Page 33 of 40 and (No Longer) Fighting It
Before she could break down, she left Lincoln standing at the door, glaring at her brother. He found her in the kitchen a few minutes later, coming up behind where she stood, both hands planted on the counter, head down as she breathed through the ache in her chest. When he drew her back against him and wrapped her in his thick, muscular arms, she had the thought that maybe, just maybe she could be safe there for longer than a few days or weeks.
But that wasn’t what either of them wanted, was it?
“I don’t know all the ins and outs of what just happened, but I’m sorry you’re apparently surrounded by assholes.”
Her laugh was a little choked. “Having you stand with me helped. Thank you.”
Lincoln didn’t speak as she swiped at the moisture that had escaped her eyes. Explaining the ins and outs wasn’t something she’d be willing to do with just anyone, but he’d been stuck in the middle of it, hadn’t he? And he’d already shared his deepest secret with her; maybe it was time for her to do the same. “It’s not him I’m crying about; it’s her.”
“Is she the reason he left?”
“Sort of. She was one in a string.” She took a breath, stealing herself. “He left me for her because she got pregnant.”
Lincoln swore under his breath.
“It wasn’t even the fact that he got her pregnant that bothered me so much. But…he was sleeping around because I couldn’t have children. He left me for the first woman he knocked up.”
“And that’s the asshole your family goes to baby showers for?”
Her laugh this time was more than a bit bitter. “My family believes a woman’s role in life is to marry and have babies. I married, but I couldn’t have babies, and now I’m no longer married. The fact that I run my own business and work full-time is just the icing on the shit cake.”
Lincoln’s fist balled up beneath her breasts, the knuckles white. But then he relaxed, his hands cupping her arms to gently turn her to face him. When she looked up into his eyes, the awe there confused her.
“You humble me.”
She shook her head. “Why?”
His big hands came up to cup her cheeks, his thumbs stroking along her flushed skin. “I’ve been proud of you all along, Claire. What you accomplished. How hard you worked, back in New York and now with all this.” He glanced around her kitchen, and her chest swelled at the thought that he truly understood what this place meant to her. When his gaze caught hers again, he shook his head. “No one should have to live with what that bastard did to you. But you found something better. You came to New York and you proved yourself. And then there was me.”
Regret darkened his eyes. “The fact that you choose to forgive me after all of that just blows my mind.” Tipping her chin up, he ducked down until his lips brushed hers. “Thank you.”
Their mouths met, opened, and Claire didn’t think about her ex or her past or her family for long minutes after that.
Fifteen
On Sundays Claire’s bakery was closed. While she spent the morning kneading dough and prepping pastries for tomorrow’s deliveries, Linc spent the time talking with her about the concept for the Black Wolf Resort restaurant and recipes they might consider for the menu. He wanted her input, wanted her approval, he realized. He’d never needed that before, from anyone, but here, now, with Claire? He needed it.
He needed her.
Claire had given the cathead biscuits he made this morning high praise. He’d topped the hand-sized biscuits with crispy fried chicken, a perfectly fried egg, fresh red cabbage slaw, and drizzles of honey and chili oil. The resort was settled firmly in the South, but he didn’t want to abandon the kind of chic, eclectic cuisine featured at his restaurant in New York. A mix of Southern upscale fare seemed like the perfect compromise, and he was getting a kick out of exploring the possibilities.
As he worked on the next dish, a feeling of contentment settled in his chest, not something he’d expected when he’d flown down for this visit with JD. Claire was on the other side of the kitchen, rolling sugar cookie dough into thin layers, cutting out baseballs and butterflies and other summer shapes, and placing large trays in the oven to bake. He’d never liked to share his kitchen while he was creating. When there were customers, fine, but when he was intent on exploring something new, he preferred to do so alone, just him and the ingredients. Now, as ’80s rock songs played on his phone next to the stove, he found himself lost in the zone, her presence a warm echo as he tasted and fiddled and sang along to the music.
He was draining pasta at the stove when he heard Claire giggle.
“What? Is my singing that bad?”
Claire turned from placing another set of trays into the massive oven, hip cocked to receive her planted fist. “Not as bad as I would’ve figured,” she said, her sass shining through. “It’s actually nice to know you don’t do everything perfectly.”
He gasped, widening his eyes. “What do you mean, I don’t do everything perfectly?”
“Well”—she eyed him, then the phone—“you certainly don’t sing perfectly.”
She wasn’t wrong, not that he’d admit it aloud.
“Don’t worry,” she assured him, turning back to her cookies, “you make up for it in other ways.”
He couldn’t hold back a self-satisfied smile at that. He certainly did.
