Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Emmett

S ometimes, I wish my curiosity would take a fucking vacation.

I'm in the crawl space of my basement, grabbing the box my dad gave me when I moved out. It holds all my high school shit. My yearbooks, varsity letters, awards, accolades, etc. I don't remember Briar very well from high school, other than that she was Gillian's younger sister, and by then, Gillian and Ben had broken up, and he was away at college.

Pulling my senior yearbook out, I flip through the freshman class, searching for her. She's on the first page, and this is the Briar I remember. She's wearing braces, her hair is super short and not very styled, and her glasses are way too big on her face. But it's how young she looks that takes me back. Then again, she was four years younger than me.

Still, no memories surface, and I have to wonder why I'd be an asshole to a young girl. Especially Gillian's sister. Because that's the only reason I can think of that would make her hate me. I shake my head and shut the yearbook, then put everything back before climbing the stairs to return to the main level.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out to find a text from Lottie.

Can you do me a favor?

This is one part of being the "immature one" that I hate. Lottie needs something delivered to The Harvest Depot, and since Bennett has Wren, and Jensen spends all his damn time in the kitchen, she messages me.

What?

Can you do a pickup at Laurel's? She was supposed to deliver them to me, but she's slammed.

I'm always the fucking gopher. Like I have no damn life except to do the shit no one else wants to do.

Sure.

I jog up the stairs from the basement and swipe my keys off the table.

Briar is sitting on the couch with her laptop and her legs stretched out. Her blonde hair is in a messy bun on top of her head. She really is sexy as hell, and I can't believe she's fucking pregnant with what I'm assuming is some douchebag's baby since she's here and not in Chicago with him. I have a ton of questions, but I'm not about to ask them. It's none of my business.

She glances at me with red-rimmed eyes, and my stomach clenches. I loved hearing her giggle the other day, but after that, I haven't seen a lot of emotion from her. I get that she's dealing with a lot of shit I can't imagine. I was young when Gillian had Clayton, but I remember that she seemed the same—no smiles until Clayton was born.

"Busy?" I ask.

"Just looking some stuff up." Her finger scrolls over the touchpad of the laptop.

"Want to go for a ride?" I figure it will be good to get her away from here and out of her head.

She quirks an eyebrow. "Am I a dog?"

A laugh escapes because her one-liners kill me, especially when she doesn't show any emotion.

"I'll roll the window down for you and everything."

She shuts her laptop and gets up. "Can we hit a drive-through for a doggie treat?"

She slides on her sweatshirt, and I try not to concentrate on how her tits are snug in a sports bra. She's torturing me daily with her tight clothes.

"Maybe I'll take you to the doggie park too."

"Today is the best day ever." She puts her purse over her arm and walks toward the screen door. "No leash?"

"That's for the bedroom later," I say, and her face explodes into the best smile.

Why does that do something to my heart? Why do I want to make this better for her? I barely know her.

We walk out to my truck, and I open the door for her. She looks surprised, but I choose to ignore the fact that she doesn't have high expectations of me. After I climb into the driver's seat, she buckles herself in.

"I forgot how everyone drives trucks here," she says, wiggling in the cushy seat. The thing I love about pickups is the room inside the cab.

"What do they drive in Chicago?" I back out of my drive with my hand on the back of her headrest while I look over my shoulder, then I head toward the small road to leave the ranch.

"A lot of sports cars and SUVs. Minivans, but that's mostly families."

"Which do you prefer—Chicago or Willowbrook?" I dare ask, inching closer to the subject of why she left.

"I'm not sure. I loved Chicago when I first got there. The tall buildings and the millions of people who don't know or care who you are as you walk by. And the food. God, the food was so good." Her eyes flutter closed as if she's remembering something, and for a second, I wonder what she looks like when she comes.

Stop. It. Now.

"What was your favorite?"

"Pasta. I usually try not to eat too much of it, but there was this place on the corner by my apartment building. Fresh homemade noodles, and they had this butter garlic cream sauce I'd try not to eat because once I did, I'd crave it for a week straight." She laughs, and her head lolls my way. "If you ever go to Chicago, go to Bella Bites."

"Will do."

"And they had these garlic bread sticks. Ever since I got pregnant, it's all I want. Pasta. Any kind. He or she isn't picky." She runs her hand over her stomach.

I've seen her do that a few times in the week she's lived with me. Almost as if she's growing used to the idea of being a mother.

"Well, I can't offer you much here. But I'll take you to By The Slice, and we can get a cheeseburger pizza. They have garlic bread and some marinara pasta that's probably just sauce from a jar."

"I haven't had a cheeseburger pizza since I moved away from here. The pizza from Chicago is deep dish with a lot of cheese and sauce. It's good, but I'll take the cheeseburger pizza over that any day."

I raise my fist. "Nebraska for the win."

I drive us to Willowbrook's small downtown and park along the small square in front of Laurel's bakery. Sure enough, she's got a line out the door.

"I feel bad. Gillian said I could take her hours here, and I never answered her about it. Maybe I should stay and help." She grabs the handle and exits the vehicle.

I meet her in front of my truck. "Is it safe to be around all those ovens and mixers?"

Her forehead wrinkles. "I'm not five, Emmett."

"I'm just saying, what if your stomach bumps into a hot sheet or something?"

She shakes her head, laughing at me. "You're being protective of me?"

"Yeah, you wish," I say like a teenage boy trying to be mean to the girl he likes.

The truth is, women are foreign beings to me. My mom died when I was two years old, and I have no memories of her. Dad never remarried. I figured out young how to turn a woman on. Kimmy, the preacher's daughter, gave me some lessons I still use today. But emotionally, fuck, I don't even know how to be a friend to a woman.

We slip by the large line of people. Laurel and Gillian are going in opposite directions behind the counter, trying to fill orders.

"Are cupcakes going extinct?" I ask as we approach the side of the counter.

Neither Laurel nor Gillian laugh, but Briar does. I kind of like that.

"Laurel made Oatmeal Creme Pie Cupcakes, and I think she put heroin in them or something because she can't keep up with the demand."

"Oh, they're so good, Emmett," Mr. Torres, who's at the front of the line, says. "Who are you?" he asks, looking at Briar.

Gillian uses her sonic hearing and answers his question. "That's my sister, Briar."

"Oh, little Briar. Do you remember story time?"

Briar smiles sweetly. Not one I've ever seen her use. It's her fake smile. "I do. The way you'd act out all the characters, even the women."

"Someone had to be the princess and queen."

Laurel calls, "Next."

"Oh, it's my turn." Mr. Torres looks like he did when he acted out the characters at story time.

"I'm here to pick up for Lottie," I say.

"You get what you need and go. I'll stay to help," Briar says. "I'm sure Gillian can drive me home."

I thought we were going to have lunch. I try to push away the disappointment I feel.

"Neither one you have to stay. We're about to sell out." She places them in the display case. "Last dozen."

Groans ring out in the storefront. One person tells the person behind them, and quickly, the line outside disperses, people looking pissed off as they leave.

"Good, we're going to lunch then," I say.

Gillian stops checking out Mr. Torres and glares at me.

"I can't fuck her on the table in the middle of the restaurant. It's lunch."

Gillian looks away from me, finishing the sale with Mr. Torres.

"Don't talk like that in my store," Laurel reprimands me.

Mrs. VanKamp just gave me that look I got when I was in trouble in kindergarten. Not much has changed.

"Sorry. Don't worry, I'll drop off the goods to Lottie before we grab something to eat."

"Now that we're sold out, Gillian can drop them off." Laurel puts her hand on Gillian's shoulder.

"I just made your favorite, Briar. Chicken pot pies. No need to go out to lunch—come over to our house," Gillian says.

Laurel blows out a breath and runs her hand down Briar's arm as if she's consoling her.

"Sorry, Gill, but Emmett brought up cheeseburger pizza, and I haven't had it since I returned. I think I'd like to go there," Briar says.

Gillian hands the change to Mr. Torres and turns to us, her hip resting on the counter and her arms crossed.

"Let them go, Gill," Laurel says. "I'll come over for some pot pies."

"Go on then," Gillian says, clearly not pleased.

You don't have to tell me twice. I'm on my way to the door before I realize Briar isn't with me. She's hugging Gillian and whispering something to her. She finally joins me, and we make our way inside the truck.

"Why is she so worried about something happening between us?" I start the truck.

I talked with Gillian and understood her worry, but it's a little extreme that she thinks I have zero control over my dick.

Briar shrugs. "You have a reputation. She knows about Chad. Not everything, but that he hurt me."

My hands tighten on the steering wheel. So, the douchebag has a name.

"Hurt you?" I try to keep my voice even-keeled, but if he hit her, I'll be showing up at every damn door in Chicago that has someone named Chad living there until I find him.

"Heartbreak. I loved him, or so I thought. Can we just go?"

I pull out of the parking spot and head toward By The Slice. "So, what do you think my reputation is?" At the stoplight, I glance over to see her shrug.

"I haven't lived here in a long time, but when I did, you were always with a girl, and I don't mean dating."

"Yeah…" I don't finish my sentence. The part of me who hooks up is a complicated part that even I don't fully understand. Mostly because I don't like to psychoanalyze myself and how fucked up it is that I can't have a normal relationship like my brothers.

"Care to elaborate?" she asks.

"As soon as you do." I side-eye her, and she turns toward the window.

"I'm starving. How much longer?"

I laugh because we're both messed up, and neither one of us wants to address our issues. And that works perfectly for me.