Sweet Trilogy: Sweet Talk / Sweet Spot / Sweet Trouble

“JUST SHOOT ME NOW,” Nicole Keyes said as she wiped down the kitchen counters. “I mean it, Wyatt. You must have a gun. Do it. I’ll write a note saying it’s not your fault.”

“Sorry. No guns at my house.”

None in hers, either, she thought glumly, then tossed the dishcloth back into the sink.

“The timing couldn’t be worse for my stupid surgery,” she muttered. “They’re telling me I can’t go back to work for six weeks. Six. The bakery isn’t going to run itself. And don’t you dare say anything about me asking Jesse. I mean it, Wyatt.”

Her soon-to-be-ex-brother-in-law held up both hands. “Not a word from me. I swear.”

She believed him. Not because she thought she frightened him but because she knew he understood that while some of the pain in her gut came from an inflamed gallbladder, most of it was about her sister Jesse’s betrayal.

“I hate this. I hate my body turning on me this way. What have I ever done to it?”

Wyatt pushed out a chair at the table. “Sit. Getting upset isn’t going to help.”

“You don’t actually know that.”

“I can guess.”

She plopped into the chair because it was easier than fighting. Sometimes, like now, she wondered if she had any fight left in her.

“What am I forgetting?” she asked. “I think I’ve gotten everything done. You remembered that I can’t take care of Amy for a while, right?”

Amy was his eight-year-old daughter. Nicole looked after her a few afternoons a week.

Wyatt leaned forward and put his hand on her forearm. “Relax,” he told her. “You didn’t forget anything. I’ll look in on the bakery every couple of days. You’ve got good people working for you. They love you and are loyal. Everything will be fine. You’ll be home in a few days and you can start healing.”

She knew he meant from more than just the surgery. There was also the issue of her soon-to-be-ex-husband.

Instead of thinking about that bastard Drew, she stared at Wyatt’s hand on her arm. He had big hands—scarred and callused. He was a man who knew how to work for a living. Honest, good-looking, funny.

She raised her gaze to his dark eyes. “Why couldn’t I have fallen in love with you?” she asked.

He smiled. “Back at you, kid.”

They would have been so perfect together … if only there had been a hint of chemistry.

“We should have tried harder,” she muttered. “We should have slept together.”

“Just think about it for a minute,” he told her. “Tell me if it turns you on.”

“I can’t.” Honestly, thinking about having sex with Wyatt kind of set her teeth on edge, and not in a good way. He was too much like a brother. If only his stepbrother, Drew, had caused the same reaction.

Unfortunately with him, there had been fireworks. The kind that burned.

She pulled back and studied Wyatt. “Enough about me. You should get married again.”

He reached for his mug of coffee. “No, thanks.”

“Amy needs a mother.”

“Not that badly.”

“There are great women out there.”

“Name one that isn’t you.”

Nicole thought for a minute, then sighed. “Can I get back to you on that?”

CLAIRE ARRIVED at the SeaTac Airport early in the afternoon, feeling very smug about making her own travel arrangements. She’d even booked a car for herself. Normally she would have used a car service, but she would have to drive back and forth to the hospital, then to the bakery. Nicole might need her to run errands. Wheels of her own made sense.

After wrestling her two very large suitcases off the baggage claim belt, she grabbed one in each hand and dragged them toward the escalator. The catwalk to the parking garage was long and the bags heavy. She was breathing hard by the time she reached a bank of elevators she had to take down to the rental car place. By the time she got to the Hertz office, she was regretting the long wool coat she’d shrugged on. Sweat trickled down her back, making her cashmere sweater stick to her.

She waited in line, excited about being here, nervous and filled with resolve to do whatever it took to reconnect with her sisters. They were being given a second chance. She wasn’t going to blow it.

The woman at the counter waved her forward. Claire dragged the two suitcases along as she approached.

“Hi. I have a reservation.”

“Name?”

“Claire Keyes.” Claire handed over her driver’s license and her platinum credit card.

The woman studied the driver’s license. “Do you have insurance or do you want coverage on the car?”

“I’ll take your coverage.” It was easier than explaining that she didn’t own a car and had, in fact, never owned a car. The only reason she had a driver’s license at all was because she’d insisted on lessons when she’d turned eighteen and had studied and practiced until she’d passed the test.

“Any tickets or accidents?” the woman asked.

Claire smiled. “Not one.” Getting a ticket or an accident would require actual driving. Something Claire hadn’t done more than once or twice in the past ten years.

There were a couple of forms to sign, then the woman handed back the license and credit card.

“Number sixty-eight. It’s a Malibu. You said midsize. I can get you something bigger, if you want.”

Claire blinked at her. “Number sixty-eight what?”

“Your car. It’s in slot sixty-eight. The keys are inside.”

“Oh, great. I’ll pass on something bigger.”

“Okay. You need a map?”

“Yes, please.”

Claire tucked the map into her purse, then dragged her suitcases out of the glass structure. She saw rows of cars and numbers at the end of each parking space. Counting as she went, she found number sixty-eight and stared at the silver Malibu.

It had four doors and looked huge. She swallowed. Was she really going to drive? A question for later, she told herself. First she had to get out of the parking lot.