Page 71 of End Game
“Well, good morning,” I say, taking the proffered carton. “How’d you know I was here?”
“Mrs. Brasher called from down the road. Said you came up alone and could probably use some groceries.”
“Oh, Henry,” I say, leaning on my tiptoes and kissing his cheeks. “You’re so sweet. Rachel is a lucky woman.”
“I’ll tell her you said so,” he chuckles. “If you need anything else, you call me. My number is pinned on the corkboard in the laundry room.”
“I will. Thanks again, Henry.”
“Is everything all right, Layla girl? I saw another car out front and Mrs. Brasher said you were alone . . .”
“I’m fine,” I assure him. “If I need anything, you’ll get a call.”
“I’d better. Have a good day, darlin’.”
Heading back to the kitchen, I plop the box on the counter. Pulling the items out one-by-one, I look up at Branch. “Guess we have things for breakfast.”
He smiles at the implied offer and I kick myself for saying it so easily. “You have food delivery out here?”
“No. That was Henry.”
“Who’s Henry?”
“He takes care of the cabin when we aren’t here. Mows the grass, maintains our dock, does little fix-it projects here and there. Basic stuff.”
“I see.” He leans against the chair, watching me unpack the box. “Can I help you with something? I can’t cook worth shit, but I can pour juice like a champ.”
“Why don’t you get a shower?” I offer. “I’ll put something together while you’re gone.”
“I can help you. You don’t have to cook for me.”
“I know. It’s really just a way to get you out of here faster.”
He doesn’t seem to believe me and heads up the stairs with a smug grin on his face. I flip him off as soon as he’s out of sight, the little bout of immature rebellion cathartic.
Scrambling a pan of eggs and cooking sausage patties keeps me busy for the next twenty minutes. The rafters above me squeal as Branch gets in and out of the shower, a little reminder that a conversation is still going to be had and just thinking about it makes me almost drop the patties onto the floor.
“That smells good,” he says, coming around the corner.
I look up from the table and almost drop the glass of juice in my hand. He’s shirtless, a pair of Finn’s black joggers on his legs, and a white towel running over his hair.
“Have a seat,” I say, turning away to keep myself focused. I busy myself grabbing my vitamins from my purse before heading back to the table and taking a seat at the opposite end.
He smells crisp and clean, and despite the black eye, he looks divine.
“Did you sleep okay?” he asks, picking up his fork.
“Yes. Did you?”
“I slept like shit. That chair isn’t made for a night’s sleep.”
“Could’ve gone home,” I shrug.
His fork clamors against the table, the sound making me jump. He holds my gaze hostage, a plethora of emotions warring in his eyes. As he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, he seems to have made a decision and that scares me.
I hold my breath, anticipating his words.
“Look, Layla, I want to apologize.”
