Hello, numbskull!
Had she entered her own living version of Dante’s Inferno? Could the last twenty-four hours get any worse?
That would be a no-thank-you-exit-stage-right. “You know,” she said, her voice quiet, her stomach roiling, “I think I should go. I’m feeling a little … lightheaded.”
“You’re probably famished,” Mrs. Clara said. “A good breakfast will fix you right up.”
Brighton’s stomach rumbled as she sat on the counter-height bar stool.
“See?” Mrs. Clara laughed. “What’d I tell you?” She returned to her cast-iron skillet filled with a spinach quiche. “With all that bellowing from Stone last night, I bet he frightened the energy right out of you.”
“He was acting like a buffoon.” Brooke poured orange juice into three glasses, then flicked her gaze to Brighton. “Don’t take him personally. That’s how he is?—not the loud thing, but the buffoon part.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that, but yes, he is … strong, a leader,” Mrs. Clara agreed. “He has always taken his role very seriously as big brother to his brothers and sisters.”
Plural. On both. “How many siblings?” Her mouth went dry, wondering what they’d think of her if they knew she was the reason their loved one had been ruined.
“There’s six of us,” Brooke said, handing her a glass of OJ. “Not that you’ll remember all our names, but there’s Stone, then me, Canyon, Willow, Range, and Leif.”
Six. She couldn’t imagine such a big family. Brighton sipped the juice, her mind connecting yet another cog. Willow … Her Aftercare specialist … “Wow.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Definitely an inferno.
Serving slices of quiche, Mrs. Clara laughed. “You can say that again, but I’ve loved every minute of being their mother.” She joined her at the island. “Now, tell me,” she said, her voice perpetually jovial, “what on earth was all that ruckus last night?”
“Mom,” Brooke admonished, taking the stool on the far end.
“I’m just saying, he was bellowing awfully loud and that is not like Stone.” Mrs. Clara lifted her fork. “He’s quiet, formidable.”
No kidding. The first time she’d met him, Brighton had been so intimated she couldn’t talk, so she’d feigned distraction with his phone. Didn’t help that he was drop-dead gorgeous with that debonair persona. Not Chris Hemsworth, but more old-school like Pierce Brosnan or Sean Connery. “The hat doesn’t help.”
“Agreed!” Mrs. Clara and Brooke said in unison.
“He’s just started that up in the last year or so, though I don’t know why,” Mrs. Clara said, shaking her head. “I mean, we’re Southern, but not that much.”
Brooke cut off a piece of quiche. “He needs something to hide that big head.”
“You talking about me again?” Stone’s deep voice resonated through the apartment, pouring molten dread down Brighton’s spine, freezing her fork midair.
He was here, and he’d see her. Know she broke the rule about staying in the room. Then he’d be livid and start yelling again. And then his mom and sister would know she was the one??—
“Ah, there you are!” Mrs. Clara opened her arms wide for a hug. Which worked well to hide Brighton. “Come give your mother a kiss!”
Wanting to die, Brighton shrank to conceal herself. In the space of one day she’d gone from thinking she’d never see him to never wanting to see him and feeling his scorn like a torch blower.
His thudding boots sounded closer?—as did the clicking of dog’s nails. That big black beast trotted around the island and lifted on his hind legs to counter surf.
When Stone planted a hand on the back of his mom’s stool, his gaze on his dog, her heart did the Macarena?—just as that traitorous organ always did around him. “Off,” Stone commanded.
Brighton sank lower just as the dog did. Miraculously, he still hadn’t spotted her, but it’d happen. There was no escape. She couldn’t look. Couldn’t face the oncoming rage.
“Morning, Mom,” he said, his voice deep and resonant. Gorgeous like the rest of him.
Her gaze slid in his direction as he doffed his hat and bent to kiss his mom?—those stormy eyes speared a lightning bolt straight into her heart.
His skin seemed to literally dance as he recoiled. That ridge between his eyes tightened. Fury superheated the air.
