by Amanda Wen
Oh. Oh no.
“Surprise!”
“Happy birthday.” Garrett’s voice was so close to her ear that she jumped, even as he threw an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.
Sloane swallowed hard, braced herself, and pulled out the smile she pasted on when people did things like this to her.
No. Not to her. For her. They liked her. They were being nice. They had no idea how hard this day was. How could they? She’d always shrugged off her birthday as no big deal.
Nothing could be further from the truth. It was a very big deal.
But if she told them that … she’d have to tell them why.
So she willed her smile wider and started toward the table on legs that felt like Jell-O.
Maybe Sloane didn’t like surprises.
Maybe she was tired after a long day with the field trip kids.
Maybe she’d hoped for a quiet dinner for two at that cozy booth in the corner.
Garrett’s brain worked overtime, trying to uncover what was wrong. Because something was. She’d plastered a smile onto those lovely lips, but it was as shiny and artificial as the plastic on the menu she held. She was a lively participant in the small talk, witty and laughing as always, but the stiff set of her shoulders sparked a squirmy sense of worry in his chest.
Had they gone too far? Was this whole thing a colossal screwup? He reached for his water glass, praying he was wrong. That this surprise birthday party wasn’t a mistake.
Or if it was, that it could be fixed.
“This is a milestone, y’all.” Across from Sloane, the band’s blond, bearded guitar player lifted his glass in tribute. “All these years, and you finally let us celebrate your birthday with you.”
She waved him off. “I’ve never made a big deal about it, Eric. It’s just another day.”
To Eric’s left, a brown-skinned woman with magenta-streaked corkscrew curls—the drummer, Patrice, if memory served—peered at Sloane with a sly smile. “Guess she’s turning over a new leaf, what with the new boyfriend and all.”
Alarmed, Garrett glanced at Sloane, who studied her menu as though it contained ancient secrets. “We’re just friends,” she said.
“Right,” he echoed, atop an irritating sense of disappointment. Because suddenly he wanted so much more. Plans be hanged.
“Mm-hmm.” Patrice flipped her menu over. “Can’t recall any of your other friends putting together a shindig like this for you.”
“Pshaw.” Lauren waved a hand. “It was nothing, really. Just a thank-you for all Sloane’s help with the house and digging around in our dusty boxes. Plus our mom was super big on birthday surprises.”
Patrice’s eyes lit. “Your mom sounds fun.”
“She was,” Lauren replied. “My seventh birthday, she came to school and got me sprung for lunch, anywhere I wanted. So we had ice cream. And when I turned nine, she filled my room with—”
A rustling beside Garrett drew his attention. Sloane’s hand rested gently on his shoulder. She still wore that strange, painted-on smile. “Will you excuse me for a minute?”
She stood and walked quickly toward the front of the restaurant, where a neon arrow pointed to the restrooms. But she bypassed that little alcove. Threaded her way through the crowd waiting by the door.
He craned his neck, alarm pinching his gut. What was she doing?
When that door opened and Sloane strode straight through it, he had his answer.
Safely around the corner from Mirabelli’s, Sloane dropped onto a bus stop bench and focused on the patch of pavement between her shoes. Her pulse pounded. Her hands shook with fury.
Breathe. Just breathe. They didn’t know.
But she wasn’t angry with them. Not really.
She was angry with herself.
Because normal people didn’t flip out when someone did something sweet for them. Normal people didn’t spend their thirtieth birthday alone on a cold metal bench after sabotaging their own surprise party.
But normal people weren’t left on a bus a week after birth either.
So maybe it wasn’t really herself she was angry with.
Cautious footsteps cut through the swish of traffic and stopped a few feet behind her. “Sloane?”
Garrett. Relief and apprehension mingled in her midsection.
“I’m sorry.” Her hands fisted and loosed, fisted and loosed. “I’ll go back in there. I just … need a minute, is all.”
“I’m the one who should apologize. I didn’t mean to upset you.” A couple more slow footsteps. “I should’ve realized Lauren talking about Mom would remind—”
“It’s not that.” She stared at her skirt, burning the navy-and-white polka dot pattern into her retinas. “It’s just this day. My birthday.”
Moving more certainly, he sat down beside her. A hint of woodsy cologne wafted on the evening breeze.
“I’m sorry.” The words vaulted from her mouth, desperate to undo the damage. “I know you guys put a lot of work into this, and I’m not supposed to be sad on my birthday. Everyone loves birthdays. Cake and presents and balloons. You’re supposed to be happy.”
“You’re crying.”
Was she? She put a hand to her cheek. It came away wet.
She buried the evidence in a tightly closed fist. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
“Hey.” He put his arm around her and pulled her into his warmth. “You don’t have to be fine.”
Something shifted at his quiet words. He’d given her permission to be who she was. Messy. Complex. Sure of simple things, like her love for jazz and history and vintage clothing, but clueless about the deeper things. Her origins. Her birth. She’d tried so hard, for so long, to be fine with it.
And here was someone telling her she didn’t have to be. Someone who knew she wasn’t okay, and was perfectly okay with that.
What sweet freedom.
Leaning against Garrett, she wiped away the last of her tears. Tension seeped from her shoulders. Her neck. Wherever Garrett’s arm rested, warmth flowed.
“My parents always went all out for my birthday,” she said. “Magic shows, costumed princesses, even a live pony one year. And I want to celebrate and be grateful when people do things like that for me, because it means they love me and want me to be happy. And I am.”
“Are you?” Garrett’s concerned gaze flitted over her face. He still hadn’t released her from his embrace.
She hoped he never would.
“Mostly. But my birthday is also this huge, glaring reminder of the decision my birth mother made. I’ve tried to imagine what kind of person would leave a baby on a bus, what had to be going on in her life to drive her to that decision, and I … can’t. I mean, does she even remember what day it is today? Does she care at all about what happened?”
Garrett’s embrace tightened. “For what it’s worth … I care. About what happened, sure. But mostly I care—a whole lot—about you.”
His words were sunshine on her soul. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head on his shoulder. “I feel like such an idiot. You guys had no clue about my birthday issues. All you wanted was to throw me a nice party, like your mom did for you.” She sighed. “I should go back in there.”
“There’s no rush.” Garrett stretched long legs in front of him and crossed one on top of the other. “We’ll stay right here until you’re ready. And if it’s never, then that’s okay too. I’ll tell Lauren you have a migraine. Food poisoning. You’re in witness protection. How far do you want me to go with this?”
It felt so good to laugh. “Somewhere between salmonella and WITSEC should cover it.”
“You got it.” He gave her a gentle squeeze.
“I’m kidding. I’ll go back in a minute. Gotta admit I’m morbidly curious what a gluten-free, paleo, whatever-else-it-is birthday cake tastes like.”
Garrett’s lips curved against her forehead. “I have it on good authority Lauren put gluten in there.”
“Sugar too?” She pulled back
to look at him.
“That’s what I hear.”
“Hmm. I may have to go check that out.”
“Before you do, I have something for you.” Loosening his hold on her, he reached down and retrieved a plain purple gift bag from beneath the bench. “I hope a gift is okay. If not, I’ll take it back.”
He looked so sweet and earnest and endearing that even if she’d wanted to refuse, she wouldn’t have been able to.
“Don’t you dare. I like presents.”
He held out the bag, then pulled up short. “It’s nothing big, but I was pretty sure you’d like it. And I didn’t know what else you’d want, or if you needed anything, or—”
“Garrett?”
“Yes?”
“Shut up and let me open my present.”
He handed over the gift. “Yes, ma’am.”
She dove into the bag, rooted through the tissue paper, and let out a quiet gasp at the sight of a small brown leather notebook.
She peeked at the first page. March 21, 1872. Could it be?
The rain has finally ceased, praise the Lord. Jack has been near to climbing the walls …
“I would’ve given it to you anyway.” Garrett’s voice brought her back to the present. “But since it was your birthday, I figured I’d wrap it up and—”
“It’s perfect.” She cupped his cheek in her hand. “Thank you.”
His eyes widened at the sudden contact.
She felt the same jolt.
She should take her hand away. She should.
But how could she when his cool, smooth skin felt like home?
Then Garrett moved closer. His lips parted. His heavy-lidded gaze fell to her mouth.
It was inevitable what they were about to do. She wanted to race toward it, but she also wanted to freeze this moment of delicious anticipation.
The last moment before their first kiss.
His mouth met hers then, and she melted. His hand slid behind her neck. The kiss was tender and slow, unwinding and unraveling as though they had all the time in the world. As though he wanted to savor each second, commit each moment to memory.
More power to him if he could think.
All she could do was feel.
When they pulled apart, she cleared her throat. “That was …”
“Unexpected.”
“But good.” Right? He seemed just as addled as she felt, so there was at least a chance.
“Yes. Good. Very good.” He swept a curl behind her ear, then lowered his hand, letting his fingertips trail along her cheek. “Happy birthday.”
“It really is.”
“Good.” Garrett flashed a mischievous smirk. “I was afraid I might have to kiss you again.”
Laughing, she got up and retrieved the gift bag. “C’mon. Let’s go back.” She extended her hand to him, and he took it with questions in his eyes.
“You sure?”
She laced her fingers with his. “I’ve got a birthday cake to eat.”
Diary and steaming mug of chamomile tea in hand, Sloane padded from the kitchen to her bedroom. Tired but not yet sleepy, she looked forward to some quality time with Annabelle and Jack. A peek at the worn pages while Garrett drove her home had revealed that the pioneer couple’s first baby was on the way. Her heart had quickened. A baby meant a new name. A new detail. A new nugget of information that gleamed with promise.
Her birthday really had been wonderful, all things considered. The pizza had been delicious, the birthday cake stellar, and Garrett’s warm, reassuring presence helped her to relax and enjoy the mixing of social circles.
And Garrett. Though he’d played it cool around the band—and his sister—the evening had been peppered with shy glances. The wonderment in those deep blue eyes echoed her own. They’d kissed. Which meant their assertions of being just friends were probably no longer true.
Especially since he’d kissed her again outside the restaurant when they returned to his car.
And again when he walked her to her door.
Not quite suppressing the smile pushing at her cheeks or the fluttery feeling in her chest, Sloane set the mug on her night table, pulled back her cozy blue comforter, and climbed into bed.
She’d just opened the diary when her phone buzzed. Irritated at the interruption, she picked it up and glanced at the screen. Whatever it was could doubtless wait until morning—
Marinera72 has sent you a message on AdoptionBridge.com!
Frowning, she clicked the link, then froze.
I never forgot.
Happy birthday.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
GARRETT NUDGED THE kitchen faucet off with his wrist and plunged the sauce-encrusted skillet into a sink full of soapy water. Much had changed in the last couple decades, but the Spencer family tradition of men washing the dishes remained a constant. Ever since he was tall enough to see over the counter, Garrett had been summoned after meals to scrape plates and fetch soiled silverware. “World-class cook shouldn’t have to do her own dishes,” Grandpa would insist as he rose from the table, plates in hand.
Garrett never minded. There was something satisfying about sorting through the chaos of dirty plates and bowls and sliding them into neat rows in the dishwasher. Taking a haphazard pile of pots and pans and making them shine once more.
If only the chaos in his life were so easily managed.
Granted, the most recent chaos was self-inflicted. Because while friends went to concerts together and threw birthday parties—even ones including flowers and gifts—friends did not kiss.
But he’d kissed Sloane. More than once.
And Lord help him, he never wanted to stop.
Those impulsive kisses had been a brick through the glass of friendship, and what in the world could he do about it? How could he fit these new developments into his already packed-full life? How would it work once he wasn’t coming to Wichita all the time anymore? With Sterling breathing down his neck, could he afford to wedge a romantic relationship into his plans? And with the scars of Jenny Hickok still on his heart, was it even wise to try?
But if he turned his back on this, would he be missing out on something wonderful? Something life altering? Something—
His phone buzzed, and he swiped his hands on a nearby towel, grateful for the interruption.
“Garrett. Hi. Kimberly Walsh. Just checking to see if you’d had a chance to talk with your family about the property.”
From one confusing mess to another. “Not yet.” Wedging the phone between his ear and shoulder, he channeled his anxiety into scraping stuck-on crud from the skillet.
“Then this might help. I ran into Warren Williams’s assistant at the gym this morning. She says he’s definitely interested in your grandparents’ land.” Kimberly’s words tumbled out over themselves. “He actually approached them about it a while back, but they refused to sell. Maybe now things would be different.”
Garrett’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline. Warren Williams had tried to buy the land before? This was the first he’d heard about it. No doubt his grandparents had turned down a handsome sum too. One that could’ve saved them so much heartache.
He renewed his attack on the skillet. “Maybe.”
“When Williams wants land, he does whatever it takes to get it. He’s not above paying top dollar for a property he’s passionate about. If you want my advice, that’s the route I suggest. But it is, of course, up to you and your family.”
And there lay the rub.
Garrett ended the call and finished the dishes, his mind a stew of prognostications and projections, numbers and possibilities. So much that he nearly jumped out of his skin when the doorbell rang.
“Oh, Garrett,” Lauren called from the living room, her voice singsong. “Sloane’s here.”
Quickly, he dried his hands and headed for the living room, where just a glimpse of her quieted his mind and brought a smile to his lips.
“Hi.”
Sloane quirked a brow. “Little overdres
sed to go dig around in dusty boxes, don’t you think?”
Garrett glanced down at his black dress pants and shiny shoes. “Grandma’s stuck in the past again today.”
Lauren patted Garrett’s shoulder. “Or he’s trying to impress you.”
He glared at Lauren, who fired back a smirk. Mercifully, Sloane gazed out the window toward the creek, seemingly a million miles from this little sibling exchange.
With a toss of her head, Lauren spun on her heel. “And now I’ll leave the room for no reason whatsoever.”
Garrett rolled his eyes and started up the stairs. Since Grandma was napping, there was a chance he could get away with more casual attire. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right down.”
After changing into a Jayhawks T-shirt and shorts, he returned to find Sloane elbows-deep in one of the cardboard boxes he’d brought down from the attic. Dust motes flitted around her head in a shaft of sunlight, giving her an otherworldly appearance. A cream-colored sweater sagged off one shoulder, and one denim-covered leg was tucked beneath the other. Her teeth grazed her lower lip, and memories of their velvety firmness came flooding back. Would her cheek be that soft? What about her neck? Her shoulder?
Jaw tight, he grabbed a box and plopped down on the other end of the sofa. Given where his thoughts were headed, distance was doubtless a good idea.
They worked in silence for a few minutes, which was odd. Usually she’d be making pithy statements or tossing some snark his way. But today she was quiet. In fact, other than that first glance when she arrived, she’d barely even looked at him.
Perhaps he wasn’t the only one grappling with the shattered boundary of friendship.
“Finding anything good?” he ventured.
She tossed a paperback Western into an empty crate destined for Goodwill. “Nope.”
“At least you’ve got that new diary to keep you occupied. Dig into it yet?”
“Yeah.” A Robert Ludlum book thwacked into the crate.
“How’s Annabelle?”
“Pregnant.” Thwack.
All right. Lauren always ragged on him for being dense and missing obvious hints, but if Annabelle Brennan was pregnant and Sloane didn’t want to talk about it? Something was definitely wrong. And it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out what.