Page 29 of The Lies We Told Ourselves

“Is he okay?” I asked.

Booker paused and looked up at me with a frown. “Who?”

“Your brother?”

“Xander? Yeah, I think so. Why?”

“Just seemed like if you didn’t know he was coming, and he came over, and that he might not have been okay, you know?”

Booker’s frown deepened, and he seemed to think for a second. “He didn’t say anything.”

I could tell he was uncomfortable as he went back to work. But this was what I wanted for Booker. I knew I wouldn’t get to have someone like him in my life. I wasn’t that lucky. He was doing so much for me, though, and I wanted to repay the favor somehow. Helping him to stop pushing the people around him away was the perfect way to do that.

“Maybe you should call him.”

“I’m busy.”

I hummed in agreement and let him continue working, knowing I’d at least put the thought in his head.

“Can you pass me the nippers?” he asked quietly after a while, then added, “They look like big pinchers. Right-hand door.” He nodded toward an honestly terrifying-looking pliers-thingy, and I cringed as I grabbed it and passed it to him.

I watched in fascination as he trimmed and shaped the hoof, switching between the two tools until suddenly he had a hoof that actually looked like a hoof again.

Booker lowered the mare’s leg gently before he patted her side and stepped back. “Not bad,” he said quietly.

“Are you kidding? That’s incredible.”

The corner of his lips ticked up, and then he grabbed his tools and started to put them away.

“Aren’t you doing the back ones?” I asked in confusion.

“She’s been standing for a couple of hours out here, and she’s probably tired. I think we should give her a break and some feed.”

“Okay, do you want her back in the stable?”

“No, she’s doing okay out here. We’ll monitor her and see how she does.” Booker hesitated for a minute and then seemed to come to a decision. “Did you eat yet?”

I had. But I was always hungry at the moment. I’d spent too many months trying to starve myself into the perfect woman, and now I was enjoying my foodie freedom.

“I could eat.”

Booker nodded and turned to the house. “Grab a hay net for her and then come and have some breakfast at the house.”

He strode away before I could say anything.

I leaned back in my seat with a happy hum of contentment. Booker was an amazing cook when it came to breakfast foods.

The man in question chuckled as I patted my stomach in congratulations. Then I went to stand from the table.

“You cooked. I’ll do the dishes,” I said, standing and picking up my plate.

“No.” Booker took the plate out of my hands and went to pick up his own.

“I think you mean thank you,” I snarked, taking the plate back from him and trying to grab the serving dish from the center of the table.

“No.” He hit me with his trademark glare. “I mean, sit down and rest.”

“Are we back to this again?” My grip tightened on the plate as he tried to take it from me. “I’m perfectly capable of standing at a sink and washing some dishes.”

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