He was arguing with her choice of pastry now?
“Aye, and I’ll likely make it again tomorrow! I like sweet pastry!”
Now she was certain one corner of his lips had pulled up wryly. He was…laughing at her?
Nay, ye ninny. He’s teasing ye.
Oh.
Oh!
And why did that realization send a spike of warmth through her in the same way his touch did?
She ducked her head, forcing herself to focus on what her hands were doing and ignore his competent movements across the counter.
They worked in companionable silence until she finished slicing. As she collected the scraps, she saw him wince. Well, not quite a wince, more a slight spasm of distaste as he shifted his weight.
Suddenly, she understood.
On her way back from collecting the honey pot, she lifted Eppie’s stool. A year ago, the older woman had requested a taller stool to sit on or lean against as she worked at the counter, and Fen knew it would be helpful for Brodie as well.
She slid the pot along the counter, then carried the stool to Brodie’s side. “Here, try this.”
The way he jerked in surprise when he saw what she carried was almost comical. His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Because standing for so long without yer crutch must be uncomfortable.” She thrust the stool toward him. “Here.”
He wasn’t frowning exactly, but his lips were pressed tightly together, and his brows drawn in. Finally, he ventured, “And…ye think this will help?”
“Of course!” She clucked her tongue and dropped the thing to the floor. “I cannae have ye falling over in the middle of my tarts.”
Instead of smiling—or, since it was him, not smiling but perhaps softening a bit—at her joke, his expression remained guarded. Hesitantly, he reached for the stool, then slowly pulled it closer.
As he sat, she heard him exhale.
“Cannae even stand properly,” he muttered.
He was embarrassed? By his injury?
Remembering the conversation they’d had in the garden before the kiss—Nay dinnae think of the kiss! No’ when ye’re standing so close to him!—Fen dropped a comforting hand to his forearm.
“Ye are healing, Brodie. Dinnae push yerself.”
She saw him swallow and felt the corded muscles flex under her palm, but he didn’t look up.
By St. Jennifer’s earlobe, the man was intriguing.
And handsome.
Aye, and handsome too, in a dangerous sort of way. He reminded her of a wounded beast, coiled and tense, needing to be soothed.
And ye want to volunteer?
Well, she had, had she not? They were working together in her kitchen, which had to be a peace offering, if naught else. He had accepted the stool—and the comfort—she’d offered.
Ye just want to comfort him because he makes yer heart do such interesting things.
Her heart…and lower.