Best Worst Mistake (6 page)

“You okay?” His deep voice broke up her train of thought.

She snapped up her head. “Huh?”

“I asked if you were okay. You made a face.”

“What kind?”

“A thinking one.” A note of amusement clung to his words.

She squashed her brows together, readjusting her glasses. Was he making fun of her? “Newsflash,
I do have a brain.”

“I wasn’t hinting you were a scarecrow.”

She stared, lost.

He scanned the shelf and plucked another title, holding it up while arching a brow.
The Wizard of Oz
.

“Oh. Right. If I only had a brain.” Duh. “I’m not really winning any Mensa awards tonight.”

“You’re tired and worried.” He shelved the book. “Go take care of your dad and then think about getting
some shut-eye yourself. You look as if you could use it. My bed is free.”

If she was befuddled before, now her brain turned to mashed potatoes. “Your bed?”

“Not with me.” He tripped over his words in haste and coughed into his fist. “I’ll settle out by the fire. You take my bed. It’s more comfortable.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Where else will you sleep?”

“The floor next to Dad.”

His expression turned stony. “You really think that I’ll let you curl up on the frigid floorboards?”

“I don’t think you are going to
let
me do anything,” she snapped, hackles up at his tone. “I make decisions for myself.”

“You will sleep in my bed.” He stepped forward, his flat tone suggesting the debate was over.

He clearly didn’t know who he was up against.

“I wouldn’t sleep
in your bed in a million years.” He flinched at her riled-up response.
Shiznits
. She hadn’t meant the words as a personal insult, only as hyperbole. If truth were to be told, under vastly different circumstances, she’d be interested in sleeping in that bed all right—just not alone. No, she didn’t want to sleep on the ground, listening to Dad’s snoring but she also didn’t want to kick a guy out
of his own room. Especially this tall, broody, Byronic stranger whom she’d already inconvenienced and who was dealing with a score of physical injuries.

“You’re as stubborn as a Missouri mule.” It didn’t sound like he offered the line as a compliment.

She bit the inside of her cheek. “Takes one to know one.” Good lord, this guy really brought out her sass.

He glowered down at her.
She was tall but he was taller still. Made her five-foot-nine feel dainty, petite, which never happened.

She marched past him into the spare room where Dad stood next to the bed. “In you get,” she said, throwing back the sheets.

He responded easy as a child. Easier actually. The meds must be kicking in, coupled by exhaustion.

“You’ve had a big day, haven’t you?” She smoothed back
his hair, feeling not for the first time like the parent rather than the child.

He nodded, probably not because he comprehended, but because she ended the sentence on an upward inflection. He answered every question with some sort of yes. She liked to take that as a sign of innate optimism.

“And look what we have here.” She held up the
Grimm’s Fairy Tales
for inspection as if she were
a sommelier at a wine bar. This time there was no nod, only more staring. She turned to a story in the middle, “The Frog Prince,” and began to read about a beautiful young princess who lost her golden ball down the well. A frog promised to recover it if she would grant his wishes—let him sleep on her pillow and eat off her plate. She desperately agreed and he returned the ball. Afterward, the girl
had no intention of keeping her promise, but the king shamed her into keeping the bargain, which she did with resentment in her heart. After three nights, poof—the frog became a handsome prince. Cue the happy ever after.

“Oh spare me.” She frowned at the page before glancing up, startled by Dad’s snore. The princess was mean and awful. Why did she deserve to win? Why did the prince love her?

Quinn stared at her father’s sleeping form.

She hadn’t meant to be prickly in Wilder’s room. It wasn’t his fault that she couldn’t afford to be attracted to anyone right now. She should go apologize. Yes. That’s it. Right now.

She rose slowly, tiptoeing into the adjacent room.

“Hey,” she called in a loud whisper. “I’m sorry about the way I acted.”

Wilder didn’t budge in the
rocking chair.

“I was rude in your room and that’s inexcusable. Sometimes I say things without thinking.”

Still no answer.
Tough crowd.

She crept forward and that’s when she realized his eyes were closed and his breathing was deep and rhythmic. He had dozed off, angled ever so slightly toward the direction of the spare room. Had he been listening to the bedtime story too?

She leaned
forward, crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue in case he was kidding around.

He didn’t flinch. In sleep, his features held something gentle, an innocence, as if you could see the boy he once was, long ago. All dark hair and long lashes. A face you wanted to touch. Instead, she balled her hand into a fist before it got any funny ideas and padded into his room, plucking up the blanket
folded on the edge of the bed. She couldn’t bear to wake him when he looked so peaceful in front of the dying fire—warm, safe, and content.

She lifted the afghan and placed it over his lap. That didn’t seem like enough so she lifted it to his shoulders, hesitating when he made a soft noise, almost a sigh of contentment, as if suggesting this minor act of kindness was something more.

Maybe that’s the way with all little gestures. So small and yet they can hold strange power.

She smiled at her capacity for silliness. The fairy tales must have really gotten under her skin.

The cottage was quiet with two sleeping men. What to do now? Because sleeping on the floor at this point would seem like an insult.

Instead, she went into his room, unzipped her boots and gingerly
crawled into his bed. His smell lingered on the pillows, that shaving cream and pine blend mixed with the faint honey salve scent. After a few deep breaths, she relaxed, drifting to a fathomless sleep, and dreams where a man waited in a dark wood with strange longing in his eyes.

Chapter Six

W
ILDER
WOKE
WITH
a start. It was the ache that took him from troubled dreams of a low, husky laugh and lean lines of a body out of reach. This wasn’t a phantom pain but a throb where the prosthetic rubbed against him. The fire had long since burned itself to coals, but here and there, a bright orange glowed beneath the ruined logs, a hidden menace, beautiful in its
terribleness. He glanced down. The afghan from his bed lay draped over his chest. Quinn had done this, an unexpectedly kind gesture, and now he couldn’t curse her for haunting his sleep.

Outside the window, the dawn light was dim but growing in strength. The trees were blanketed but no more snowflakes fell from the steely skies. The heart of the storm had passed. Quinn would soon take her
father and leave.

Good. That was good. Better she go before he started to like her presence around here—the scent of cherry mint ChapStick, the questions, the chatter.

But for now, for these next few quiet minutes, she was in his bed. Her skin under his sheets, her long hair spanning his pillow. Would she leave that flowery shampoo scent behind? Or the one she carried on her skin, the
deeper secret that must linger beneath the shampoo and body wash. He hadn’t gotten close enough to her to catch it.

Correction. He’d never get that close.

Time to wrap up those inclinations and stuff them in a box, tie the damn thing up in a big bow of yellow “Caution: Do Not Enter” tape. Then stuff it in a locker and toss it off a bridge into a flooded river for good measure.

Quinn
was like a flame. Something he was drawn to despite the fact that he knew the danger. He learned a long time ago, in the worst way possible, that it wasn’t a game. And then got a damn good refresher course last summer.

He reached into his pocket for his beeswax hand salve, opened the tin, and rubbed it over his scars. You don’t play with fire unless you want to lose everything.

He clung
to what little remained. Which was what? One good leg. Two eyes that could still read. A pair of burned but functional hands.

Whoop-dee-fucking-doo.

Better to accept reality. The facts were cold, hard. They didn’t fuck around. He wasn’t the guy who’d get the girl.

Not now. Not like this. Not ever.

W
HEN
Q
UINN
CAME
out of Wilder’s room, rubbing her eyes, he was seated at the kitchen
table, halfway through a cup of black coffee. A saucer smattered with toast crumbs was set off to one side.

“Morning.” She put her glasses on as her stomach audibly rumbled. She hadn’t eaten dinner last night. Bread and that pot of raspberry jam sounded mighty good.

He pointed to a pot on the counter. “Coffee?”

“Always.” She waved. “Hi, my name is Quinn Higsby and I am a caffeine addict.”

“Good.” He nodded as if her words somehow pleased him. “Folks who don’t drink coffee can’t be trusted.”

“There’s a wise life rule.” She selected a pale blue ceramic mug from the cup rack and filled it near to the brim, trying to ignore the heat radiating up her spine at the idea of being included in this man’s circle of trust.

“You take anything in that?” He eyed her cup.

She was
tempted to answer straight black, same as him. It sounded sexier for some reason. Mysterious. She wanted to be that woman who drank her coffee thick and dark while staring into space with a hint of world weariness. But she opted for the unsexy truth. “Milk and one sugar. Okay, two sugars.”

“Milk in the fridge and as for sugar . . .” He frowned slightly. “I don’t have any.”

“You are lacking
in sweetness, Mr. Kane.” She opened the fridge door.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Her answering giggle faded. Perched on the fridge shelves were half a dozen eggs, some questionable-looking deli meat, a couple of oranges, a six-pack of dark beer, and an empty bottle of hot sauce. That was it. “I thought you said your brothers were looking after you? Is this all you have to eat?”

“That’s because today is usually . . .” A loud knock cut him off. “Shopping Thursday.”

“Hello? Good morning.” The front door opened. “You up, brother?”

The sheriff. Quinn wished she could fall through the floorboards.

“In here,” Wilder responded, straightening his flannel collar.

She wondered if she shared the same “busted” expression and took a big gulp of coffee, searing her
tongue. Last Sawyer knew, she was off to collect her dad, not pay his big brother an overnight visit.

Someone pass the awkward sauce.

Sawyer entered the kitchen, removing his Stetson. “That your truck out there?” he asked, as if it wasn’t at all strange to find her here for this unexpected breakfast date.

She gave a hesitant nod, tugging down the corner of her shirt and trying to think
of a suitable explanatory icebreaker.

“Looks like it has itself one hell of a tree problem,” he deadpanned.

She allowed herself one small, relieved sigh. He wasn’t going to demand any excuses. Apparently the crushed truck served as perfectly adequate explanation for her presence.

“You’ll need a tow out of here. The weather is clearer than I expected and road crews are making good progress
with the plows. I’ll put in a call to Don’s Auto and have those boys out here in a flash. They are good people, family owned, and won’t give you a runaround on the repair costs.”

“That would be great, thank you.” A good, honest mechanic was worth their weight in gold.

That’s when she noticed how neither brother was looking in her direction. Instead, they stared each other down, engaged
in a drawn out and silent conversation.

Finally, Sawyer glanced back over, clearing his throat. “And your dad? He’s—”

“Fine,” she answered quickly. “Better than fine. He slept like a log, which is a funny expression when you think about it because logs don’t sleep, right? They roll which is . . .”

It was too ridiculously easy to babble when two identical pairs of bright green eyes
focused on her, eyes set in two vastly different faces. Sawyer was handsome, no denying it, with those classic good looks that never go out of style. Wilder wasn’t a style at all, more of a statement, bold and a little savage. He pushed his chair back. “I’m going to go wash up,” he announced, rising.

Sawyer turned and instinctively reached out a steadying hand. One Wilder clearly didn’t need.

Quinn had a flash of understanding. People wanted to help Wilder but he resisted charity. He was a proud man. And strong. He didn’t need to be treated with kid gloves, but he also shouldn’t be allowed to rampage around acting rude, sullen, and downright hostile.

Except, when was the last time she graciously accepted assistance? Oh God, she was some sort of help rejector too. People kept
asking what she or Dad needed and she’d just smile and chirp, “I’ve got it handled.”

She couldn’t ignore the blatant curiosity in Sawyer’s gaze once Wilder shut the bathroom door. Deciphering the meaning was the tricky part. Was it her overactive imagination or was he passing some sort of judgment after all?

She took another sip of coffee, annoyance combining with the dark roast to flood
her mouth with a bitter taste. After all, how could he have left Wilder with hardly any food?

“Have you seen your brother’s fridge?” she said slowly. “He can’t be left without food and no transport.”

A muscle in Sawyer’s jaw flexed. “You spent the night with him, right?”

“Yes. Well, no. I mean, yes, but not . . .” Her cheeks burned. “I slept in his room, he slept on the rocking chair
out here.”

Sawyer kneaded his forehead. “You’re both adults and it’s not any of my damn business where you choose to sleep, or not sleep as the case may be. But if you’ve spent a few minutes in my big brother’s company, you’re bound to notice he’s not exactly gracious about receiving help.”

“But that’s no reason to—”

“He hasn’t opened the door to me all week. That’s why I’m barging
in so early, seeing if I could catch him bleary-eyed and docile. But I’m not taking him to do any shopping right now because tonight he’ll have that entire fridge crammed with turkey and cranberry leftovers.”

“Of course.” Quinn resisted the urge to face palm. Today was Thanksgiving.

Wilder entered the room with an audible groan. “I said I didn’t want to—”

“You’re coming,” Sawyer
answered with a tinge of weariness as if they’d gone around and around with this conversation.

“I forgot today was a holiday,” Quinn said. “I’m so discombobulated.”

“Wish I could forget,” Wilder murmured.

Sawyer said nothing, but gave a slight flinch, as if the words hit a secret mark.

“Hey now,” Quinn chastised Wilder as he huffed back toward the table, looking and sounding like
a grizzly fresh out of hibernation. “I know it’s early and I kept you from your bed, but that doesn’t mean that you can behave like a bear with a bee up its butt,” Quinn said.

Wilder’s head snapped up, gaze furious even as Sawyer burst out laughing.

“Hey, what are you doing this evening?” Sawyer asked after his chuckles subsided. “Want to join us Kanes for dinner? I can’t speak for this
big lug, but the rest of us don’t bite.”

She waved him off. “Oh, that’s okay. I couldn’t impose.”

“Course you can,” Sawyer said even though Wilder’s folded-arm posture communicated otherwise.

Why was his dark and broody act so darn appealing? Never had she been such a cliché, all twitterpated for a mysterious guy. But like it or not, she was intrigued. What were his secrets? He either
had one doozy of a story or she had the world’s most overactive imagination.

“You have plans for dinner?” Wilder asked at last.

“I . . .”
No.
She had planned to spend lunch with Dad. Mountain View Village was going to host their own midday food fest.
Say yes, say you’re busy.

“Let me guess, you have a thing against turkey too?” Sawyer asked.

“Too?”

“My girlfriend, Annie, is
a vegetarian. She’s making Tofurky, whatever that is.”

“No. I’m not a veggie,” Quinn said with a little shiver. “Mad respect to our plant-eating friends but I love my meat.” If it wasn’t for her fear of rickets she’d subsist on the stuff. “But that’s okay, I hate imposing . . .”

“Imposing? You know my other brother’s fiancée, Edie, owns the bakery in town, right? Word on the street is
that she’s bringing five desserts. Five. Tell me how we could eat all that?”

She didn’t want to barge in on a holiday family dinner, but Sawyer was being insistent.

Wilder scowled like a gargoyle. Except the effect was sort of sexy. Which shouldn’t work because weren’t gargoyles monstrous? Confused frustration swirled through her stomach. Why did this guy tie knots in her mental circuits?

“She doesn’t have plans,” he rumbled. “But isn’t sure if she should accept.”

“Grandma will appreciate fresh blood at the table,” Sawyer cajoled.

“That’s cruel, man,” Wilder said.

“Grandma?” Quinn raised her brows. “Fresh blood? What, is she a scary vampire?”

“Scarier,” both men answered at the same time.

Quinn stared in disbelief. These were two of the more attractive and
powerful-looking men she’d ever come across and she had worked for an action superstar. Who could strike fear in their hearts? “I’ve seen your grandma at the Chicklits book club but we’ve never spoken. What on earth is she like at home? Pointy ears. Sharp claws. Fangs that only pop out at night?”

Wilder smoothed a hand over what appeared to be an unwilling smile. “Come and see for yourself.”

“She doesn’t have fangs,” Sawyer said.

“Nah, she’d rather gnaw through your jugular,” Wilder added.

“Wow, you two really know how to tempt a girl.”

“Just want you to have the facts.” Wilder slouched back in his seat.

“Remember I don’t have a working truck at the moment,” she said.

“We can arrange a ride,” Sawyer answered firmly.

She eyeballed Wilder but he was busy turning
a wooden chess piece over in his big hand, a knight from the looks of the horse. Wilder scraped the nose with a blade. Soon it was going to look like a donkey.

“I—”

“You’re doing me a favor,” Sawyer pushed. “Annie and Edie will kick my ass to the doghouse if they hear you spent Thanksgiving alone.”

“I don’t even know them.” She’d seen both women around town and they seemed nice enough
and ran thick as thieves. Sometimes she’d walk over to Haute Coffee and see them sitting at the counter sharing a coffee and laughing and she’d keep going because their easy friendship made her jealous, and she hated feeling jealous. After all, she had Natalie, and her books, and Dad.

But Natalie had her boyfriend, the book relationship was a little one-sided, and Dad, well, God, he
needed
her, but didn’t even know it.

Didn’t know her, not anymore.

She disliked having negative feelings, the ones that leaked out whenever she was in the shower, face turned to the spray as if they could be washed away before she noticed.

“Darn allergies,” she’d mutter while toweling off. Allergies that struck in late autumn when most plants were dead or dormant, allergies that had never
appeared until now.

Hey, it could happen.

Or maybe she was just allergic to the pressure resting on her shoulders, threatening to bow her spine. The pressure to . . . that was the problem . . . she didn’t even know. It was like there was pressure just to survive, make it through each day. Stress, depression, and burnout from Dad’s condition nipped at her heels. Plus the fear. The always
nagging fear. What if Dad’s condition is hereditary? What if . . .

No. Not now.

“Sure, I’ll go,” she said. “If it’s not a nuisance. There’s a luncheon at Dad’s place so I need to be there for that, but later I’ll be alone.” God, could she sound any more pathetic?

“If you’re crazy enough to want to eat with our family then you’re welcome to it,” Wilder muttered, his hand slipping slightly.
The blade sliced his thumb, a line of red welled up. He swore softly, ripped a handkerchief out of his back pocket and pressed it to the small wound.