I swallowed down my curiosity, let the air settle, and smiled through the ache that pinched at the edges of my heart.
“Well,” I said, cheerful again, “if youdodecide you want something to do with your remaining hours of daylight, aside from long brooding walks and terrifying wildflowers with your intensity, I can offer suggestions.”
He glanced at me, a little wary, but listening.
“There’s a canoe rental down by the dock,” I said, “if you want to fully commit to the quiet-loner-on-the-lake vibe. Or there’s a farm stand out on Old Sycamore Road. Good jam. Runny pie. And then, of course, you could always visit the knitting shop, where you will absolutely be asked if you’ve found your purpose yet.”
That earned a small smile that was barely there, but enough.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.
I stood, brushing crumbs from my jeans, and grabbed my tote bag off the floor. “Anyway, I should get back. Towels don’t fold themselves, and someone keeps moving the welcome mat so it’s slightly crooked.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you implyingIdid that?”
“I didn’t say it. You said it.”
He actually chuckled, low and short, but it hit me square in the chest.
Dangerously attractive man.
I slipped my hand through the strap of my bag and hesitated for just a second. A part of me wanted to say something more or ask something more.
But he’d made it clear where the boundary was, and I wasn’t going to be the girl who pushed past it just because someone looked good in flannel and made her laugh in the middle of the week.
Instead, I gave him a soft smile. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“You paid.”
“Thanks for drinking it with me, then.” I smiled and nodded. “Technically, the lodge paid.”
He inclined his head in that subtle, unreadable way of his.
I turned toward the door, the bell above it chiming gently as I pushed it open. The warm afternoon air hit my cheeks as I stepped out onto the sidewalk.
I didn’t look back, but as I walked down Main Street toward the place I called home, I felt the echo of his gaze on my back.
And I told myself it didn’t matter.
Even if it did.
Chapter Fourteen
Ben
I was an idiot.
An emotionally stunted, conversation-ruining, small-talk-averse idiot.
Fifi had just been making conversation. That’s all it was. A light, easy, harmless question about my two-week stay. And I’d clammed up like she’d asked me to open a vein and diagram my childhood trauma.
It wasn’t even apersonalquestion. It was just… interest.
Curiosity.
Small talk.
Isuckedat small talk.
