One Good Thing Read online

  Addison gently knocks her shoulder into mine. “She thinks you have yourself a friend with benefits to help you get over it?”

  I’m not one for blushing, but right now I think I might be. “Yeah.”

  “There’s no harm in letting her think that.”

  “I’ll set her straight the next time I talk to her.”

  Addison lifts one shoulder, then drops it. A half-shrug. It makes me think of our talk earlier. “Doesn’t matter to me one way or the other. If it eases her worry, you can let her think you’re getting laid.”

  “How charitable of you.”

  “I’ve been known to be charitable from time to time.”

  I eye her. “You let the mothers of random men think you’re sleeping with them?”

  “Not random men. Only guys I’ve known for a week who sleep in cabin seven.” She raises her gaze to the porch ceiling. “Duh.”

  “Hah,” I bark a laugh at her joke. She grins at me, and the breeze shifts, lifting a section of hair from her shoulder. The smell of something sweet and floral overwhelms me. I stand upright quickly, needing to be out of that scent. It’s not right for me to be enjoying that incredible, feminine smell coming off her. She belongs to someone else.

  Right?

  Or, no?

  Shit.

  Addison’s eyebrows knit together. “You okay?”

  I rub my eyes. “Yeah, yeah.” I clear my throat. “Why did you come by? I don’t think it was to hear my mom ask ridiculous questions.”

  Addison’s hands join. Her forearms stiffen, and she bounces up on her toes, a nervous excitement making her blue eyes shine.

  “I came to ask you if you wanted to hang out with me while I bake?”

  “Does this mean you’re going to enter the contest?”

  She nods, a small, nervous grin on her lips.

  “So you’re staying here, then? In Lonesome?”

  Addison’s weight falls back on her heels. The excitement in her eyes decreases, but it’s not completely gone. “I’m not sure where I’m going from here, but I don’t want to eliminate a possibility simply by not trying.”

  I’ve only known Addison for a short amount of time, but I feel oddly proud of her.

  “Let me grab my shoes.” I turn around and walk inside, slipping my feet into a pair of sneakers, and grab my wallet and the key to the cabin.

  “After you,” I tell Addison, motioning with my arm once I’ve locked the front door.

  Addison bounces along beside me, telling me about the treats she used to bake. It’s the happiest I’ve seen her. I can’t imagine how happy she was in Chicago, back when she was engaged and running a bakery.

  In this moment, maybe she’s a little taste of the person she was before everything was ripped from her.

  12

  Addison

  I feel good. I feel ready.

  Maybe it’s because I’m wearing my grandma’s apron. The front reads, Life is short, so lick the bowl. Who wouldn’t feel ready wearing something like that?

  Or maybe it’s the person sitting at the island.

  Brady smiles reassuringly at me when I look at him. His long sleeve baby blue tee is pushed up, squeezing tightly around his muscular forearms. There’s a soft dusting of hair just barely visible. I know it’s soft because earlier this morning it brushed against me. And, despite the innocence of that swift contact, guilt rushed in.

  How can I find Brady attractive? Worse, how can I be attracted to him? It’s irrational. Insane, really.

  Or maybe the insane part is entering this baking contest. Isn’t that the very definition of insanity? Doing the same thing twice and expecting a different result the second time? My parents warned me about culinary arts school. They wanted me to get a ‘real’ degree first, then I could dabble if I wanted. They said a degree in culinary arts wouldn’t pan out (pun unintended, I’m sure).

  Well, they were right, but not for a reason they could’ve possibly foreseen.

  And here I am, giving it a second go.

  Yes, insanity. That’s the best fit word.

  “Do you listen to anything while you work?” Brady asks, fiddling with his phone.

  “Podcasts, sometimes.” I look over my ingredients with the intention of double-checking them, but then I catch sight of Brady out of the corner of my eye. He’s dragging the pad of one thumb over his lower lip. A long-lost sensation starts up in my stomach, and my mouth feels oddly dry. My tongue turns a circle, attempting to moisten the inside of my mouth. “We can listen to whatever you want,” I manage to say despite the desert my mouth has turned into.

  This is what I don’t understand. My heart was busted into what felt like a million pieces when I first left Chicago. For heaven’s sake, I yelled at Brady in the airport bar. And then I come here and a week later I’m being enchanted by a rippling, muscled forearm, and an angular chin and a smile that belongs on Captain America.

  What is my problem?

  Baking. That’s where my focus should lie. In a couple weeks Brady will be out of here and on to his next destination, wherever that may be.

  And I’ll go back to the most familiar place I know: heartache. It’s a place I know well, and I’ve been in it so long it’s oddly comforting. When I’m there, I know just what I’m getting.

  Brady turns on music I don’t recognize, but something tells me it’s probably a song a majority of the world knows. It has the catchy beat and witty lyrics of something popular. If it’s not, it should be.

  “Do you mind if I read while you bake?” Brady asks. “I don’t want to be a weirdo and stare at you.”

  For a second I freeze, remembering the ocean and walking in front of him in those tiny shorts. I wasn’t lying when I said they were hold-overs from my high school days. And I knew he was staring at my ass. I could feel it in my bones. Or, ass, I guess.

  “Sure, read.” I smirk. “I don’t want you staring at me either.”

  He looks up from his phone and gives me that smile, the superhero one. “What are you making?”

  “Salted Butterscotch Blondies.”

  “Mmm.” Brady’s moan reverberates through my chest. “I get one as payment for keeping you company.”

  “If you do a good job, you get two.”

  I turn around and get to work, and Brady goes back to reading whatever it is he’s reading on his phone. The song ends and a new one starts.

  Browned butter is my secret weapon, so that’s what I do first. It’s what turns Oh, that’s yummy to Oh my god, I’ll take a dozen.

  Once that’s finished, I start my dry ingredients, peeking back at Brady as I stir. He looks up as if I’ve called his name, and winks.

  I turn my attention back to my task, afraid his winking will make me spill my flour. Next up I add brown sugar to my brown butter and stir. Once it’s combined, I add the remaining wet ingredients, then add that to the dry, and stir. Finally, it’s time for the butterscotch morsels.

  But they’re not on the counter. After a quick look in the pantry, I don’t see them in there either.

  “What the hell?” I murmur, standing in the pantry doorway and looking out at the rest of the kitchen. Brady looks up, swivels his head to look for me, then finally locates me.

  “How’s it going over there?”

  I shake my head slowly, still looking around. They were here before I went to get Brady from his cabin. I took them out of the pantry and set them on the counter myself. “It appears I’m missing an ingredient.”

  “Can you substitute something?”

  “They won’t be butterscotch without the butterscotch.” My chest deflates a little. It would’ve been nice if these had gone off without a hitch.

  Grandma walks into the kitchen, her little red toolbox in her hands. “Something sure smells good.” She pats Brady on the back and walks over to the glass mixing bowl, peering down. With a devilish grin, she pulls a utensil from a drawer and spoons a bite of batter into her mouth. “Raw egg can’t hurt me,” she announces.
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  “Grandma, do you know what happened to the butterscotch morsels I had out on the counter?”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Those things were so old, they may have been older than me. I threw them away.”

  I nod, disappointed, but also a tiny bit relieved to know I won’t be making anybody sick with a badly outdated ingredient.

  “I was surprised to come in here earlier and see all the baking stuff on the counter.” Her spoon makes a loud, clanging sound as she tosses it in the sink.

  “There’s a thing for Lonesome Day. A baking competition that I’m entering. It’s not a big deal—”

  Grandma’s eyes flash. “I know about that competition, and don’t you dumb it down. It’s a big deal. I’m proud of you.”

  I smile at her, but I feel bad. I came here to help with Sweet Escape. If I win the competition, I’d be leaving her in a lurch.

  “Thanks, Grandma, but I don’t have to enter. I haven’t officially put my name in the hat yet. I know I said I’d help you here and that will be my priority.”

  Grandma waves her hand around as if shooing away my words. “Don’t be ridiculous. What do you think I do the rest of the year when you’re not here?”

  “Hire a part-time college kid?”

  “Exactly. And I can do that again.”

  I look to Brady and he shrugs and lifts his hands, telling me he’s staying out of this one.

  “Smart guy,” Grandma says to him. “Are you Addison’s baking assistant? What’s that called? A sous chef?”

  “Something like that,” I say, and at the same time, Brady shakes his head.

  “I don’t go near baking or cooking. Addison asked me to keep her company while she worked.”

  Grandma looks from me to Brady, and it’s not hard to guess what she’s thinking. She can be so transparent when she wants to be. I know she wants me to move on. I just don’t know how to take that first step.

  “Can I have your Jeep keys, Grandma? I need to run to the store.”

  Brady pushes back his chair and stands. “I’ll drive, if you don’t mind? I might forget how to if I don’t practice every once in a while.”

  I smile at his joke and Grandma pulls her keys off the hook she keeps inside a cabinet. She tosses them to Brady.

  “I’ll back it out and meet you out front,” he says to me.

  I’m untying my apron when Grandma speaks. “I say you should go for it.”

  “Thanks, Grandma,” I say, relieved even though I was certain she would support me. “I just want to bake again, I don’t necessarily need to win.”

  Grandma shakes her head quickly from side to side. “I wasn’t talking about baking, Addison.”

  I hand her my apron and plant a quick kiss on her cheek as I pass her. “I was.”

  Grabbing my purse from the table, I hurry out the front door and to Brady, waiting in the idling Jeep.

  * * *

  Brady and I split up when we got to the grocery store. I went to the baking aisle and Brady to the other end of the store for shaving cream. I’d noticed his five o’clock shadow had grown to be more of a ten o’clock, but I kind of liked it that way. The look suited him more out here in the forest than the clean shave he’d sported the day he arrived.

  I spot the butterscotch morsels and grab them, heading to the end of the aisle. When I don’t immediately see Brady, I start for the personal hygiene section. As I get closer, I see Brady talking with someone, his head bent to hear what the other person is saying.

  I round the corner and find him talking to an elderly man. The man is wearing a pageboy news cap and a wrinkled, khaki-colored linen suit. In June? He must be sweating a ridiculous amount. I come closer and see a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Is it even good for someone so old to become overheated? I come to a stop beside Brady. He looks at me, his eyebrows pulled together in confusion, then back to the old man.

  “…I’m not sure exactly the name of the product, but I’m really sick of looking for it. Been using it for a long time, ya know? Why would they discontinue it?” He removes his cap and wipes his forearm across his forehead, presumably to mop the sweat gathering there.

  Brady nods slowly, showing no signs of irritation or impatience. “Yes, sir. That’s aggravating. Maybe we can ask an employee for help.”

  The man waves his hand flippantly. “Bah! They’re no help. I’ve already asked them and they’re useless.” He starts to shuffle to the side, but his balance isn’t good and he stumbles. Brady and I reach for him, but thankfully he’s already steadied himself on the closest shelf. A few bottles fall over and hit the ground, rolling away from him.

  “I’m going to walk you to your car.” Brady falls into step beside him.

  The man scowls at Brady. “That won’t be necessary.”

  Brady stops and takes a step back. I’m surprised he has given up so easily.

  “You have a good day, sir,” Brady says to the man, his voice respectful and kind.

  The man keeps going, his shuffle step taking him at a very slow but steady pace.

  “You’re letting him go?” My voice is a whisper-hiss.

  Brady scrunches his face and shakes his head. “Hell no. I’m letting him think he’s on his own.” His eyes keep track of him, and he says, “When he first walked up to me, he asked me if I could point him in the direction of the automotive department.”

  My eyes grow wide. “What did you tell him?”

  “That I didn’t think this grocery store had that department. He looked around and clued in a little, then he began raving about soap they no longer carry. That’s when you walked up.”

  My lips twist. “That’s so sad.”

  “Yeah,” Brady agrees, the word trailing behind him as he walks forward. I slip along behind him, and slowly we trail the man through the store and out the automatic doors. He never stops, never looks around. His gaze remains forward as if he’s in a lane he cannot deviate from.

  He stops outside the doors, and we come to a halt just a few feet away. He makes a displeased face as he scans the parking lot.

  “Dammit.” His frail-looking fist swipes at the air. “Car got stolen again. What do I have that those thieves want so badly?”

  Suddenly he looks at us, and I feel Brady stiffen beside me.

  “You,” he says, pointing at Brady and shuffle-stepping over to us. “Do you have a phone I can borrow? I need to call my son and tell him my car was stolen.”

  “Sure thing.” Brady pulls his phone from his pocket and unlocks it. With his finger poised over the screen, he looks up and asks, “What’s your son’s number?”

  The man frowns. “It’s… uh… well, I don’t recall at the moment.”

  “No worries,” Brady says confidently. I hope the old man feels reassured by his strong voice. “What’s your son’s name?”

  “Paul Bendrop.” The name is quick to roll off his tongue, and the crinkling beside his eyes conveys the pleasure he takes in that.

  I smile politely at the old man and look over at Brady’s phone, quickly scanning the results from the internet search he conducted in the last few seconds.

  Brady looks up at the man, his finger poised over the screen. “Is your son a lawyer?”

  “Damn straight,” he growls, pride in his voice.

  Brady grins. “Can I call you Mr. Bendrop?”

  “You can call me anything, just don’t call me late for dinner!” Mr. Bendrop cackles at his joke. I think he’s happy now that he thinks we’re going to help him. Or maybe he’s already forgotten about his car.

  Brady brings the phone to his ear and waits. Thankfully, there’s a quick answer on the other end.

  “Yes, hi,” Brady says after listening to the short welcome from whoever answered the phone. “I’m looking for Paul Bendrop.”

  He’s quiet, and he absentmindedly runs his thumb over his lower lip.

  I can never, ever tell him how sexy that is. Besides, I’m sure someday in the not-too-distant future, someone will. Someone who isn�
��t broken like me, and someone who’s totally available. Both are qualifications I do not currently fulfill.

  “Paul, hi. Brady Sterling here. Listen, I’m in front of” —Brady squints up at the sign— “the Shop n’ Save with your dad, and he believes his car has been stolen.”

  There’s a muffled response and Brady says, “Uh huh” over and over. Then he hangs up and tells Mr. Bendrop that his son will be here shortly.

  “Lucky thing his office is only a couple blocks over.” Brady grins at Mr. Bendrop and gives him the gentlest squeeze around the shoulders. Brady spends the time waiting on the son to show up asking Mr. Bendrop random questions.

  “Where were you in 1980?” he asks.

  “Probably at one of my sons’ baseball games. They all three played.”

  “I played too, in high school.” Brady goes on to make small talk until a sleek silver sedan pulls up alongside us.

  A man somewhere in his mid-thirties with a slight paunch hurries from the car. “Dad,” he says, relief coloring his voice. He walks to Mr. Bendrop with his arms outstretched.

  Mr. Bendrop waves him away. “I’m fine. It’s my car we should worry about. Call the police.”

  “Let’s get you home and let me deal with the police.”

  Mr. Bendrop doesn’t put up a fight about it. He allows Paul to help him into the front seat of the low-slung car. When he’s situated, Paul closes the door and comes to us, extending a hand to each of us in turn.

  We shake and make quick introductions. Brady gives Paul a quick re-cap of events.

  “Thank you for helping him out. I mean it. When I think about what could’ve happened to him…” He trails off, shaking his head. “I’ll tell the nurse to keep a better eye on him.” There’s a trace of barely contained anger and annoyance when he says this. I don’t blame him. I would feel that way too.

  “Do you need us to stick around while you call the police?” I ask Paul. “We didn’t see anything, but if we can help we certainly will.”