“I sprayed it with hairspray so it would stay in the bun.”
“Don’t do that anymore. I like it when your hair is pretty and soft,” she murmured as she ran her fingers into my hair, removing the last pin.
“I don’t know. I kind of liked the bun. It was cute.” I spun in my chair to find Garrett, not Jordan, poking his head through the hinged door with a smirky smile on his face. “Take these, sugar pie, so I can climb up,” he instructed Abbie.
“Uncle Garrett!” Abbie cried as she grabbed a Tupperware container from Garrett’s outstretched arm. I knew Garrett and Jordan were still close, but I hadn’t realized it had extended to Abbie too.
“Uncle?” I questioned.
He climbed the rest of the way up and stepped closer to set a half gallon of milk and a stack of red Solo cups onto the tiny table. He sat next to me in the small chair and I smiled when his knees hit his chest. “Jordan and I still play basketball together almost every weekend, only now we have Abbie and Mel join us. Not quite as competitive, but we have fun, right, Abbie?” Mel is Wyatt’s six-year-old daughter, Garrett’s niece. Mel and Abbie are in the same class at school and thick as thieves.
“Mel is my best friend forever. Daddy said you two used to be best friends forever.” She glanced briefly at Garrett before returning her focus back to my hair.
“We were, Abbie.” Garrett caught my eye and continued. “Jordan and I don’t need to catch up like you and I do. In fact, out of all you Cooper people, you’re the only one who has ever drifted away from me.” I could only manage a light shrug in response.
“Isn’t her hair prettier like this? It looks like shiny chocolate syrup.” Abbie finished finger combing my hair and pushed it to flow over my shoulder. I had let my hair grow to the middle of my back with long layers cut in since it was so thick. “I’m done with your hair and now it’s cookie time! I’ll get the little plates from the treehouse,” she declared before darting inside and slamming the door behind herself.
“You’re beautiful, Molly,” Garrett answered, his eyes hot on my face. He reached out, gathering the strands at my shoulder, letting it sift through his fingers as he pulled his hand away. I exhaled as my hair drifted softly against my neck. We’d always had a certain way we had acted around each other and this was not that way. Never before had his voice been this deep and gravelly when he addressed me. Never had his gaze drifted from my eyes to my mouth and back up like it did just now. But most of all—never had I wanted his eyes on me like this. Not only want it, but like it, crave it, contemplate ways to seek it out.
I was in trouble.
Last night had changed everything. And what I couldn’t figure out was the cause of it. Had it started with that fake kiss? But worse, even though I couldn’t completely remember it, I felt it too. I wanted to let my hair down, unbutton some buttons, make the effort to be pretty and have him notice it. I wanted his eyes on me, his hands on me, I wanted more than I should, and I had to stop these reckless thoughts before I ruined everything.
“Why do you keep pushing me away, Molly?” he murmured. Because he had spoken so softly, I wondered if he had intended for me to hear him. In fact, I hadn’t heard his voice; I had read his lips.
My mouth opened slightly but no words formed to answer him. Instead of talking, we were caught up in each other’s gaze. Except this was an experience vastly different from the staring contests from our olden days. This time, neither one of us stuck out our tongue or attempted to tickle the other. He ran a hand through his lush, nearly black hair. It wasn’t long, but it wasn’t short either. It flipped behind his ears, dipped over his forehead and curled down to touch the back of his neck. His hair needed my hands in it, not his, dammit.
“Daddy said I could have seven cookies.” Startled, I jumped in my seat as Abbie broke our moment, stepping out of the door carrying a stack of tiny pink plates.
Garrett came out of our lusty eye lock first and took the plates from Abbie. “Oh really? Then you’d better go back inside and grab a very big bowl.” A confused V dropped between her eyes and her nose wrinkled adorably in question. “So you can throw up in it after you eat seven of these huge chocolate chip cookies,” he added.
“You’re crazy, Uncle Garrett. I will never throw up cookies. They will stay in my tummy ’till I poop them out.” She was all little-girl attitude as she glared at him with her hands on her hips.
“He usually gives you two,” Garrett argued.
With an eye roll good enough to compete with any teenager, she huffed. “Fine. He did say only two. But you’re not a dad yet, so I think you should give me three and we’ll keep it a secret.”
“What happens in the treehouse, stays in the treehouse?” I interrupted their staredown and grinned at Abbie.
She smiled back at me. “Yeah! A secret cookie pact.”
“Okay, three it is. She’s just like you, Molly. And we both know I never could tell you no.” Garrett held out his fist and Abbie bumped it.
I exhaled a huge breath because, what the fudge? “I want three too,” I said with a nervous deflecting chuckle. Statements like the one he just made went beyond the friend zone. The way he said it made it feel like a flirt. “Leo is a cookie genius.”
“He really is,” Garrett agreed as he stuffed an entire cookie into his mouth. “He gave me this recipe. It’s my favorite.”
“What is up with the stress baking?” I asked.
“Grown-ups are so boring. Who cares about baking and stress? Eating cookies is the important part. I’m going in there to watch Trolls. Tell me if you get sad again, Aunt Molly, and I’ll come back out.” Abbie got up and went inside the treehouse. It wasn’t long before the theme song blasted from the television.
Garrett chuckled and shook his head. “If I answer you, does it stay in the treehouse?”
“Of course,” I agreed.
“I still get insomnia—it’s a little worse since I’ve been home.”
“From the Marines?” He nodded but said nothing more. “Do you have PTSD?”
With a noncommittal shrug, he grabbed another cookie from the container and took a bite.
“Do you ever talk about it?” I prodded.
He swallowed and pinned me still with his eyes as he studied my face. His lips quirked up in a smile, but his eyes were sad. “I don’t have PTSD, Molly. I just can’t sleep sometimes, like always. Do you ever talk about your dad?”
I drew back in my chair. “No, I deal with it through denial and bad jokes. I eat pie to cope, and occasionally I make dramatic exits to brood in this treehouse.”
He wasn’t amused by my flippant yet truthful response. “I thought not.” He looked past me toward the forest. “I remember being here with you that day.” I watched him as he stared passively at the trees behind me.
My mouth opened to say something, but whatever it was, it wouldn’t come out. Ever since that day, I had lost all the words I’d ever had about my father. My chair screeched, then tipped over as I stood up to get away. “I—”
“I’m sorry, Molly,” he called to my back before I could leave.
That stopped me in my tracks. I spun to face him. He had also stood up. His tall form towered over me and blocked out the early morning sunlight. “What for?” I demanded.