Jill Shalvis: The Sweetest Thing

When Tara was alone, she sighed. “Yeah. I’d definitely call it regret.” Shaking it off, she began pulling out all the ingredients she needed for the Good Morning Sunshine Casserole, which she’d adapted from Mia’s recipe. She was grating cheese when the back door and the door leading to the hallway opened at the same time.

Logan came in one, and Ford the other.

Immediately, the testosterone level shot up and hit maximum velocity in two point zero seconds as both men stared at each other over Tara’s head.

“Well, if it isn’t the drinking buddies,” Tara said dryly. “Should I break out the mimosas, boys?”

“I just came by to help,” Logan said. “Since you keep burning meals and all.”

“How are you going to help?” Ford asked. “You actually cook?”

“Well, no, but I give real good help,” Logan said with a charming smile in Tara’s direction.

“ I cook,” Ford said.

Logan’s eyes narrowed, and Tara felt yet another competition coming on. She’d heard about the abs of steel contest at The Love Shack. Part of her still couldn’t believe it, and the other part of her wished she’d seen it herself.

“Okay, you know what?” She dropped an empty bag into Logan’s hands and gave his leanly muscled, warm body a push out the back door. “I need some apples. Go pick me some, would you?”

Ford, looking big and bad and very cocky, leaned back against the counter with a smile.

“Oh, no.” Tara shoved him out after Logan. “You too. And play nice.” She shut the door on them both, threw the casserole into the oven, and turned and met Mia’s amused glance.

“I showed up to make sure you didn’t have any trouble,” the teen said.

“Well, the trouble part is taken care of. Other than that, everything’s the same old status quo. My life is pretty boring.”

“Yeah.” Mia laughed. “Okay, let’s work on not burning breakfast today.”

“I swear I’m a good cook,” Tara said, needing to be good at something in her daughter’s eyes. She walked Mia through the steps to make dough for fresh bread. “This won’t take long to bake and then we can-” Tara broke off as she got a good look out the window. “Oh, for the love of God.”

Logan and Ford had each shimmied up a tree-Logan with the help of a stepladder-and were making piles of apples. Big piles.

More than she needed for the next month.

Not that they were doing it for her . Nope, they were competing again.

Mia joined her at the window and raised a single brow-yet another talent she’d inherited from her father. Together they watched the guys pick apples.

“And you think your life is boring,” Mia murmured.

“You’re sleeping with her.” Logan repeated this grimly to Ford from somewhere inside his apple tree. With his arm injury, he’d been slower to climb up.

Ford, having the free use of both arms, hadn’t needed a ladder to climb the adjacent tree. “This is not news,” he told Logan. “You read Facebook.”

“Christ. I should just kill you. Or me. It’d be less painful to be dead.”

“You’re not in any real pain,” Ford said in disgust. “It’s just your fucking ego. You hate to lose.”

“Said the pot to the kettle,” Logan muttered.

Okay, that might be true, but this was more than about winning for Ford. It was about Tara, a woman he couldn’t live without. He pulled himself up to the next branch and dropped another three perfect apples. He glanced down. Yep, his pile was bigger than Logan’s. Even as he thought so with deep satisfaction, an apple whizzed by his ear, so close it disturbed his hair. “Hey-”

Logan flashed a grim smile and chucked another one. Ford saw this one coming and ducked again, and slipped. “Shit-”

That’s all he got out before he lost his grip, his temper, and his balance all at once.

And fell out of the tree.

When Ford opened his eyes, he was flat on his back staring up at the sky.

“Jesus H. Christ,” came a horrified, disembodied voice from the next tree over. “What, you can’t hold on to a branch?”

“You beaned me in the forehead,” Ford said. “With an apple.”

“And you call yourself an athlete.” Logan was hauling ass out of his tree as fast as he could with one arm in a brace, swearing colorfully as he went.

Ford prayed he’d fall, too, but it didn’t happen. Fucking karma.

“I didn’t even hit you that hard,” Logan was muttering. “You weren’t supposed to fall like a fucking pussy!”

“Nice,” Ford said, very carefully not moving. “Calling me names when I’m down.”

“Hey, you’re the one who’s always going on and on about me not being an athlete.”

That was true. He had no excuse.

Okay, he did.

Jealousy. “All I’m saying is that a race car driver isn’t necessarily as fit as say, a sailor-”

“Jesus, would you give it up already? And why are you just lying there? Tell me you’re not hurt. You’re going to fucking milk this, aren’t you? You’re going to get laid out of this deal, I just know it. How bad are you hurt?”

Ford let out a breath. “I’m putting all my energy into not figuring that out.”

Logan swore again and hit the ground.

“I’m surprised to see you move so fast,” Ford said. “For someone who sits on his ass for a living.”

“I don’t-Goddammit, shut up .” Logan dropped to Ford’s side to look him over, his eyes widening on Ford’s legs. “Fuck.”

“No. Don’t tell me.” He already knew. He could feel the fire from his toes to his groin. And not a little baby-ass fire either, but a to-the-bone burning that made him want to scream. But because he wasn’t a pussy, as Logan had accused, he refused to make a sound. Sweating, however, was allowed. He was doing a lot of sweating. And possibly going to throw up, too.

Then came a buzzing that told him this was it. His life was fading before his very eyes-

“ Bees !” Logan jumped up and started leaping around, running in circles, flapping his arms.

“It’s just the gunk from the bruised apples,” Ford told him. “Ignore them and, gee, I don’t know, help the guy you knocked out of the tree .”

But Logan kept doing the bee dance, and it was actually kind of fun to watch. “Man, if you’d just stand still-”

“I’m allergic!” Logan yelled.

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“Fuck! Ow!” Logan slapped at his collarbone. “I’m hit, I’m hit!”

Ford wanted to ask Logan who was the pussy now, but that seemed kind of asshole-ish. And then there was the fact that Ford was suddenly feeling weird, sort of woozy…

There were running footsteps, feet pounding the ground toward him. Ford closed his eyes as the pain began to burn a path to his brain. Yeah, he was definitely going to throw up.

“Ford,” Tara breathed. “Oh my God. Your leg.”

He felt her drop to her knees and had the vague thought that he wished she was going into that position for a different reason altogether.

“Is he dead?”

This from Chloe, and Ford huffed out a laugh. “Not yet,” he assured her.

Tara whipped out her cell phone, punched in 9-1-1, and glared at Chloe.

“What?” Chloe asked innocently. “Look, some sisters help you move, but a real sister helps you move bodies.” She patted Ford’s shoulder. “Glad it’s not necessary, Big Guy.”

“Me too,” he muttered.

“Help,” came a whisper.

Everyone looked over at Logan. He was sitting on the ground, hands clasped around his throat. His face was sweaty and beet red.