Country Proud (Painted Pony Creek #2) - Linda Lael Miller Page 0,79

FOURTEEN

“ARE YOU INSANE?” Sara asked, slamming a cup of hot coffee down in front of Eli so hard that some of the brew spilled onto her kitchen table.

Festus, curled up beside Eli’s chair, made a disconsolate whining sound.

Eli opened his mouth, intending to reply that he was probably as sane as he’d ever been, but Sara didn’t give him a chance to speak, so he closed it again. Less chance of sticking his foot in it that way, he supposed.

“Brynne’s ex-lover shows up, out of nowhere, she understandably freaks out and what do you do? You, in your infinite masculine wisdom, swing right up onto your high horse and break things off.”

Festus whined again.

Eli sighed. “I didn’t exactly ‘break things off.’ I only told her that she probably wasn’t ready for anything serious.” He paused, cleared his throat. Suddenly, his previous reasoning didn’t seem as solid as it had before. “It’s not like I was judging her, Sara.”

“Idiot,” Sara said, hauling back a chair and falling into it. “Of course you were judging her! She got a shock—a pretty nasty one from the sounds of it—and instead of trying to understand that, you decided she was wrong to react the way she did. How dare you assume you know what Brynne is or isn’t ready for? She’s a grown woman, Eli, not the teenager you dated in high school!”

Eli sat back in his chair, released a long breath. He was, for the present, at a loss for words.

Sara was on a roll. “You couldn’t have just put your arms around her? Held her?”

Eli found his voice. “If Brynne wanted holding, she has an odd way of showing it. She was furious.”

“With Clay Nicholls, you damn fool!” Sara said. “I don’t blame her one bit. Imagine, just showing up in somebody’s life like that? Clearly, there was no text, no phone call, nothing! Brynne is minding her own business and wham!” She slapped her hands together, hard, making both Eli and Festus flinch. “There he is, landing at her feet like a hand grenade with the pin pulled!”

Eli shoved a hand through his hair. “You weren’t there,” he reminded his sister quietly. “When I said Brynne was furious, I meant with me. She got her back up and asked me if I was calling her a coward for running away.”

“I know what happened, Eli,” Sara said, very slowly, as though speaking to someone born without a brain. “You just told me. You jumped to a lot of conclusions, it seems to me, and I just hope you haven’t blown your chances with Brynne. Again.”

That again stung. Sara was referring, of course, to the stupid decision he’d made in high school, dumping Brynne so he could fool around with Reba. Was he ever going to get past that ancient tom-fuckery?

It hadn’t been anything dramatic; he’d simply stopped calling Brynne, stopped passing her notes, walking her home after class, that kind of thing.

Yeah, he’d been a mega jerk.

He’d also been seventeen.

He said as much to Sara, who was not appeased.

“And now you’re nearly thirty-five. What’s your excuse this time?”

“You,” Eli said stiffly, “are not being helpful.” He pushed back his chair, stood. He had a meeting with Dan Summers in his office in fifteen minutes to go over the information Dan had culled from Freddie Lansing’s personal laptop.

“Call Brynne, Eli. Apologize. If she’s willing to speak to you again, then listen and keep your slapdash psychological insights to yourself.”

Eli bent, kissed his sister lightly on the top of her head. “Interesting speech, Sara. Especially coming from a woman so burned-out on men that she won’t even have coffee with a guy, let alone risk loving one.”

“Get out,” Sara said, still testy. “I don’t want to talk to you right now, Eli. In fact, I want to do you bodily harm!”

“Since you have access to a Glock, I won’t argue.”

Festus was already pressing his nose to the back door. Poor critter wasn’t used to this much human interaction.

He wanted to escape, and so did Eli.

So he left, feeling more frustrated and more confused than when he’d arrived.

* * *

BRYNNE HAD FLED to her apartment when Eli dropped her off behind the restaurant, without giving him so much as a backward glance.

Upstairs, she’d rushed into her bathroom, splashed her face repeatedly with cold water and combed her hair.

Only then, having gathered her dignity around her like a blanket, did she go downstairs.

Clay was gone.

The lunch rush had slowed to a crawl, and the few customers