The way I’m feeling about him now ventures dangerously close to admiration.
To wondering if it isn’t just desire in his eyes, but something that might last longer than heat. He made it clear that he wants me, but is there more to it than that?
“You like me, don’t you?” I blurt.
His mouth curves. “More than like you, Elsie. You have to know how often I think about you.”
Heat scorches my face. “Because you want me ... sexually.”
He laughs, low. “I thought I was clear, but maybe not. Sexually, yes. Absolutely. But I also just want to kiss you again, hold your hand, argue about damn dishes, sit across from you at breakfast. I just want to be with you.” His gaze pins me. “You like me, too, yeah?”
Do I like him? God help me, yes.
I like the way he growls at broken hinges like they insulted him personally. I like the way he scratches Hemingway behind the ears when he thinks no one’s watching. I like that he knows how to fix a house that keeps breaking, and that he still chooses to love it anyway.
And I like that sometimes, when he’s looking at me like this, I think maybe he’s choosing me, too.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I do.”
He smiles, that handsome dimple-filled smile that reminds me why I can’t quite stay away. “I know Miss Contrarian has an argument ready to go.”
I wrinkle my nose. “We should wait on things, shouldn’t we? For the dust to settle. For the designation to go through. For me to make a real, final decision about the inn.”
He exhales, steady. “If that’s what you want, I can wait. I don’t wanna wait. But I can.”
I wave him off, throat tight. “You can ... see other people, sleep with other people, in the meantime, if that’s—”
“Fuck no,” he cuts me off sharply. “There is no one else. There willbeno one else. Not for me, all right?”
My grip falters, and I lean back against the ladder rung to steady myself. I don’t know why I even suggested it, don’t know why I thought pushing him away might protect either of us. If I had to picture him turning toward someone else while I stood here second-guessing, I might unravel completely.
“All right,” I whisper.
Above us, the house groans, a long, low creak like the rafters are displeased. A draft rushes down the chimney and rattles the mantel harder than before, making the crystals of the old chandelier tinkle like tiny warning bells.
I force myself to drive another nail, to focus on the work. But Wells’ handprint feels branded into my thigh, and my heart is nowhere near steady.
I like him. He likes me. We . . . shouldn’t be together. Not yet.
When I first came back to Blue Willow, I was a mess—adrift, brittle, carrying guilt and inadequacy like extra weight in my suitcase. The only thing that kept me steady was the thought of letting go of this place. Selling it, relinquishing it, releasing everything that bound me to this town.
I thought if I could do that, maybe I’d learn to breathe again.
But now, the thought of leaving makes me itch. Makes me ache. Cutting myself away from this place—fromhim—feels less like freedom and more like tearing out a root.
I can’t pretend it’s simple anymore. The only way forward is through. So, I’ll finish what I started. I’ll explore every option. I’ll make the decision I can live with before the designation goes through at the end of February.
After that, everything will be set.
And if the choice I make is one he can’t live with ... then maybe that’s all there is. Maybe the door between us will close of its own accord.
I hammer the last nail into place and climb down, boots thudding against the rug. He’s standing close, tool belt slung low, watching me with an expression I can’t afford to meet head-on.
“All fixed,” I say, smiling like it doesn’t hurt.
“Looks steady enough.” His gaze lingers. Searching for cracks.
“Then we’re done here.”
