Too much scarring. Ruptured appendix.
I was just a kid when it happened.
Brought to the hospital too late.
Twenty years later, a new doctor explained to me that I’d have trouble ever getting pregnant. Not without major intervention. And even then, the chances of success were low. The risks great.
Great.
I’ve told Emi—more than once—that I’m not ready to think about all that yet. But the truth is, a part of me decided while I was still in the exam room.
The easiest path would be a kid-free future. No disappointment or uncertainty.
No chance of further heartbreak.
So I ran away. From my career. From my mother’s interference. From the boyfriend she’d been pushing me to marry. I swore I’d never put my life and happiness in anyone else’s hands again.
But here I am now, rocking in the bedroom of one of the biggest heartbreakers of all.
And if I’m being honest, the other biggest heartbreaker is her father. Mac Bradford.
The man can have any woman he wants. Women like that beautiful blonde in the picture. Women who could easily give him a whole houseful of children.
There’s no future for me here.
Which is why I’ll keep things strictly professional for the rest of my time with the Bradfords. Daisy and I can still read books and do art and sing songs together. (Just maybe not Wagtime Cowboy Joe. That one might get me vulnerable.)
But if I focus on my goals—paying rent, fixing my car, securing that promotion—I’ll get through this. Of course I will. I’m smart and strong. Stronger than my parents give me credit for. Smarter than Ethan ever thought I could be.
You just need to keep reminding yourself you don’t want kids until you believe it.
So in the silence of Daisy’s bedroom, I whisper the words over and over.
“You don’t want kids. You don’t want kids. You don’t want kids.”
Keep going, Brooke. I don’t believe you.
16
Mac
By the time I get back home, the automatic porch light’s on and the house is quiet. Letting myself in, I flip on the lamp. Take in the scene. A total toy massacre. Daisy’s stuffed animals are propped against the walls. The couch and armchairs are loaded with them too. Someone’s flipped the ottoman on its side. Puppets I don’t recognize are piled behind it.
This must be the scene of their World Famous Show, or whatever Brooke called it.
Either way, it’s pretty darn genius.
My gut sinks when I think about what I missed tonight. Not just Daisy talking again. I also missed watching Brooke with her. Man, I love watching them together. And I’ve got to say, after catching so many sweet, funny moments between them, I’m starting to think Brooke might be changing her mind. If not about all kids, then at least about Daisy. Maybe it won’t be so hard to convince her to stick around.
But where are they now?
There’s no sign of them in the kitchen, so I head upstairs, doing my best not to clomp on every step. Yeah, I know. It’s probably not cool to sneak up on them. But snatching glimpses of Daisy and Brooke together makes my guts flip. Like fish in a net.
Steelhead. Osprey. Tributaries of the Willamette.
Those are the things Brooke said she came here for.
But maybe she’ll stay for us.
Moving down the hall toward Daisy’s bedroom, I see the door is ajar. Inside looks mostly dark, besides the nightlight. Brooke must’ve put Daisy to bed. A part of me wants to bust in there and wake my daughter up. Ask her a million questions just to hear her talk again. But another part of me—a big part—hopes Daisy keeps sleeping so I can get some time alone with Brooke.
That’s her I hear whispering now. Just outside the door I finally make out what she’s saying.
“You don’t want kids. You don’t want kids.”
You don’t want kids.
On repeat.
Now my guts start stinging like they’re full of bees.
Brooke really meant what she said about kids. So at least she’s got honesty going for her. But man, I got my signals crossed. I should’ve believed her from the beginning. Instead I let myself hope Daisy might be different to her.
That we might be different to her.
“Mac,” Brooke whispers. “Is that you?”
I clear my throat and straighten my shoulders, acting like I’m just now coming to the door.
Like I haven’t been spying on her. Like I didn’t hear.
You don’t want kids.
“Yeah, I’m home.”
I step into the room and there’s Daisy asleep, her soft breaths coming slow and easy. The rise and fall of her chest is so peaceful. And I know Brooke did this. She made my girl feel safe again. She made her laugh and talk and sing. Just in time to leave.
Everybody leaves us.
“Everything go okay?” she whispers. “They didn’t work you too hard today?”
“No harder than you worked.” We’re both quiet for a moment. Me standing in the doorway, her sitting in the chair. When she finally gets up and brushes past me, adrenaline shoots straight through me. Her skin is warm and she smells like strawberries. I just want to wrap my arms around her and—
“Mac.”
She motions for me to follow. And I can’t help wanting to trail behind her. So we head downstairs, across the house, over to the explosion of toys from their show.
“I’ll clean up this mess if you want to eat,” she says. “I picked up an extra burger and fries in case you didn’t have dinner. It’s in the kitchen.”
“Huh.” I cock my head. “That’s a thing with you, isn’t it?”
Brooke looks up at me. “What is?”
“Grabbing extra food for people. Like your neighbors … the Sprats.”
“Wow.” A smile tugs at her lips. “You remembered their names.”
“I did,” I say. “I do.”
And suddenly there it is—filling the room—a full-blown grin from Brooke.
Brighter than her eyes. Hotter than the sun. Burning a hole in my heart.
“Anyway, your food’s in the kitchen,” she says. But I don’t want to go in there to eat while she stays out here cleaning up.
So I blurt out, “Tea! You want some tea? In the kitchen? With me?
Oh, Mac. Seriously?
Her mouth quirks. “You’re offering me tea.”
“Yeah. Sure.” I stuff my hands in my pockets, playing it cool. “Iced tea. Brewed in the sun. The old-fashioned way.”
Definitely not cool.
“Hmm.” She’s thinking about it. Maybe I haven’t completely blown things. At least not everything. “I’ve got a fresh batch,” I add. Like that’s tempting. Sheesh. “And sugar. Lots of sugar. Because I like it sweet.” I can’t help myself. Brooke Wallace makes me ramble.
She takes a beat. Then her full smile’s back. “Tea sounds good.”
“Great.” My heart bangs behind my ribs. “You know, I used to drink beer on Saturday nights. But that all changed when … well …”
Uh oh. This is not what I want to talk about right now. In fact it's the very last thing.
Brooke blinks. “That all changed when … well …why?”
17
Brooke
Mac’s eyes go wide like he’s surprised by my question. But hey. He’s the one who started it.
What happened to you, Mac Bradford?
“It’s a long story,” he says. Then I worry I might’ve said the words out loud. But I didn’t, right? TELL ME I DIDN’T.
He glances at the stairs, probably checking for Daisy. “You really want to hear about this?”
Yes!
But I don’t want to sound too nosey. Or like I don’t care either. So I aim for a spot in the middle of the spectrum. Somewhere between stalking and shrugging.
“You can tell me over iced tea,” I say. “That is, if you want some too.” I take a step toward him. Just a small step. Like an inch.
<
br /> “I do,” he says.
I do.
He starts off toward the kitchen and I follow, watching that easy walk of his. Slow and sweet like maple syrup. His shirt is stretched tight across the muscles of his back, then tapered down and tucked into those perfect jeans.
Oh my.
This tea better be cold, because I’m starting to sweat a little.
I take a seat at the table while Mac digs in the fridge, collecting a pitcher I hadn’t noticed. He cracks ice into two glasses at the same time without spilling a single cube.
The man is magic.
He hands me my tea, and I take a sip. It’s cold and sweet and tangy. When he sits down next to me and his leg brushes mine, I’m afraid I might start drooling.
“How’s the tea?” he asks.
“Delicious,” I gush. Then I back up the enthusiasm. Being this excited over tea isn’t normal. “Usually I’m a coffee drinker,” I say.
Mac nods. “Me too. But only in the morning. After work, tea helps me relax. Doesn’t mess with my sleep. It’s crazy how much sleep I need these days.” He pauses and starts to chuckle.
“What?”
“My friend Nash would bust my chops for talking about tea with a beautiful woman.”
Beautiful? My heart zings. But Mac bolts from the compliment as soon as it’s out.
“Tea’s about all the excitement I’ve got time for,” he says. “Especially since my mom left.”
“I’ll bet.” I bite my lip. I shouldn’t be glad that Mac doesn’t have time for dating.
But I am.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he says. “This is the life I wanted.” He sets his glass down. “Except I guess I always thought I’d have more kids.”
“Gah.” I choke on an ice cube, and a mouthful of tea dribbles down my shirt. Mac grabs a napkin from a holder on the table and hands it to me while I sputter and cough.
“Thanks,” I squeak. “Wrong pipe.” I dab at my chest. My eyes won’t stop watering.
He smiles. “These things happen.”
“To me more than most,” I say. I’m blushing hard and my heart’s beating even harder. But the subject of kids is out there now. I might as well rip off the band-aid. “So … do you … think you … want more children?”
“Hm.” Mac’s quiet for a moment, eyes in a squint. “I guess I always saw myself with four.”
“Whoa.” That’s a heck of a band-aid rip. Having one baby would be hard enough for me, let alone three or four. Something seeps through my veins then. Icy sadness. Hot resignation. Either way, not a good feeling. I inhale. Exhale. “That’s a lot of kids.”
“It’s what I grew up with.” He shrugs. “So it always seemed like a good number to me. Nice and even.”
I shake my head and swallow hard. My stomach’s in knots I can’t untie. “Well, I’m an only child. Can’t relate.”
He chuckles. “I’ve got triplet sisters.”
“Triplets?” My eyes bug out. “Yikes.”
“I was nine when they were born.” He shakes his head and chuckles. “It’s a wonder I survived.” Then, leaning over the table, he lowers his voice like he’s about to share a secret. “At first I thought I’d hate it, but you know what? I got a ringside seat to three really amazing people growing up.” He straightens again, chest filling. “Those girls followed me around like I was some kind of hero. And yeah, my friends gave me a hard time about it. But my sisters?” He smiles. “They gave me an edge.”
I chew my lip and consider the edges I’ve seen. They’re pretty great. Pretty much all of them. “So you want that for Daisy, now. Lots of siblings.” I nod as if I already know the answer. Like it’s not a question anymore.
“Hm.” Settling back in his chair, he takes a long drink of tea, considering. “I guess I just grew up wanting what my folks had,” he says. “They met in elementary school. Married young. My mom’s parents didn’t approve of them getting hitched at eighteen, but they were in love. Couldn’t be talked out of it.” He wipes a bead of condensation from his glass. “So they moved across the country and settled here. Made a life for themselves. The rest is history. My history.”
“Wow.” No really. Wow. Mac’s story was already stirring up butterflies. Now he’s looking at me with his eyes all soft and sweet. “Did your grandparents ever come around?”
Mac drains his drink, ice cubes clinking. “Eventually,” he says. “My dad worked really hard to show the whole family how much he loved Mom. What his love was worth.”
Mac meets my gaze, and my heart beats faster. Tingles in my spine. His Adam’s apple bobs. “Can I get you more tea?” he asks.
I look down at my glass. Then back up at him. “I haven’t finished this yet.”
Heat rises in my cheeks, and I stare at Mac’s mouth, at the scruff on his chin below it. I start to wonder how that scruff would feel against my lips. My head’s so dizzy I’m afraid I might fall out of my chair.
Don’t fall out of your chair, Brooke.
“Hey. You okay?” His gaze travels over my face.
“Yep. I’m great,” I stammer. “Really. Just great.” But my mouth has gone dry, and my whole body’s humming. I make a sound in the back of my throat. Like oh, but there’s not enough breath in my lungs for an actual word.
Mac moves another inch toward me, and I lean in too. Magnetized. Mmm.
Maybe we could kiss. Just this once.
“Brooke.” Our mouths are so close, I can feel the warmth of my name on his lips.
“Mac.” I inhale expectantly.
A small voice behind us says, “Hi, Daddy.”
I jump up from my chair and spin around. There’s Daisy, standing at the entrance to the kitchen.
Mac leaps up, too, and crosses the room in two long strides, gathering Daisy in his arms.
Her hair is a mess, and she rubs her sleepy eyes. I tell myself she didn’t see anything.
Not that there was anything to see.
Mac strokes Daisy’s hair, then he lifts her up in his arms. “Hey, sweetheart. Did we wake you?”
She shakes her head. “I had a bad dream.” (Except she says dweam, which turns my insides into a puddle.)
Mac settles back in his chair with Daisy in his lap.
“Tell me all about it,” he says.
I take my half-full glass to the sink. Wait. No. It’s half empty. Optimism is for suckers. “So, I’ll just be on my way then.”
Mac darts his eyes at me. “You don’t have to go, Brooke.”
“No, really, I insist.”
I spent the whole day with Daisy already, and I’ll be here with her all week while Mac is at work. I know he’d rather be with her than at some construction site, so the least I can do is let them be together now without interrupting their family time.
Family time.
He looks at me from over the top of Daisy’s head. “Are you sure?”
Nope. Not at all.
The truth is, I want to stay here, in this warm, cozy house, and make hot cocoa with marshmallows. And pop popcorn with salt and butter. And talk to Mac and Daisy all night long.
Instead I grab my backpack and sling it over my shoulder.
“I’ll let myself out. You two have a good night.”
Daisy lifts her head from Mac’s chest and waves at me. “Bye, bye, Book.”
“Sweet dreams, Princess Daisy. Take care of the frog prince for me.”
It’s not until later, when I’m back at my apartment and slipping into bed alone, that I realize Mac never got around to telling me his story about why things had to change.
I’m guessing it has something to do with that beautiful blonde in the picture, but digging any deeper into the Bradfords’ past won’t be good for any of us.
Mac always dreamed of having a bunch of children, and I can’t offer him that. At least not easily.
So I’m letting him go. Starting now.
No matter how much my heart wants to hold on.
18
Mac
> Monday morning, I’m awake at dark o’clock, tossing and turning, thinking about Brooke. More specifically about our almost-kiss. I haven’t stopped thinking about it.
The moment plays on auto-loop as I drag myself out of bed and while I make pancakes for Daisy. When I hit the shower. While I brush my teeth. When I get dressed in the shirt Brooke said she liked last week. Yep. There it is again.
Saturday night. Brooke and me. Barely an inch between us.
I wonder if she’s remembering it too.
I head down the hall and call out to Daisy. “Shake a leg, sweetheart. Brooke will be here any minute.” She hops out of her bedroom, still in her dinosaur pajamas. “Hey. You’re not dressed yet? At least let’s get your hair brushed.”
“No, Daddy. I want Book to do that.” Daisy wags a finger. “You. Are. No. Good.”
“Okay, fine. We don’t have to brush your hair. But your teeth, you’ve gotta do. Especially after pancakes.” I poke her in the belly. “Did you spill some syrup? Right here?”
“No, Daddy. You spilled.”
She starts giggling again, and I start tickling her.
“Noooo!” Daisy howls and collapses in a wiggly heap on the floor. She’s still laughing when the front door opens and shuts downstairs. Brooke is here.
My heart does a backflip. Daisy hops up and squeals.
“Book!”
“Get those teeth brushed first,” I tell her. “Then you can go see Brooke.”
Since my teeth are already brushed, I head downstairs—a little too eagerly—and find Brooke in the kitchen. Her back is to me as she unloads her backpack. Today she’s wearing another sundress—yellow this time—with matching yellow Vans. Her hair is in a ponytail, so I’m treated to a view of her bare shoulders. Very tempting. I should probably duct tape my arms down so I don’t accidentally touch her.
The Mostly Real McCoy: A Sweet Romantic Comedy (Apple Valley Love Stories Book 1) Page 10