Free Sweetest Mistake (Nolan Brothers #2) by Amy Olle

deafening. Smoke swirled before her eyes. A dollop of foam gathered at the edge of the stove and plopped onto the floor with a gooey splat.
    “M-my first guest arrives today.” She hated the hitch of defeat in her tone.
    He slid the barstool back into place at the island and opened the back door. “What time are they expected?”
    “Anytime between now and dinner.”
    “Why don’t you go see if you can find someone to fix the window? I’ll deal with this mess.”
    “You’d help me?” Disbelief snatched the words from her.
    His features softened. “It’s obvious you need me.”
    Unbelievably, she laughed. “I need a drink.”
    “That’ll come later.” He picked up a towel and moved toward the oven.
    “You don’t have to do that.” She jumped to take the towel from him. “You have work to—”
    “I’m off duty.” He took her by the shoulders and turned her away from the kitchen. “If there’s time, I’ll even make a fresh batch of cookies.”
    She twisted around. “You cook?”
    His expression turned wry. “You sound shocked.”
    “I am.”
    “I’m offended.” But his eyes sparked with humor. “I’m a thirty-two-year-old bachelor. Yes, I cook.”
    A bachelor? Not for the first time, she wondered about the blonde woman.
    One hand on the kitchen door, she paused. “There’s an unopened package of cookie dough in the fridge—”
    He made a sound in the back of his throat. “I do not bake, nor do I eat, premade cookies. Fergodssake, woman, show some respect.”
    He pushed her the rest of the way through the kitchen door.
    She pulled up abruptly, and he bumped into her from behind.
    In the foyer, a young man stood beneath the oversize crystal chandelier, a black backpack slung over his shoulder. At their clumsy entrance, he turned.
    He was younger than she’d expected. Probably in his early twenties, he was tall and lean with golden-brown hair and deep-set brown eyes.
    She forced her feet to move.
    Max. Max. Max. Max. “You m-m-must be M-Max.”
    At her stammer, his dark eyes grew alert. Then a surprisingly warm smile transformed his youthful face. “That’s me. You must be Emily?”
    She relaxed a little. “That’s me,” she repeated.

Chapter Eight
 
 
    S he lit up like a goddamned Christmas tree.
    Luke’s face ached with the severity of his scowl.
    “This place is freaking awesome,” the kid said. “How old is it?”
    Luke recognized Max. Not the particular arrangement of his symmetrical features or the uniqueness of his light hair and dark eyes. But he recognized the lean, hungry look lurking in their dark depths. The desperation that clung to his too-thin, muscled body.
    Yeah, Luke knew this kid. In his ten years as a cop, he’d met a hundred just like him.
    Hell, Luke was him at that age.
    “Over o-one hundred and fifty y-years old.”
    Max’s gaze slid to Luke and the softness in his dark eyes shifted and hardened.
    Luke folded his arms over his chest. “Hi.”
    Max tipped his chin. “Hey.” He studied Luke with old eyes, and Luke allowed his assessment, sensing the kid’s instant and absolute distrust had nothing to do with him personally.
    Emily’s hands twisted in front of her. “Uh… this is… uh… Luke. He’s the… uh… he’s the cook!”
    “Chef,” Luke corrected. “She pays me a fortune and I’m worth every penny.”
    Max’s mouth moved in what Luke supposed was a smile, but with no flash of teeth or so much as a lip quiver.
    “Can I show y-y-you to your room?” Emily scurried to one of the twin staircases and started to climb.
    Behind her, Max set one foot on the bottom stair and stopped, his gaze snared by the rock and the hundred tiny fragments of broken glass.
    “The neighbor kid did it,” Emily burst out, her resemblance to Luke’s four-year-old niece uncanny.
    Max’s brow wrinkled. “I didn’t see any other houses around.”
    Feverish color painted her cheeks. “He’s visiting.”
    Good God, but she was terrible liar. Luke didn’t