Free Borrowed Dreams (Debbie Macomber Classics) by Debbie Macomber

him …
    Confused, Carly didn’t know what to think anymore. All she knew was that she was too weak to break away.
    “I thought you offered to feed me,” Brand said after a long, drawn-out moment, his voicehusky.
    “Are sandwiches all right?” She turned and brought out the tray of deli meats and the jar of green olives, setting them on the counter. A loaf of bread followed, along with a jar of mayonnaise and another of mustard.
    “Fine. I could eat a”—he paused as he surveyed the contents of the plate—“pastrami, turkey, beef, and green olive sandwich any day.”
    “There are store-bought cupcakes for dessert.”
    “Fine by me,” Brand replied absently, as he built a sandwich so thick Carly doubted that it would fit into his mouth.
    After constructing her own, she joined Brand at the kitchen table. “I guess I should have warned you that my cooking skills are somewhat limited.” She popped an olive into her mouth.
    “Don’t apologize.”
    “I’m not. I’m just explaining that you’ll have to take me as I am. Fixing a meal that requires a fork is almost beyond my capabilities.”
    Chuckling, he lifted his napkin and dabbed a spot of mustard from the corner of his mouth. “Do you think there’s any chance that Jutta will change her mind and sell the painting?”
    The letter was on the table and Brand couldn’t help but notice it. Carly took it out of the envelope and handed it to him to read. “I don’t think she’ll sell, but I don’t blame her. She’d like me to ask her about some of her other work.”
    “What do you plan to do?” Brand pushed his empty plate aside and reached over and took an olive from hers.
    She slapped the back of his hand lightly and twisted to reach for the jar on the counter. “Take your own, bub,” she rebuked him with a teasing grin.
    Brand emptied several more onto his plate and replaced the one he’d taken of hers. “Well?” He raised questioning eyes to hers.
    “I think I’ll write her again. Even if she won’t sell the portrait, I’d like to get to know her. Whoever Jutta Hoverson is or whatever she’s done doesn’t bother me. It’s obvious the two of us have a lot in common.”
    Brand didn’t respond directly; instead, his gaze slid to the bouquet of carnations she’d flippantly tossed on the countertop. His expression was gentle, almost tender. “You’d better put those in water.”
    Carly’s gaze rested on the pink and white carnations, and she released her breath. “You should take the flowers home with you.”
    “Why?” He regarded her closely, his expression grim.
    “I thought you were paying off Sandra’s medical bills.”
    “What’s that got to do with anything?”
    “We’re friends, remember?” Her voice was low. “Flowers are something you’d bring to impress a date. You don’t need to impress me, St. Clair. I’m a friend. I don’t ever plan to be anything more.”
    Brand sat still and quiet, and although he didn’t speak, Carly could feel his irritation. “I wasn’t trying to impress you.” His voice was deep. “My intention was more to cheer you up, but I can see that I failed.” Silence filled the room as Brand stood, carried his empty plate to the sink, and, without a word, opened the cupboard beneath her sink and tossed the flowers into the garbage. His expression was weary as he turned back to face her.
    “Brand,” Carly tried. She hadn’t expected him to react in such a disgruntled way.
    He ignored her as he headed toward the front door. “Thanks for the sandwich,” he said before the door closed behind him. The sound vibrated off the walls and wrapped its way around Carly’s throat.
    *  *  *
    An hour later, Carly had written a reply to Jutta Hoverson. The second letter was easier to write than the first. Again she mentioned how much she’d enjoyed Jutta’s work, and she recounted the time she’d visited the Seattle Art Museum in Volunteer Park. She told Jutta that she didn’t appreciate the