The Lemon Sisters

by Jill Shalvis

  “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve been trying to tell you that I can’t manage what I have on my plate now, much less the responsibility of owning a business.”

  There was a horribly strained silence in the kitchen. Brooke didn’t do horribly strained, so she made to leave.

  “Don’t you dare,” Mindy said. “Did you encourage this? It has your name all over it.”

  “Sorry,” Brooke said. “I’m not stupid enough to try to rearrange someone’s life without talking it out first.”

  Linc had the good grace to grimace.

  So did Mindy.

  Brooke took a peek at Linc, who still appeared to be in shock that his plan hadn’t been better received. She turned back to Mindy. “You do know that he was just trying to fix things, right?”

  “He bought me the store.”

  “I know,” she said. “And as I lived your life this week, I get it. But Linc is pretty new to this whole parenting thing—”

  Linc winced again.

  “—so you might need to give him a minute to catch up. I mean, he’s good in an ER, but he’s got a lot to learn, and you’re a good teacher. Think of it this way, Min—he deserves you.”

  “Thanks, Brooke,” Linc said.

  “Stay out of this,” Mindy said to Brooke. “You don’t have a family, and that’s your choice. But don’t tell me how to run mine.” She had started yelling, and her words echoed throughout the kitchen and inside Brooke’s head.

  You don’t have a family, and that’s your choice . . .

  She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat, nodded once and headed to the door.

  “Brooke,” Mindy said with regret. “Wait.”

  Oh, hell no. She stormed to the “guesthouse,” grabbed her ID and a credit card, and walked into town. It wasn’t far, only half a mile or so, and she needed the fresh air to think. She felt like a bundle of raw nerves. She couldn’t put thoughts together past the single fact bouncing around in her head. She didn’t really belong anywhere—her own doing, of course. She’d pushed people away for so long that she didn’t know how to stop. A problem because she needed . . . to be needed.

  If only for a night.

  The Whiskey River Bar and Grill was full and rowdy, and as she made her way through the joint to the bar, she was glad for that. A full house. Anonymity. At first glance, she saw a lot of men. Good. And she didn’t recognize anyone. Better yet. She sat, ordered herself a vodka and lemonade, and took a longer look around. People were dancing, eating, laughing, talking, but what she didn’t see was anyone else there on their own.

  When had a simple, mindless hookup gotten so hard?

  “What’s wrong, dating apps not doing it for you?”

  She sighed and met Garrett’s eyes as he slid onto a barstool next to her. “I’m not on any dating apps,” she said. “Tonight I thought I’d find a Tinder date the old-fashioned way.” She finished her first drink and gestured to the bartender for a second. “At a bar.”

  “You’re going to get drunk and sleep with a stranger?” he asked, his voice not revealing a single thing.

  “Oh, I have no intention of sleeping,” she said.

  He stared at her. Then he stared down at his feet for a moment. Clearly not finding any answers in his beat-up old hiking boots, he shook his head. “This isn’t you, Brooke.”

  “Actually, you don’t know that. I’ve changed. And you’ve made it clear we’re not friends or . . . anything, so go away, you’re scaring off all my potentials.”

  But Garrett didn’t go away. He joined her in her perusal of her choices at the bar. “The guy on the end might be good,” he said conversationally. “His name’s Judd Roberts. Of course, he’s pushing eighty, and he just got a pacemaker put in. I’d take it easy on him if you don’t want him toes up by morning.” He gestured to another guy. “Now, Keith’s more age-appropriate—late twenties—but he’s a plumber, and rumor is that he’s not a big hand-washer.”

  With a shudder, she tossed back her second drink and felt the burn go all the way down her throat to her gut. Look at that—she could feel something after all. She raised her hand for the bartender, but Garrett caught it in his, bringing their now entwined fingers down between them.

  “Brooke,” he said softly. “What are you really doing?”

  That low, rough voice, she thought, closing her eyes. It got to her, every time. It said she was special in his life, that he cared. But that wasn’t true. She’d blown that. “Well, I’m not sure how many drinks equals happiness, but so far it’s not two.” She pulled her hand free. “And anyway, the real question is, what are you doing?”

  “Being your wingman.” He stood, tossed down some cash, and gestured with a chin jerk toward the door.

  “Are you kidding me? I’m not going anywhere with you. And you suck as a wingman.”

  “I know. And I lied about being your wingman. You’re not sleeping with a stranger tonight, Brooke.”

  “Well, I’m sure as hell not sleeping with you.”

  “Why not?” His usually sharp eyes were softer now as they met hers and held. “I’m a sure thing, and you know I’m good.”

  Her lady bits tingled at the remembered truth of that statement, which annoyed her to no end. Her lady bits were not in charge here. “I’m not going to be your pity fuck.”

  That got her a smile. “I’m feeling a lot of things, Brooke. But pity isn’t one of them.” And then he tugged her out into the night.

  Chapter 11

  “Grilled cheese sandwiches are life.”

  In the time since Brooke had arrived at Whiskey River, the night had gone dark and windy. As Garrett walked her out, a heavy gust knocked her right into him. “Oops, sorry,” she started, but the words backed up in her throat as he used her momentum against her, his arms closing around her.

  And damn, if he didn’t smell amazing. She sucked some of it in before she could catch herself.

  In response, he blinked lazily and smiled, practically a sex act all in itself, and she pointed at him. “Stop that.”

  “Stop what?” he asked innocently.

  Uh-huh. “We’re not like that, remember? And I have plans for the night.”

  “You still do.” Leaning in, he put his mouth to her ear. “Me.”

  She laughed. She might be halfway drunk—and at least two inches shorter just from melting for him—but she hadn’t lost her memory. “I don’t think you understand exactly what my plans are.”

  “Actually, you made them quite clear.”

  She pushed him back a step and turned to walk across the parking lot, proud of herself for two things: resisting Garrett, and her ability to walk a straight line. Halfway across the asphalt, the sky let loose and started dumping.

  She was drenched in seconds.

  At her side, Garrett did his best to shield her with his body as he nudged her into the passenger seat of his truck. When the doors were shut, she sat there, dripping water everywhere, gasping at the shock of it. Garrett jogged around and slid behind the wheel.

  “The entire night’s out to get me,” she said.

  Garrett turned to face her, just as drenched. He stared at her for a long beat. “I’ve handled this all wrong from the start. I’ve handled you wrong.”

  “Please,” she scoffed, looking away so he couldn’t see the unmistakable thrill that zipped through her at the thought of being “handled” by him. “You couldn’t handle me even if I came with instructions.”

  He gave a rough laugh and leaned in, tipping her face up before brushing his mouth to hers. Not a kiss, exactly. A pledge, with his intense dark eyes locked on hers, his voice serious. “You wanted something tonight.”

  “Yes. Mindless sex.”

  “I’m on board with that.”

  “Have you forgotten you don’t want me, not ever again?”

  “I’ve wanted you from day one, Brooke. What I don’t want are the games.”

  She had no comeback for that. “So what do you want
?”

  “Same thing as you,” he said quietly, stroking a finger along her temple, tucking a wet strand of hair from her face.

  Mindless sex.

  For the night.

  It was what she’d told him, and the thought of being with him was admittedly a thrill, and also a comfort, because there was no doubt they were extremely compatible in bed. In fact, in bed was where they’d done their best work. The question was, once morning came, could she walk away from him again?

  GARRETT HELD HIS breath on Brooke’s response. She was in a pair of white shorts that were killing him, and in a gift from the gods, her cute little top, which had started out the night as pale peach, was now sheer, revealing a thin nude bra that might as well not exist at all.

  He’d spent much of his high school years fantasizing about seeing Brooke Lemon naked, and then his wild early twenties making that a reality, and still, he never got tired of looking at her. Once upon a time he’d loved her so much it’d been painful. And now . . . now he had nothing in his heart for her. Or so he’d been telling himself. But the truth was, he’d merely bricked and mortared around the poor beleaguered organ. If she blasted her way through those walls he’d built in self-protection, he had no idea how he’d survive Hurricane Brooke II. It was a good thing, then, that he had zero delusions of her sticking around.

  She still hadn’t spoken, but when her gaze dropped from his eyes to his mouth, he knew he had her. They reached for each other at the exact same moment. He lifted her over the center console, adjusting her so that she straddled him, and there in the dark, ambient lighting, they stared at each other as the storm went crazy outside. He had the feeling it was about to get just as crazy inside.

  He wasn’t sure who lunged first—all he knew was that suddenly, they were in the middle of a no-holds-barred, tongue-to-tonsils, melt-your-socks-off kiss that left him breathless and fuzzy-brained. “Brooke.”

  “Hmmm?”

  She had her hot mouth on his throat, her equally hot hands running up and down his chest and abs, toying with his button fly. “How much did you have to drink?” he managed to ask, catching her wandering hands.

  This didn’t stop her lips, which were spreading hot, open-mouthed kisses along the rough scruff of his jaw and his neck. When she licked at the hollow of his throat, he nearly had an aneurysm. “Bee.”

  She lifted her head, eyes at half-mast, mouth wet. “Two. Enough to be feeling nice and friendly toward you, but not enough for you to be worried.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I’m consenting. Would you like it in writing?” she asked, tone pure smart-ass.

  He let out a rough laugh. “I should.”

  “And how about you? Are you consenting?”

  He reached out to pull her back down and kiss her again, but she held off, waiting on his answer.

  He had to laugh. “Hell yes, I’m consenting. Open-endedly.”

  “That’s not a word. And this is just a one-time thing,” she said softly.

  At the same words they used to say to each other all the time, their eyes met and held. It’d been bullshit then, and it was bullshit now, but he just smiled grimly. “Worried I’m going to fall for you?” he murmured.

  She rocked against him. “Are you?”

  He could hardly breathe for wanting her. “Never again.”

  “Honest to the end, huh?”

  “Always,” he said, tugging her face to his for another heart-stopping kiss before letting himself touch her everywhere he could reach, knowing he could’ve recognized her body by the feel of her alone. She was wedged between his chest and the steering wheel so they were nose to nose, belly to belly, her inner thighs hugged up to the outsides of his. Which lined up all their parts in a way that made thinking difficult. And then difficult became utterly impossible when she slid her hands beneath his shirt to touch him skin to skin, rocking her hips to his.

  When he groaned, she popped open the buttons on his Levi’s one at a time and wrapped her hands around his current favorite body part with a sexy little hum.

  The blood in his brain veered south to where all the fun was, leaving his head spinning. “Not here,” he managed to growl out. “I want you in my bed.” He nipped her bottom lip. “I’ve spent a lot of nights dreaming of you there.”

  “I love your bed, but I’m not taking that risk.”

  “My bed’s a risk?” he asked.

  “Yes, because by the time we get there, one of us will remember the stick up one of our asses and change their mind.”

  He snorted. “If anyone in this truck has a stick up their ass, it’s not me.”

  She tugged at his drenched shirt. “Off.”

  He decided not to argue with the hot chick sitting in his lap wanting him naked, and tugged his drenched shirt over his head. It hit the back seat with a wet thunk, and then he made sure hers did the same, grateful he’d parked at the far edge of the lot where the lights didn’t reach. Her bra came loose in his fingers, and he sent that flying to join their shirts, filling his hands with her breasts. Her skin was chilled, and he worked hard at warming her up, pulling her in closer, encouraging her to rock against him.

  She did, and bent low to press her mouth to the tat on his chest.

  It was a good thing he was sitting down, because she made his legs weak. She was in the driver’s seat—literally—and all he knew was that he needed this mindless, shockingly easy passion every bit as much as she seemed to. Every part of this, the feel of her beneath his hands, the scent of her, the little panting breaths she was making, her clear need for him . . . it all felt like a homecoming. His dead heart beat in his chest for her, making him feel things he’d thought were long gone. Which meant he was so much more messed up than he’d thought. He just hoped to God she couldn’t read all that off him, and more so that he could control his feelings and move past them. But then her hands drew a slow line up his chest to encircle his neck, and she smiled at him, a smile that went all the way to her eyes.

  No matter what she wanted him to believe, she wasn’t giving off the vibes of a frenzied hookup. “Brooke—”

  She kicked off her shoes and started to wriggle out of her shorts, her eyes hungry. Raw. She was baring herself to him, not just her body, and he lent his hands to the cause, stripping off her shorts. Bracing herself with her hands on his chest, she looked down at him, clearly taking pleasure from his body, which was more than gratifying because he certainly couldn’t take his gaze off her. Nor his hands.

  Apparently feeling the same, she slid her fingers into his hair, tightened her grip, and closed her teeth over his full lower lip, tugging lightly.

  “Reenactment?” he asked, voice gruff with emotion as he reminded them both that their first time had been in his truck—not this one, but a real POS, missing the back windshield—and it’d been storming that night, too.

  It’d been one of the best nights of his life.

  “You remember,” she murmured.

  “I remember everything about you, Bee. About us.”

  “I’m not nearly as inebriated as we were that night.”

  “No.” Caressing her soft skin, he leaned in and painted her in kisses while his fingers slid down her belly and beyond, absorbing her every passion-filled moan and sigh.

  One night only, his ass. But just in case, he’d use his mouth and hands and body to make this count, make her remember what they’d once been to each other, if nothing else. She gasped when he nudged her barely there panties to the side. Her nails dug into his biceps as he brought her to the very edge and held her there. Watching her lose control was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen, and he drew out her pleasure, making sure she felt every sensation, every teasing stroke, every nibble, every kiss. And when she shuddered and cried out his name, he gripped her hips to keep her from sinking down on him and taking him deep.

  “Now,” she whispered, wriggling to get him in place. “Please, now.”

  “Brooke.” Catching her, holding her still, he m
et her gaze. “I don’t have a condom.”

  She stared at him, her eyes glittering with hunger and a need for him that humbled him to the core. “We don’t need one,” she whispered. “I’m clean, Garrett.”

  He kissed her softly. “So am I, but—”

  “Remember? Pregnancy isn’t a problem anymore.”

  Shit. He tried to cuddle her into him, but that wasn’t what she wanted. Instead, she sank down on him, slowly, so damn slowly that it was sheer, beautiful torture, and then he could no longer think, at least not with his brain. Fisting his hands in her hair, he brought her mouth to his as they both began to move. Didn’t take much to rev her up again, and hell, he was already there, and as she shuddered and cried out, he did the same, completely lost in her.

  And fairly confident she was right there with him.

  BROOKE CAME AWAKE to pain blooming throughout her entire body. Opening her eyes, she stared up at a startlingly blue sky and a helicopter rotor blade. She was on the ground, flat on her back, the only sounds the hiss of something from the downed helicopter and the innocuous song of insects humming in the otherwise silent day.

  She jerked and . . . opened her eyes again?

  Not in the jungle. Not on the ground where she’d been thrown from the crash.

  Instead, she lay in Garrett’s dark, soothingly cool bedroom, hugged up against his warm body while the crushing fear, dread, and horror lingered. She took a very careful, slow breath, hoping she hadn’t woken him. One breath, two breaths, three . . . four. One breath, two breaths, three . . . four.

  But the usual self-calming technique didn’t work. She could still see herself lying on that mountain, covered in her own blood—

  She slid out of bed, grabbed a shirt—his—and padded into the kitchen, followed by three curious cats.

  She was standing at the sink sipping a glass of water when she felt him. He came up behind her and turned her, hugging her into him, his hand brushing her hair back from her face.

  “I’m okay.”

  He gave her one of his patented long, steady looks and said nothing. Garrett was very good at silence.

  She, however, was not. “Sometimes I have dreams.”