance had been in her kitchen, making some sort of pasta sauce that was so garlicky it almost burned her nose.
In other words, it had turned out to be fucking delicious.
Turning as she stumbled into the kitchen, her body hurting and drool, no doubt, crusting on her face, joining right along with sheet creases and flushed cheeks, he’d smiled and said, “Hey, beautiful.”
The way he’d said it had told her he meant it.
The way he’d said it had erased the niggling of fear that he might look at her differently in the light of the morning—or early evening, as it was. Not that he would look at her differently. She just…well, she felt different. A little busted up. A little vulnerable. A little…suffice to say, the man in her shop with the baseball bat had shattered her careful picture of the world.
She’d known that bad things happened, that the world wasn’t all rosy.
It was just—outside of her parents dying—none of that bad had touched her.
Chance had stirred the pot, turned down the heat on the stovetop, and then he’d left the sauce to simmer, taking her uninjured hand and leading her to the bathroom. Gentle touches, a soft kiss to her temple. Her toothbrush ready with toothpaste. The shower on. A cover he must have picked up at some point during the day placed over her cast. Him stripping down and stepping into the stream, helping her in, washing her hair with a towel covering her stitches so they didn’t get wet, soaping her body up and rinsing it gently, even though she saw his jaw clenching when he took in the bruises that had arisen on her skin since the night before.
He’d taken care of her in a way she had never been taken care of. And her brother was no slouch in the taking care of department, considering he’d shown up that night, had held her while she’d cried, had fixed the door to the shop, cleaned it up, got her a new point of sale system, and had glass for new register stand on order.
But Chance had a hand in that, too.
Rob told him he’d called and texted, keeping her brother in the loop, like when she’d been rethinking keeping Rob away so he wouldn’t be inconvenienced.
Which had earned her a scolding—albeit a gentle one—when Rob and Soph had turned up that morning with cinnamon rolls and coffees, Rob reiterating that she was his sister and as thus never an inconvenience and doing it by saying some really nice things (“You’ve grown into an incredible woman, Dewdrop, and I know you like to do things on your own, but you could never be an inconvenience,” and, “I love you, sweetheart, and I’m so sorry this happened,” and “I’m getting the shop back up to snuff and building you a new case for your register, and you can just suck it up and accept it.”) And maybe the last part of that statement wasn’t exactly nice—orders rarely were—but it was still Rob and her brother being there for her and caring for her and the undertones of it were nice.
And Chance had orchestrated it, made sure Rob was there, prioritized the shop, held her while she slept, washed her hair, cooked for her. He’d even worked with Rob to figure out how to place the order for materials she’d just finished inventorying when everything had gone to shit.
She hadn’t thought that was something she ever wanted, hadn’t thought she’d be able to relax with someone taking care of her, hadn’t thought she needed it.
She�
�d always handled her own stuff.
But she couldn’t deny having Chance help her shoulder all of that, looking after her, felt wonderful and—
“Eat that,” Mrs. Hutchinson demanded, dropping a plate in front of her.
Misty blinked out of her reverie, happy to be in her shop, though not all that pleased to be in it with Mrs. Hutchinson. “Thank you very much for making it, but I’m not hungry. I—”
Mrs. Hutchinson shoved the plate with a bran muffin—yes, a fucking bran muffin—toward her. “Eat,” she ordered.
Gritting her teeth, Misty picked up the muffin and took a huge bite.
And then promptly felt like her jaw had been welded together. “Mmm,” she said, forcing out the sound while trying not to gag because God, that was foul.
Eventually, she managed to get the bite down, nearly draining her mug of coffee in the process.
By then, Mrs. Hutchinson had moved to the displays of yarn—thank God for the prospect of new and shiny projects and their ability to distract bossy old ladies from making sure she finished that hell of a muffin.
Soph sidled up next to her, and without one word, the muffin disappeared, the wrapper staying as evidence of her “eating” it, and then her sister-in-law was gone, slipping into the storeroom.
Misty did not miss the soft thunk of the muffin hitting the trash can she kept back there. She smiled at Soph when she returned, acknowledging her assistance in Muffin Gate, and receiving a wink in return.
“Where should we put this blend?” Frankie asked, wisely not commenting on the bran muffin disappearing, as she held up a skein of lovely pale green yarn.
Okay, Misty thought that all yarn was lovely.
But this one was especially so. Mainly because that soft green reminded her of the streaks in Chance’s eyes, and since she’d been mentally mooning over him and all that caretaking and lovely niceness, the yarn reminding her of his eyes then reminded her of his face—all strong lines and dark stubble, yum—which then reminded her of his body—muscular, but not over the top, taller than her, harder than hers, and a chest that had just the right amount of hair (meaning that he wasn’t Chewbacca, but he definitely felt like a man, also yum).
And so, she was thinking of Chance’s body and not the yarn, and apparently doing it for some time because she barely heard Maggie pause her perusal of the box she was supposed to be sorting—rhinestone-covered knitting needles, which was no surprise since Maggie and sparkles went hand in hand. She certainly wasn’t aware of Chance coming up to her, not until his arm slid around her shoulders and kissed her uninjured temple.
God, she liked when he did that.
“Whatcha thinking, Cloudless?” he murmured in her ear.
She shifted, caught a glimpse of those green eyes with the seafoam streaks that had jump-started her fantasizing, caught that they held enough mischief to tell her he had a good idea, and decided to just give it to him. “You. And all that you’ve done for me the past couple of days, not to mention that you saved me from getting hit with a bat and shot a man to protect me.” That mischief faded, and she stepped closer, pressing her front to his. “But more than thinking about how wonderful you’ve been—which you’ve definitely been and all that wonderful has made me fall completely, head over heels in love with you, and not in a weird hero-worship kind of way because you saved me and took care of me the last couple of days, but because I liked you a lot before, and in this shitty situation you showed me the kind of man you are—which, in case you’re wondering is a fucking good one—and all of this is to say, I was thinking that and then the yarn reminded me of your eyes and the little pale green streaks in your irises, and that got me thinking about your body which got me thinking about how much I like it naked and against me, not to mention your cock inside me, and—”
“Cloudless.”
The sharp bite of his voice had her blinking and jarring right out of her rambling.
His palm cupped her cheek, fingers brushing the bottom of the bandage on her temple. “First,” he said, his voice still gruff, and that might have hurt if not for the wealth of emotions in his eyes and the next words he said, “I love you, too. Hands down. With all my heart. I’ve never met a woman like you. Never met anyone who made me know—know, not think—that I had to take the risk of having someone I loved at home, someone who might leave me or I might leave them, and we might end up in pieces because of it. But that I’ll gladly take the risk because knowing that I get you in my life in any way, for any amount of time makes that risk completely worth it.”
Misty’s eyes stung.
A tear escaped.
He scooped it off her bottom lashes.
“What’s second?” she breathed, after taking a moment to hold those words close and knowing that she would never forget them, not for as long as she lived.
“Mmm?”
His fingers were moving on her skin, light touches on her cheek, her jaw, her neck.
“You said first,” she whispered, tilting her head so he could trace those rough digits over her collarbone. Sensitive. So fucking sensitive. “So,” she said, shivering, “what’s second?”
He froze.
Then grinned. But she only saw that smirk for a second before he bent his head and whispered in her ear. “Second,” he murmured, making her shiver again, even more fiercely this time, “I was going to remind you we have an audience.”
She gasped, turned her head, saw that Maggie and Frankie were listening unabashedly, right along with Mrs. Hutchinson, Rob, Soph, and several of her customers.
Chance kept whispering. “So, I didn’t think you wanted to be talking about my cock inside you.”
Her cheeks flooded with heat.
His lips found her earlobe, nipped lightly. “So, you love me?”
That heat didn’t go away, but she didn’t shy away from him, just shifted so she could meet his gaze, so his mouth was close to hers. “I love you.” Her lips dropped to his and because she’d only ever given him straight, could only continue giving him straight in this moment, too, she added, “And I love your cock.”
She heard Maggie snicker behind them.
She heard a groan—Rob, she realized when she heard him say, “Fuck, could have lived my life with not hearing my sister say the word cock twice in as many minutes.”
Frankie just giggled.
“What was that?” Mrs. Hutchinson all but yelled. “What did she say?”
Soph sniffed.
Frankie murmured, “She said she loves him.”
“Hmph.” A beat that was long enough for Misty to spin in Chance’s arms, to see the collection gathered in front of the makeshift register stand Rob had put together for her. “Good,” Mrs. Hutchinson said when Misty’s eyes hit hers. “He’s a good one.”
Then she barreled for the door, pushed it open, pausing as Misty’s slightly beat-up—kind of like her, she supposed—bell tinkled to look back at them.
“Eat the rest of the bran muffins,” she ordered, nodding to the basket sitting on the makeshift counter Rob had erected, a basket Misty had somehow missed noticing before, much to her horror, seeing as she needed to resurrect Operation Muffin Gate. “They’re good for you.” A beat. “I’m coming back later with chicken noodle soup and to buy that mauve merino blend. And the pattern for the teddy bear. My granddaughter needs that teddy bear.”
A heartbeat later, she was gone.
The bell tinkled as the door closed.
Then Soph did her a solid and the rest of the bran muffins hit the trash can.
Thank God for small miracles.
20
Moving Boxes
Chance
Shoving the final box into his truck, he turned and shook hands with his landlord.
The man wasn’t getting a bad deal. Chance was leaving a month early, even though he’d already paid rent for that month and the one following. Plus, Tony already had someone ready to move into the apartment.
Not a bad deal.
And he wouldn�
��t be missing Chance at all, not when he got double rent.
Not that Chance would be missing him either.
Tony was a nice guy, but the apartment wasn’t exactly stellar. It had been a place to live, to crash when he was home. His office had been nicer for obvious reasons. He couldn’t have clients walking into a shit-hole.
But his lease on that had been up for several months now, ever since Rob had settled in with Soph and Chance had visited Stoneybrook. He’d known that he was going to move closer, especially when his parents had taken the first step and headed that way, his brothers then following suit.
They were a close family.
He wasn’t going to be the one left behind.
But he hadn’t settled on Stoneybrook itself until Misty had barreled into his SUV.
Now he knew there was nowhere else he’d rather be.
It had been six weeks since he’d driven by Misty’s shop and saw the shattered glass, six weeks since she’d been hurt, six weeks where he’d spent nearly every moment with her.
He’d never believed in utopia, in perfection.
But hell if that wasn’t what he’d found with Misty.
Not that it was all perfection. They’d fought just the night before. She’d been frustrated by his “hovering” and trying to do everything for her. This had come to a head, namely because she was getting the cast off that day. He’d wanted to put off his trip to go with her, and she’d bluntly refused.
They’d argued.
Then she’d kissed him, and they’d continued the argument while fucking on the couch.
Then she’d given him an orgasm that had made his head explode, or at least that was the reason he was clinging to for giving in and letting her go to her appointment by herself, even though he wanted to hold her hand when the doctor unleashed a scary fucking saw to cut off some fiberglass strapped around her freaking arm.
