His Brand of Beautiful by Lily Malone Page B

muffins.
    Christina pulled the screen door slowly to, and turned back into the room.
    Only then did Tate notice the shirt. It was vibrant cornflower‐blue, sheer and flowing, with an embroidered splash of white daisies cartwheeling across the left breast like snowflakes in a storm.
    His beer bottle added a new dent to Binara’s kitchen bench.

Chapter 8

    There was a violent crack and froth overflowed the bottle like a chemistry experiment gone wrong. The front‐bar spilled‐beer smell burned Christina’s nose.
    Bree’s face turned waxen white.
    And Tate? The veins in his forearms, the big muscles of his neck, they looked carved from stone.
    “What?” It was all she could manage. Her brain felt like glue. One minute she’d been minding her own business in the hall, cruising the photo gallery on the walls. The next she’d overhead something about her car and a camel and bets that she wouldn’t last one night at something. Now they were looking at her like she’d grown a second head and horns.
    Shasta glanced sideways at his brother and cleared his throat. “That’s… That was Jolie’s favourite shirt, Christina. I didn’t think I’d ever see it on someone else.”
    Tate erupted into motion, swiped spilled beer with the tail of his shirt, pulled his arms from the sleeves and arrowed the soaked shirt across the island bench where it landed in the sink. It rocked, but didn’t topple, a glass tumbler Bree instinctively reached to save.
    “I’ll be outside,” he said, crossing to the kitchen door and pulling it closed at his back.
    The front door squealed and they heard a dog bark in joy.
    The air in the room quivered itself still.
    “I don’t know about you, Christina, but I could use a wine.” Bree ghosted to the fridge.
    “Make that two,” Christina said as her brain thawed and she tried to remember if she’d ever heard Tate mention anyone called Jolie.
    Sauvignon Blanc glugged into a glass and a sweet whiff of stonefruit grappled with the smell of beer.
    “Jolie’s shirt looks good on you, Christina.” Shasta forced a smile. A mountain of a man, he made his wife look like a twig. He squeezed Bree’s shoulder once and said simply:
    “He’ll be okay.” Then he took two more beers from the fridge, juggled both in the bucket of one massive hand and followed his brother.
    Bree wiped her palms on the frayed front pocket of a pair of white cargo pants. “I’m so sorry, Christina. I should have known that shirt might cause trouble. Jolie was more your size. None of my clothes would fit you right.” Her gaze dropped to where the jeans climbed Christina’s ankle.
    “Should I take it off?” Christina said, picking up the hem and pinching the cotton between her fingers. The shirt wasn’t something she’d usually choose, but something about the colour fit out here, in a land where blue sky stretched forever.
    Bree shook her head, took a sip of wine and rolled the stem of the glass. She spoke as if to herself. “I wish he’d stop feeling so guilty. It doesn’t do any good.”
    “Who is Jolie?” Christina held her breath as she waited for the answer.
    Bree’s forehead wrinkled. “For whatever reason, I keep thinking you’re more than a client to him, and you must know all these things. Seriously? He hasn’t told you?”
    Christina shook her head.
    “It really isn’t my place to tell,” Bree said. But Christina could sense her inner debate.
    “Jolie was their little sister. She died in Africa, some six years ago now.”
    His sister. “Africa?”
    “Uganda. She worked there for a while. He really hasn’t told you?”

    Lily Malone
    “Not in so many words,” she hedged. “Why does Tate feel so guilty about a shirt?”
    “It’s not about the shirt. It’s about—” The hum of the fridge thermostat cut through the room. The sound interrupted Bree’s flow and she stopped with an apologetic smile. She walked to the kitchen door and held it open. “Tate will tell you if he wants to,