“Brooke,” he rasps, some emotion tightening his voice.

I study him. The apprehension in his eyes. His distraught demeanor. It confuses me. I don’t understand it.

Until I glance down at the phone in my hand and read the last message I sent.

MASON

She’s crying. Fuck. She’s freaking out, and she’s crying. Fuck!

What happened? It’s barely been an hour. What the fuck? Did someone say something to her again? Get inside her head and cause Brooke to over think this and the way it makes her feel? The way I make her feel. She was fine.

No. Fine is cheapening it. She was much more than fine. So much more.

She was fucking perfect with me this morning. Unreserved. Laughing and completely open. Free with her affection. Then she comes here and reverts back to those old familiar habits. Drawing in on herself and slipping behind that shield of uncertainty.

Baby . . . God, don’t do this.

What do I need to do? Pull each one of her friends and family aside and tell them to back the hell off? Fine, if that’s what it takes. Their opinion of me notwithstanding, this is between me and Brooke.

No one else.

I take a step closer just as she looks up from the phone in her hand.

“Oh, Mason, no,” she says, shaking her head. Her eyes filling with new tears. “No, this . . . I didn’t mean us. I’m not freaking out because of us. God, I’m sorry. That’s what you’re thinking, right?” She sits her phone down and wipes at her face. “I’m not. I promise, I’m not. I’m with you.” Lifting her eyes, she captures me with the steadiest look I think she’s ever showed me.

“I’m with you.”

Relief loosens my tongue and slows my rapid pulse. I move across the shop and around the counter, need filling me.

“Baby.” I grab her face and kiss her full, pink lips, tasting the juice she had with me this morning and the faint hint of tears.

She’s with me.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry I made you think that. I should’ve explained in the text. God, I’m so stupid.”

“Stop.” I lean away and cup her cheek. The corner of her mouth twitches. “You’re upset. Tell me why so I can fix it and get back to my class.”

Her eyes widen. “You left your class?”

“Yeah. They’re taking a water break. It’s fine.”

“Mason.”

She shakes her head at me, fighting hard against a smile, with puffy eyes and tears still beading on her lashes. Her skin flushed red and blotchy.

Damn. I can’t stop looking at her.

How can someone look so sad and so beautiful at the same time? I don’t understand it.

“You’re crazy,” she tells me with a soft voice.

I shrug, straightening and dropping my hand to her waist. “It’s possible. I’m a twenty-nine year old who has a stuffed koala in his bedroom. An animal I bloody hate, I might add. I keep copious amounts of baked goods in my refrigerator that I never plan on consuming. And I abandon my class when my girl needs me. I don’t know. Does that make me barking mad? I’m fine if it does.”

“You love that koala. Don’t lie,” she chuckles, sniffing and rubbing at her eyes. Smiling up at me.

I feel my blood warm. God, I love hearing her laugh. And that timid smile . . . fuck.

Progress. This is progress.

Brooke seems better. Marginally, at least. She’s no longer crying, and she doesn’t look as troubled as she did when I stepped in here. However, I still need to find out what brought this on. I don’t like seeing her upset about anything, and something definitely upset her.

I run my hand along her spine, bending to get closer. “Really, what’s going on, sweetheart? I do need to get back.”

With a heavy sigh, she turns to face the counter. “It’s nothing you can fix. Though, given how amazing you seem to be at everything, foreign languages included, I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a hidden talent for baking. Care to try your hand at it?”

We exchange looks. Mine, puzzled and struggling to follow her meaning.

Baking? She wants me to bake her something?

She waves off my confusion. “Never mind. Dylan’s been put on bedrest for the next two weeks until she delivers, which isn’t a huge deal, except for the fact that we have this freaking wedding next weekend and now I’m in charge of making the cake.” She lifts a piece of paper off the counter and holds it between us. “And it’s covered in flowers. Covered, Mason, like all over the damn thing. Look. She doesn’t even want a cake topper. I have to put flowers up there too. Like this.” Setting the paper down, she flips through the binder on the counter and stops on a picture of a cake, jabbing her finger at it. “See? Look at these little fuckers. This is what I have to make.”

I lean over the binder to examine the picture.

Looks pretty standard for a wedding cake. I think my sister had one similar at hers a few years back.

“All right. And this particular design gets you upset?”

“I can’t do it.” Brooke slams the binder closed. Her head lowers. “I can’t make flowers look like that. And there’s so many of them. The bride wants them to be the focus of her cake, and I’m worried I’m going to screw it up and ruin everything.”

She looks away and bites at her lip. Her fingers knot together on the counter.

Hmm. This is new. Brooke’s normally so proud of her work. She practically glows when she’s handing off her treats to me or discussing her day and what all she created. It’s one of the things I love most about her. Her passion. I’m not accustomed to seeing any lack of confidence in this woman. Not with her career or anything else.