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“Yeah.”
“Don’t you see what’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on.” He spread his arms wide, palms up. “I told you what happened. That’s all there is to it.”
“Maybe you think so, but she’s got other plans. Trust me.” Straightening my spine, I made a snap decision. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…I’ve got to pack.”
“Pack?” His head jerked back. “Why?”
“Because I’m doing what I should’ve done in the first place. Leaving.”
“Where would you go?” He scratched his head. “For that matter, how would you get there?”
“I don’t know. I’ll call a cab…stay at the hotel until I can buy or rent a car.” Why didn’t I think this through? Frustrated with myself, I heaved a sigh. “I’ll think of something, but I won’t stay where I’m not welcome.”
“Who said you’re not welcome? I want you here.” He ran a hand through his hair. “At the very least, until after the pruning season ends.” His shoulders drooping, his brown eyes appealed.
“You do?” Relenting, I took a step toward him. Then recalling him in Bea’s arms, I wagged my finger. “Oh, no, you don’t. You just want your cake and eat it, too.”
“What?” He groaned. “I don’t get you. A couple of hours ago, you lit out of here like a dog from a bath. Then you walked in on me, making accusations, and now you’re leaving. What’s going on?”
“When you phrase it that way, I do sound…erratic.” Emotionally exhausted, I dropped my arms to my sides. “Where do I start?”
“At the beginning.” His smile gentle, he raised his brow.
“You’ll think I’ve gone off the deep end.”
“Try me.”
“You’ll think I’m crazy.”
“Nothing can top what I’ve just seen and heard.” He nodded toward the TV. “So why did you rush out of here before?”
“I was”—wincing, I squinted—“confused.”
“About what?”
“I suddenly felt so inexplicably attracted…” I swallowed my words.
“Did you just say you’re attracted to me?” Grinning like a caricature of a leading man, he spoke with an affected French accent. “But oui, of course—how could you resist moi?”
His comic relief broke the tension, and I smiled despite myself. “Seriously, something came over me quickly as if I’d been slipped a club drug or love potion.”
“What do you mean?”
“From out of nowhere, I felt an overwhelming urge to touch you…hold you…be held.” I wriggled as the heat crept up my cheeks.
“Normally, I’d be flattered, but it doesn’t take a genius to see you’re upset—and not coming on.”
At a loss for words, I nodded as I tried to unsee the image of Bea in his arms.
“I’d bet good money that hormonal rush, the rocking chair, and the electrical issues”—he gestured toward the TV with his chin—“are all somehow connected.”
“Through the brooch?” It’d be nice to think the cause was external.
“Maybe.”
“But if so, why?”
