“Sounds good.” The idea of driving back to Austin wore him out. Out here, he could get his head on straight and face whatever backlash tomorrow brought. For now, pie and bed sounded good. He headed for the kitchen and a monster slice of pie. Maybe he’d eat the whole damn thing.
“We’re back.” The front door opening. Emmy Lou. “I bought Old-Fashioned Vanilla. It goes best with apple pie. Want another piece?”
Damn his fool heart for speeding up at the sound of her voice.
“Oh, maybe just a sliver.” Aunt Mo was smiling, he could tell.
Aunt Mo and Krystal were talking, but he didn’t hear a word once Emmy walked into the kitchen.
“Hi.” She stopped, a recyclable shopping bag hanging off her arm and sliding to the floor. “Brock, I’m so sorry.”
All the panic and fear he’d bottled up since she’d run onto the field flooded his veins. Don’t do it. Don’t. Fuck it. He was walking toward her—aching to pull her against him—to wrap her up, hold her close, and breathe her in. Somehow, he managed to slam on the brakes before he reached for her.
Her gaze locked with his, an unmistakable spark in her emerald eyes. “I am sorry. I keep causing problems…”
She wasn’t wrong. Every damn time he saw her—she caused all sorts of problems. Like this. Right now. Pulling her into his arms when he knew better. This was a big damn problem. But she felt so good in his arms. Safe. Warm. Her head on his chest. She fit. She always had.
“Put on a pot of decaf coffee, too, won’t you, Brock?” Aunt Mo’s voice echoed down the hall. “Goes good with pie.”
He called out, “Yes, ma’am.” Enough now. She was fine. This was over. It hurt like hell to let her go. He managed, but it wasn’t easy.
She wrapped her arms around her waist. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“You said apple pie.” That was his excuse and he was sticking to it.
“I wasn’t sure how else to get you here,” she whispered, nibbling on the inside of her lip.
And just like that, his heart was hammering away.
“I can’t wait for some pie,” Krystal announced, stepping extra hard on the wooden floor. “Almost to the kitchen. For my pie.” She peered into the room, her eyes narrowing as they landed on him. “Brock.”
“Krystal. Nice to see you,” he said, heading toward the coffeepot.
“Is that the same coffeepot?” Emmy Lou smiled. “She’s had that for years. I learned to make coffee in that.”
He remembered. There were so many good memories between them. He swallowed hard. “You know Aunt Mo.” No matter how many times he’d offered to buy things for Aunt Mo, she refused. Eventually, he’d let it go. If she wanted to keep the vinyl wallpaper in the bathrooms and her ancient icebox—it was too old to be called a refrigerator—he’d let her. Her happiness was a priority. Of all the women in his life, she was the only one who stayed.
“Good coffee,” Aunt Mo said, sipping the freshly brewed cup.
He heard it then—a high-pitched squeal of a meow. There, among the bundles of multicolored yarn by Mo’s chair, was the fluffy, black kitten. Brock picked up it up and gave it a quick once-over. “For something so little, you sure caused a big ruckus today. You know she saved you, don’t you?” The kitten stared at him, reaching out a paw to swat at him before yawning. “Good to see you’re appreciative.”
Emmy moved over on the couch, reaching for the kitten. “He’s had a big day.” She laughed, placing her pie plate on the table and patting the couch beside her.
He smiled. The plate was scraped clean. It was one piece of pie, but it was a start.
As soon as he sat beside Emmy, the kitten jumped into her lap, purring. “He sounds like a motorboat.” Brock laughed.
“Aw, you guys have a Beauty and the Beast thing going on over there.” Krystal pulled out her phone. “Hold up your baby. This will make a great Christmas card.”
“Aunt Krystal is sarcastic, Watson. You’ll get used to it.” Emmy leaned in close and held up the kitten. “Smile,” she said, shooting Brock a look. “Both of you.”
Krystal blinked, giving them a long look before she took a few pics.
“I can’t wait. I’d turned off the television, so I missed all the excitement,” Aunt Mo said, sipping her coffee. “Can’t watch the game with that Ames boy playing; my blood pressure can’t take it.”
“I’m not a fan,” Emmy agreed.
“He’s definitely your fan,” he grumbled.