Page 21 of Cooking Up My Comeback

“Nope. Don’t buy it. I’ve seen you almost smile. Multiple times. So I know you’re capable of human emotion.”

“Almost doesn’t count.”

“It’s a start though. Baby steps toward becoming a full human being instead of a grumpy construction robot.”

“Maybe I’m too old for fun.”

“Please. You’re what, forty-something? That’s not old. Besides, fun doesn’t have an expiration date. Ask Grandma Hensley, she’s seventy-eight and still enters the annual limbo contest at the pier.”

I grin. “Grandma Hensley does limbo?”

“Every summer. Says it keeps her flexible for all the young men who want to dance with her.” She grins triumphantly. “There it appears! I knew you had it in you.”

“I don’t giggle.”

“Everyone giggles. Some people do it quietly in their heads where no one can see.” She sits up, brushing sand off her arms. “It’s like a secret superpower, internal giggling.”

I shake my head, but I can feel my defenses starting to crack under her relentless cheerfulness. “You don’t give up.”

“Nope. It’s one of my most persistent qualities. I prefer to think of it as ‘aggressively optimistic.’” She pauses, studying my shoulders. “Speaking of which, you’re getting pink. Nobody wants to see you turn into an angry lobster.”

I glance down. She’s right. “I don’t burn.”

“That’s what they all say right before they turn into crispy bacon.” She rummages in her beach bag and pulls out sunscreen. “Here. Unless you’re going for the ‘angry lobster’ appearance for your romance novel cover.”

“I don’t need...”

“Brett.” Her voice grows gentle but firm. “Takethe sunscreen.”

I stare at the bottle as though it might explode. This feels like more than sunscreen. This feels like her taking care of me.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re being stubborn. There’s a difference.” She rolls her eyes and squirts lotion into her palm. “Turn around.”

“What?”

“Your back. You can’t reach it, and you’re definitely burning.” When I don’t move, she sighs dramatically. “Oh for crying out loud. It’s sunscreen, not a commitment ceremony.”

Before I can protest, she’s moved behind me and her hands are on my shoulders, working the lotion into my skin with efficient movements.

I go completely still. Because her hands are warm and gentle and this remains the first time anyone’s touched me with any kind of care in longer than I want to think about.

“There,” she says, completely oblivious to the fact that she’s short-circuited my brain. “Crisis averted.”

She moves back around to face me, and there’s something softer than her usual brightness in her expression.

“You know,” she says quietly, “it’s okay to let people help sometimes. Even with little things.”

And we’re not talking about sunscreen anymore.

I clear my throat and pick up my book. “Your kids are heading for the water again.”

She glances over, then back at me. “They’re fine. Crew’s got his tackle box, and Mason never goes deeper than his knees.”

“Still should probably keep an eye on them.”

“Probably.” But she doesn’t move. Instead, she sits there studying me. “Brett?”