“It’s not,” I agreed. “But I’m sorry, anyway.”
He looked at me then, really looked, and I saw something flicker in his expression. Surprise, maybe. Or gratitude.
“Why did you bring me groceries?” he asked.
I considered the question. Considered lying, or deflecting, or making a joke about mountain hospitality. But he’d just had his privacy invaded by a stranger, and I knew enough about being handled and managed to recognize when someone needed honesty instead.
“Because I work with famous people,” I said. “Authors mostly. People whose faces are on their books and whose lives get picked apart by readers who feel entitled to know everything about them. I’ve seen what recognition does to a person. How exhausting it is to never just be yourself.” I held out the grocery bags. “You came to these mountains for a reason, and I’m guessing it wasn’t so you could be chased out of the only store in town by someone who wants to know if you’re dating your co-star.”
He took the bags, his fingers brushing mine in the transfer. Neither of us acknowledged it.
“Farley Davenport,” he breathed. “Book editor. Not a fan of wet wood.”
“Samuel Bennett.” I kept my voice even. “Apparently famous. Terrible at mountain survival. Currently in possession of my cat.”
“She’s not your cat.”
“She’s not anyone’s cat. That’s sort of the point.”
He almost smiled. Almost.
“Thank you,” he said. “For the groceries. And for not—” He gestured vaguely. “You know.”
I knew. For not treating him differently.
“You’re welcome.” I stepped back, suddenly aware of how close we’d been standing, how intimate this conversation had become despite everything. “I should get back. My cabin has significantly fewer beef-jerky-eating cats, and I have a lot of doing nothing to accomplish.”
“Right.” He nodded, but he didn’t close the door. “Farley?”
I paused at the top step, turning back.
“I wasn’t lying to you,” he said. “In the store. Before. I wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t tell you about the show, but I wasn’t pretending to be someone else. Samuel is my real name. Everything I said was true.”
I believed him. That was the problem. I believed him, and I wanted to know more, and I wanted to go back to five minutes ago when everything had been simple and flirtatious and full of possibility.
But it wasn’t simple anymore. It couldn’t be.
“I know,” I said. “Get some rest. Eat something. Feed the cat even though we’re both supposed to be ignoring her.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
I walked back to my Range Rover, feeling his eyes on me the whole way. When I pulled out of the driveway, I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw him still standing in the doorway, Purrsephone sitting at his feet, both of them watching me leave.
The drive back to my cabin took approximately ninety seconds, but it felt longer.
I parked, gathered my own groceries from the back seat, and let myself into a space that suddenly felt too quiet, too empty,too devoid of ridiculously attractive neighbors and mysteriously appearing cats.
I put the groceries away mechanically. Made myself another cup of coffee I didn’t really want. Stood at my kitchen window and stared through the trees toward the cabin next door.
I missed it.
I missed the flirting, the charged glances, the way Samuel’s voice had dropped when he asked if my wood had caught fire. I missed the version of today where a woman named Hope had never walked into Shifflett’s General Store and everything had stayed simple, fun, and full of delicious potential.
But that wasn’t how life worked. Life was messy, complicated, and full of famous neighbors with three Emmy nominations and my cat—not my cat—who apparently couldn’t pick a cabin and stick with it.
I took my coffee to the living room, settled onto the couch, and pulled out my phone.
