“I should go,” he said. “Grace obviously set this up. She somehow knew you’d be there tonight and tricked me into coming.”
“I go there every night,” I said, bristling at his use of the wordtricked. I rose and crossed my arms. “What’s wrong with running into me?”
He released a humorless laugh. “Nothing, except that this”—he motioned between us—“is Grace’s doing. And you’re here on a mission. I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”
“What—”
Davis snapped Violet onto her leash again and headed for the door. A moment later, they were gone.
I locked up behind them, stunned and hating everything about the strange encounter.
At least I had a pot of coffee to keep me awake. I had a feeling my journal entry would be extensive. What sort of person kissed another person, then ran away? Only to walk the other person home a few days later, accept an offer for coffee, then rush off again without taking a single sip of the coffee?
And what did he mean byYou’re here on a mission. I don’t want to take up any more of your time?
Did Davis want something romantic from me? Was that the reason for his erratic behavior?
This was why I needed to give up on love. Men were too confusing.
I returned to the kitchen on a groan and caught a glimpse of something white through the window. I peeked into the yard, clearly a glutton for punishment.
Outside, the bunny and three very small versions of itself ate my flowers.
Chapter Thirteen
I managed to lay low for two full days, spending time at the library and around the manor. I’d even perfected a second muffin recipe, though I hadn’t dared attempt the black cake again. I’d go broke buying all the necessary fruit, and I could only drink so much cognac and hazelnut liqueur without an intervention. Mostly I’d thought about Davis, our kiss and chemistry. Why did his presence feel so warm and natural to me, and why did I crave his nearness when he kept running away?
The answer arrived in the next heartbeat and kicked me in my shins.It’s because I’m a glutton for punishment, a people pleaser, and terrible with rejection.
In a burst of restless energy and desperation for a steaming-hot soak, I armed myself with the broom and dared a trip into the ancient basement. The hot-water heater sat as far from the door and stairs as possible, forcing me to cross the entire space with my chicken heart in my throat. Cobwebs were thick in the rafters, and everything was dank and eerie. But my phone’s flashlight app solved the problem. As it turned out, the pilot light was lit, but the temperature on the tank had been set to low. I turned the dial to 120 degrees, then enjoyed a deliciously steamy bath. But the furnace refused to heat the home above 66 degrees, so I continued to wear warmer clothing and use more blankets.
I did not call Davis.
He messaged me daily to ask if I wanted him to stop by and look at anything. I received the messages when I left to explore the town and happened into signal range. I politely, but consistently, declined.
Occasionally, Davis texted random facts about Amherst, details about his day or an incredibly corny pun I couldn’t resist. Apparently Grace and I weren’t the only ones who enjoyed a good dad joke. I found him fun and easy to banter with via text, but tense and hard to read in person. My heart couldn’t take the chaos of his hot-and-cold behavior.
Unfortunately, it didn’t change the fact I loved everything I learned about him. And I was learning a lot through our messages. For example, he was a history buff, which Cecily would appreciate. And he watchedRelatable Romance, which I found both unexpected and hilarious for reasons I couldn’t quite name. But my favorite thing was how he spent his free time. Volunteering at the local humane society.
I needed to look into volunteering at the Willow Bend Greyhound Rescue when I got home. Emily had adored the Newfoundland her father had gifted her for company on her walks in the woods. Carlo, as the dog was named, lived sixteen years at her side.
Maybe I could foster a retired greyhound and name him Carlo in homage.
I grabbed my journal and the fountain pen while I waited for my apple bread to bake, and I forced my thoughts away from Davis and dogs.
My skills with the pen had improved minimally, but I was learning to take all wins for what they were. I pulled the metal nib downward and began to write.
I wanted a life
With an epic love story
Instead I died alone
I hung my head, then closed the book and stared through the window at my pitiful garden. I would grow old, alone, fighting forest creatures for wilted plants and eating so-so baked goods.
And I’d be happy about it, darn it.
The doorbell rang, and I rose with a sigh of relief, then set my journal on the baker’s rack and went to welcome my visitor.
