moments later and settled on the other end of the couch. “Goodness, I must have slept through that tornado last night . . . or did it just touch down in your bathroom?”
“Don’t make me smile, it hurts.”
“Sorry, it’s just that I’ve never seen you—or your things— in such disarray.” She hesitated. “You’re not hung over, are you?”
That got his attention. He opened one eye to glare, and it was well worth the pain. “You know better than that. I haven’t touched the stuff since I was seventeen.”
“Sorry, but it was a natural assumption, you know, with the headache and all.” She leaned in. “Shouldn’t you take some aspirin or at least eat something? Want me to make you some coffee? Mine has got to be better than the sludge you make at the shop.”
He managed a smile. “Collin railroaded me into buying a newfangled dripolator at the shop, I’ll have you know. But, no thanks, all I really need is a few hours of decent sleep.”
“But it’s almost nine! Aren’t you going to church?”
Brady groaned and glanced out the window. “No, it can’t be that late. My head’s barely hit the pillow.”
Charity gave him a ghost of a smile. “So . . . what exactly kept you tossing and turning all night, Mr. Brady? Miss Hercules? A nasty tornado? Or my sister?”
Brady scowled. “Knock it off, Charity. I’m not in the mood.”
She grinned and jumped up. “Tell me where the aspirin is, my friend. Your disposition needs it something awful.”
“Second shelf, next to the stove.”
She bustled into the kitchen, humming under her breath. He heard the cabinet open and close, followed by running tap water. Her smile was positively annoying as she handed him the glass. He grabbed it and palmed the aspirin, giving her a hard stare while he swallowed.
“There, that’s better, isn’t it? Now, how ’bout some coffee?”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Charity.”
She hurried back to the kitchen. “No, but I do. And so does Lizzie. You can’t keep avoiding it, Brady. My sister’s in love with you.”
He exhaled his defeat. “So I’ve been told.”
She clattered around in the kitchen for a while, making a racket he was sure would wake Cluny. Before long, the aroma of coffee reminded him he was not only tired but hungry as well. She reappeared and handed him a glass of juice and a plate of buttered toast. “Here, eat. You look like the devil, and you’re acting like it too.”
Resigned to his fate, he took the glass from her hand and gulped it. He set it down and snatched a piece of toast, then began to munch. He stared straight ahead.
She put the plate on the sofa table and sat, searing his profile. “So . . . what are you going to do about it?”
He swiped another piece of toast and chomped hard. “None of your business.”
“It is too. I love you, and I love Lizzie. And God knows when it comes to making a move, John Brady, even Sam Adams’ statue on Washington Street moves faster than you.”
He sighed and wiped the crumbs from his mouth. “There are no moves to make. Lizzie is like a sister to me.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“What?”
“I heard you kissed her. And pretty intensely, from the sound of it.”
Blood shot to his face. “She told you that?”
“Yes, Brady, she did. Right after she cried herself silly. So, I repeat, at the risk of becoming a nag—what are you going do about it?”
He slumped on the sofa. “I don’t know,” he whispered.
“What do you mean, you don’t know? You love her, don’t you?”
He didn’t answer.
“Brady, this is me, Charity, the one you hammered on that lying was wrong. Tell me the truth. Do you love Lizzie?”
“Yes, you know I do, as a sister—”
“No, Brady, I’m not talking about that kind of love. I’m talking about the kind of love where she makes you warm inside, tingly. You know, where you want her, like a man wants a woman?”
“I don’t have to answer that.” He avoided her eyes.
A
“Don’t make me smile, it hurts.”
“Sorry, it’s just that I’ve never seen you—or your things— in such disarray.” She hesitated. “You’re not hung over, are you?”
That got his attention. He opened one eye to glare, and it was well worth the pain. “You know better than that. I haven’t touched the stuff since I was seventeen.”
“Sorry, but it was a natural assumption, you know, with the headache and all.” She leaned in. “Shouldn’t you take some aspirin or at least eat something? Want me to make you some coffee? Mine has got to be better than the sludge you make at the shop.”
He managed a smile. “Collin railroaded me into buying a newfangled dripolator at the shop, I’ll have you know. But, no thanks, all I really need is a few hours of decent sleep.”
“But it’s almost nine! Aren’t you going to church?”
Brady groaned and glanced out the window. “No, it can’t be that late. My head’s barely hit the pillow.”
Charity gave him a ghost of a smile. “So . . . what exactly kept you tossing and turning all night, Mr. Brady? Miss Hercules? A nasty tornado? Or my sister?”
Brady scowled. “Knock it off, Charity. I’m not in the mood.”
She grinned and jumped up. “Tell me where the aspirin is, my friend. Your disposition needs it something awful.”
“Second shelf, next to the stove.”
She bustled into the kitchen, humming under her breath. He heard the cabinet open and close, followed by running tap water. Her smile was positively annoying as she handed him the glass. He grabbed it and palmed the aspirin, giving her a hard stare while he swallowed.
“There, that’s better, isn’t it? Now, how ’bout some coffee?”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Charity.”
She hurried back to the kitchen. “No, but I do. And so does Lizzie. You can’t keep avoiding it, Brady. My sister’s in love with you.”
He exhaled his defeat. “So I’ve been told.”
She clattered around in the kitchen for a while, making a racket he was sure would wake Cluny. Before long, the aroma of coffee reminded him he was not only tired but hungry as well. She reappeared and handed him a glass of juice and a plate of buttered toast. “Here, eat. You look like the devil, and you’re acting like it too.”
Resigned to his fate, he took the glass from her hand and gulped it. He set it down and snatched a piece of toast, then began to munch. He stared straight ahead.
She put the plate on the sofa table and sat, searing his profile. “So . . . what are you going to do about it?”
He swiped another piece of toast and chomped hard. “None of your business.”
“It is too. I love you, and I love Lizzie. And God knows when it comes to making a move, John Brady, even Sam Adams’ statue on Washington Street moves faster than you.”
He sighed and wiped the crumbs from his mouth. “There are no moves to make. Lizzie is like a sister to me.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“What?”
“I heard you kissed her. And pretty intensely, from the sound of it.”
Blood shot to his face. “She told you that?”
“Yes, Brady, she did. Right after she cried herself silly. So, I repeat, at the risk of becoming a nag—what are you going do about it?”
He slumped on the sofa. “I don’t know,” he whispered.
“What do you mean, you don’t know? You love her, don’t you?”
He didn’t answer.
“Brady, this is me, Charity, the one you hammered on that lying was wrong. Tell me the truth. Do you love Lizzie?”
“Yes, you know I do, as a sister—”
“No, Brady, I’m not talking about that kind of love. I’m talking about the kind of love where she makes you warm inside, tingly. You know, where you want her, like a man wants a woman?”
“I don’t have to answer that.” He avoided her eyes.
A
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