Lost and Found Sisters

by Jill Shalvis

  He blew out a sigh. “I want to mean it, does that count?”

  She shook her head in temper and whipped around, heading to her bedroom.

  “Where are you going?”

  “For pants!”

  “Don’t do that on my account.”

  “Brock?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Shut up.” She shoved herself into a pair of jeans and moved back to the living room.

  “So who is he?” he asked.

  “None of your business.”

  “Come on,” he said. “I’ve got eyes in my head. He’s someone to you.”

  “More than a wild oat,” she agreed, and that it was true no longer surprised her. “He’s an engineer from the Bay Area. He doesn’t live here either, his mom does. He’s helping her remodel her house and then he’s out.”

  Brock took this in. “So . . . you’ve once again got yourself an out clause? Nicely done, Q.”

  Not a can of worms she intended to open, not with him. “Why are you here, Brock? The truth.”

  He ran a hand over his head and gave her a sheepish grin. “I came because your mom pleaded with me to talk some sense into you, but somehow when you opened the door and I saw your wild oat standing behind you with that bite mark on his neck, I talked myself into fighting for you instead.”

  Oh dear God. She’d left a bite mark on Mick? “You’re not the fighting type.”

  “Yeah, the urge was temporary,” Brock admitted. “I mean when the guy opened the door minus his shirt and with you in it, the first thing I felt was jealous.”

  “So that’s why you kissed me.”

  He nodded. “But then you didn’t respond to it and I felt . . .”

  She raised a brow.

  “Relief.”

  She smacked him in the chest and he let out an “oof” and caught her hand in his as he flashed her a grin, which slowly faded. “I know I’ve hurt you. I was an ass to not hold on to you harder.”

  “Not all your fault,” she said. “Not nearly.”

  “No hard feelings?”

  “Never,” she said and walked into his arms. They hugged hard and Quinn spent a moment grieving for what would never be: having Beth alive to grow old with, having Brock as her “maybe,” and . . . a life in L.A.

  Because she got it now, 100 percent. She hadn’t spoken to Tilly about leaving Wildstone for L.A. because . . .

  She didn’t want to go.

  She wanted this life.

  She wanted Tilly in this life.

  And she also wanted Mick.

  “About effing time,” Beth said, laughter in her voice.

  Quinn looked behind her but there was no Beth. Except for in her own head.

  Brock pulled back, his face full of affection and regret. “I do love you, Quinn.”

  “I know,” she said. “I love you too.”

  In what was actually the most tender moment they’d ever had, he leaned in and kissed her softly. “Want to go get something to eat?”

  “I know you just drove three hours to get here,” she said. “But I have something I really need to do.”

  Brock gave her a small smile. “A half-naked, pissed-off dude in a truck?”

  “Yeah.”

  Twenty minutes later, Quinn located Mick standing in his dad’s garage, hands on his hips. When he was tired, he wore the look he had now. Wary, as if maybe he couldn’t count on his normal sharp instincts to function well enough on autopilot.

  Although she wouldn’t tell him so, she liked him best this way, a little worn and weary, a little rough around the edges. He was so different from any man she’d ever met. “Hey,” she said.

  He glanced over at her and didn’t say a word. Nor did he give away any of his thoughts, though she figured he was angry. He’d found shoes and a shirt, and appeared to be getting ready to paint.

  “I’m sorry about earlier,” she said, coming into the garage. “I didn’t know he was coming, or that he’d say he was my fiancé. He thought he was being funny.”

  “Did he.”

  Quinn moved to his side and met his gaze. Definitely angry. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I could’ve handled that better. It’s just that Brock and I go way back, we’ve been friends forever.”

  “Friends. And lovers,” he said. “He’s the one you broke up with after . . .”

  “. . . Beth’s death.” She nodded. “Yeah. That’s him. But we aren’t sleeping together.”

  “That kiss said otherwise.”

  She sighed. “He did that to piss you off. It didn’t mean anything. We broke up years ago.”

  “Two,” he said. “And you’re missing my point. You were with him until your world caved in, and then you two fell apart. Not because you fell out of love, but because you felt you couldn’t love.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re reading this wrong. My relationship with him has no bearing on the one between you and me.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, see, I’m not sure you understand what constitutes a relationship. You’re either in or you’re out with someone, Quinn. I thought after the other night on the bluffs . . .” He shook his head. “Never mind.”

  “Look,” she said, starting to panic that she was messing this up. “Whatever you think you saw between me and Brock, you’re wrong.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe I was wrong about what’s happening between us.” And with that, he began to paint, dipping the roller brush into the tray, carefully and methodically painting the wall in front of him, his broad shoulders stretching taut the seams of his T-shirt.

  Quinn watched his effortless movements for a long moment but he didn’t look at her again. She found her temper at that. No, he wasn’t wrong about what had been happening between them, but she didn’t know what she was doing. She needed help because she was . . . lost. But hell no would she ask, so she spun on a heel and walked away.

  And he let her.

  Chapter 30

  Anyone who doesn’t agree that leggings are pants can physically fight me. I’ll win because I have a full range of motion due to the fact that I’m wearing leggings as pants.

  —from “The Mixed-Up Files of Tilly Adams’s Journal”

  Mick stood in his dad’s garage, heart thudding dully, unable to think straight. Okay, yes, it had been sheer, stupid bruised ego that had let her walk away. The truth was that Quinn had been up front about her inability to love him. If his feelings had started to change—which, given the sharp pain in his chest, they had—that was all on him.

  Not her.

  As was the fact that he’d let those feelings take root, deep root. He’d dropped his walls. Been a long time since he’d let that happen. And that made him an idiot. He set down the paint roller and stood there, Coop at his feet, both of them staring at the wall he hadn’t yet covered, the one with the damn white outlines of the still-missing tools.

  Mick’s dad had been controlling as hell, and as a result, Mick had made it a point to never tell people what to do with their lives, including their love lives.

  So he hadn’t been about to start with Quinn. She was a big girl. She either wanted him for keeps or she didn’t.

  And hell.

  She clearly didn’t.

  Which was undoubtedly for the best and meant that she was smarter than he was. His life was far from here and far from her. It had also been a long time since he’d had anything more than casual, and he wasn’t about to start with a woman he couldn’t see when he wanted to see her. In his experience, absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder. Absence made people do stupid things.

  Like cheat.

  “There you are,” his mom said, stepping into the garage. Coop gave a low, excited “wuff.”

  “I heard you drive up,” she said while simultaneously hugging Coop, “but then you vanished.” She beamed up at Mick. “I’m so happy about what you’re doing in Wildstone.”

  “Mom.” He took her hands, which were fluttering around in excitement. “It’s not what you thi
nk.”

  “You bought into local businesses,” she said. “Because your town’s in trouble. Promises have been broken, but you’re trying to help. You care about Wildstone, and because of that you’re going to stay—”

  “I bought them because I care about the local businesses being squeezed out by a city manager who should be protecting this town, not taking kickbacks from outsiders while squelching businesses who’ve been here for decades. It’s all just business to me.”

  “Of course it’s not just business or you’d have done this anywhere but Wildstone.” Her eyes got misty. “I’m so proud of you, Mick. You’re the sweetest thing.”

  “Mom, I’m leasing back to the original owners and making money off them.”

  “And smart,” she said. “Sweet and smart.”

  He had to laugh. “Don’t you think you’re a little biased?”

  She sipped from her mason jar and just smiled at him.

  “You’re not drinking straight-up moonshine at . . .” He looked at his phone. “Ten A.M.”

  “Of course not,” she said. “I’ve got ice cubes in it.”

  He sighed. “You know you got Quinn toasted with that stuff.”

  This gave his mom a big laugh. “I like her.”

  “You like everyone.”

  “I like her,” she repeated. “For you.”

  “Again,” he said with a small laugh, “you like everyone for me.”

  “I do not.”

  “Really? Because in the not so distant past you’ve tried to set me up with your mail carrier, a perfect stranger at the gas station, and let’s not forget my ex.”

  “In my defense, the woman getting gas had a nice smile. You could’ve done worse for yourself.”

  Mick tossed up his hands. “I give up.”

  “You deserve a good woman,” she said. “And since you’ve been in no hurry to find your own, I stepped up to help you. It’s what a good mom does.”

  Mick snorted.

  “And anyway, I backed off as soon as I realized you’d found someone on your own.”

  “Quinn is not mine.”

  “Why not?” she asked. “She makes you smile. She also makes you laugh. And she keeps you coming back to Wildstone—and don’t think that didn’t hurt at first, since I couldn’t manage that feat myself, but I’ve made my peace with it. And I love her for it.”

  He could see the look in her eyes, the I’m-wanting-grandchildren look, and he shook his head at her. “I like her too, Mom, but that’s not what this is between us. I’m pretty sure she’s out of here as soon as Tilly’s out of school.”

  “Nonsense. That girl was made for this town. She’s sweet and kind and caring, and better yet, she’s smart as hell and fiercely protective of those she loves.”

  “And how do you know all of that?” Mick said, amused in spite of himself.

  “Because she’s here in Wildstone, isn’t she? Out of her element and away from her world, which might as well be on a different planet, all to take care of a sister she didn’t even know she had and certainly has no obligation to. How many people do you know who’d do that?”

  “We’re changing the subject now,” he said.

  “Fine.” Hand on Coop’s big head, she looked around. “So what are you doing out here? After you had your worker bees sneak in here last week when I was out getting my hair done, I thought the work was finished. You got rid of all my things.”

  “Not your things, Mom. Just the crap.”

  “I know,” she said. “They took it to the thrift shop on Fourth.”

  He gave her a long look. “And how do you know that?”

  “Because Sally, who’s worked there for forty years, called to tell me.”

  “Mom.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Tell me you didn’t go buy your crap back.”

  “Okay, I won’t tell you. Just don’t look in the shed,” was her parting shot as she left.

  “Shit.” He shoved his fingers in his hair and turned in a slow circle.

  “Looking a little crazy today.”

  He turned back to the door and found Boomer standing there, looking unsure of his welcome. “Crazy doesn’t begin to cover it.”

  Coop, who’d used up his store of energy on Mick’s mom, didn’t get up to greet Boomer. He just thumped his tail on the dusty garage floor a few times.

  “We going to fight again?” Mick asked curiously.

  “We could.” Boomer came closer, revealing the faint markings of a black eye. “But I gotta warn you,” he said. “I just drank a protein shake so I’ve got an unfair advantage.”

  Mick laughed.

  Boomer smiled ruefully and bent to love up on Coop. “Don’t get too full of yourself. I bruise like a peach.”

  Mick rubbed his still-aching jaw. “If it helps, your right hook’s stronger than it used to be.”

  Boomer snorted and then sobered as he rose back to his feet. “Look, man, I’ve fucked some things up. Lots of things.”

  Mick’s smile faded. The last time Boomer had started a conversation in this way, he’d just come off a three-day bender, during which time he’d trashed his car, his relationships, and his entire life. He’d ended up in rehab. “You’re not just talking about you and me,” Mick said.

  “No.”

  “Or Lena.”

  “No.”

  Mick met his gaze. “Tell me.”

  Boomer turned to the garage wall with the white outlines. “I’m surprised after all this time you still haven’t painted over those.”

  Mick took a good look at them, realizing that his original perspective was changing. His dad had done his best to be efficient. It hadn’t been a personal attack on Mick. Hell, in his job, Mick was all about efficiency and expediency, so he should get it. “I’d planned on painting over them.”

  “But . . .?” Boomer asked.

  But . . . he was experiencing some surprising revelations about his dad and everything he thought he knew about his childhood. His dad had been far from perfect, but the man had truly believed he’d been doing his job as a father.

  Unlike Tom, who’d purposely, almost happily, screwed up his only son, leaving Boomer tumbling in the wind.

  Boomer looked amused. “You want to leave the outlines?”

  “I want to not resent them,” Mick corrected.

  Boomer laughed ruefully. “We’re both fucked up in a big way. Good thing we don’t have kids. Neither of us knows shit about being a good dad.”

  “Maybe we’ll do better,” Mick said.

  “Are you seriously telling me you want kids after all we went through?”

  Mick shrugged. The truth was, he’d never given it much serious