Take Me Down (The Knight Brothers 2)

He didn’t like it, not after how close they’d been all weekend. Not after he’d been so deep inside her body he didn’t know where he ended and she began. Not when he’d been in her bare and had a moment of wondering what if he got her pregnant and tied himself to her forever? And no subsequent panic attack occurred. Just a feeling of rightness.

But right afterwards, he’d sensed her withdrawal, a need to take time to herself, and though he was more than willing to be quiet and hold her, he hadn’t been willing to go away any farther than that. He’d planned on cajoling her when they arrived back at the inn, but then she’d been obviously unable to reach her dad and things had fallen apart after that.

So yeah, this being ignored sucked about as much as the rest of the choices he would have to make about going home soon.

* * *

Emily was angry baking, something she did when she was upset and couldn’t sleep. She liked to bake bread because she could give the dough a good pounding and release a lot of frustration that way. She was craving chocolate, and after the day she’d had, she deserved a stress treat, so she was also baking brownies. Her dad was tucked into bed upstairs, well medicated and asleep, and she assumed Parker was in his bedroom. They’d each headed to their own rooms after they’d finally gotten home with her dad, eaten dinner they’d picked up on the way home, and turned in upstairs.

It was awkward between them and she hated it. She smacked the dough for good measure, then began using her favorite marble rolling pin, flattening the dough into a nine-by-twelve rectangle, then rolling it and molding it into a French loaf.

She also hated how much she felt like she was stuck between the proverbial rock and hard place with her dad. She understood how much he wanted to keep and run this inn. She was just truly afraid it was too much for him, and a big part of her was afraid of losing him the way she’d lost her mom.

She repeated the process with more dough. A glance at both loaves, and she added a few diagonal cuts with a knife, then placed them on a greased baking sheet, leaving them to rise.

Her thoughts immediately returned to her dad. Her fears. It didn’t help that she’d been mired in grief over her baby at the same time her mother had passed away. It’d been difficult to separate the two losses. She was still getting over them both. So yes, maybe she overreacted with her dad. Maybe she was irrational. But feelings were feelings, right?

She blew out a long breath and turned her attention to the brownies, which she already had in a bowl. They just needed to be poured into the pan and slid into the oven. She’d been at this awhile.

Then she’d lick that bowl clean. She wouldn’t have solved her problems but she’d have eaten chocolate … and that was something, right?

* * *

Parker listened in vain for any noise coming from Emily’s room but he didn’t hear anything. He didn’t for a second think she’d gone to sleep. She had as much on her mind as he did. Maybe more.

He knocked on her door, and when she didn’t answer, he headed downstairs to the second most obvious place to find her. Sure enough, she was muttering to herself in the kitchen while stirring what looked like chocolate in a large bowl.

He pulled up a stool and slid onto it, watching her while she worked. He had no doubt she’d heard and seen him come in. So he took in the unbaked loaves rising on the counter and he inhaled the delicious smell of chocolate.

“My mother used to bake.” The words were out before he could even think them. He hadn’t even realized he’d had the sensory memory but it warmed him inside. “She liked to include me and my brothers when we were little.”

Emily stilled in her mixing, her soft gaze coming to his. “What did she make?”

“Well, brownies in a pinch, of course.” He nodded toward her bowl. “And Snickerdoodles. Those were my favorite.” He smiled, almost able to smell the cinnamon.

“I like the dreamy look on your face.”

“It isn’t often I’m thrown into a good memory of my mom,” he admitted.

More often than not, he thought about the bitter ones of his dad and his lack of attention, his many wives, and losing the one parent who loved him unconditionally.

“Do you know the key ingredient that differentiates a Snickerdoodle from a sugar cookie?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Can’t say that I do.” That memory escaped him.

“Cream of tartar. It’s a leavening agent that gives the cookie its signature tangy flavor and chewy texture.”