I don’t realize what he’s doing until he’s got the rose upright. He shears off the thorns, one by one, letting them fall to the boards at our feet.
His hands are talented. Expert. He does it all in a matter of seconds, then hands the rose back to me.
This time, when his eyes meet mine, it feels as if he’s strippedmeof my thorns. Like he’s holding on tomein those big, dirt-lined hands, with nothing between us.
What thehell,Maggie? I don’t think like this. I don’t fantasize about big, random strangers, even one who rescued me so perfectly he might have been riding a horse, hair fluttering in the wind as he swept me off my feet…
I take the rose, careful not to touch those rough-looking fingers. At this rate, if I do, I might moan.
But I can’t help looking up at him again. Those stunning blue eyes are pinned on me.
But there’s something about him, I realize. When I first looked at his face, I thought there was some generic, warm feeling there, a sensation of safety and kindness. But now I think it’s more than that. There’s something familiar about him. Something I can’t quite place.
“Do I…know you from somewhere?” I ask.
Clint looks down. Then lifts his notepad again, hesitating, before writingMaybe in town.
I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s it. I’d remember seeing you in town. You’re kind of hard to miss.”
His throat bobs, his jaw ticking slightly as he locks eyes with mine. Ihaveseen him before. I’m sure now. Just…something’s not lining up. It’s like it wasn’t as he is now.
He writes something in his book, and when I read what it says, I frown.
“I helped you once?” Inanely, I think of the library. But that’s impossible. He looks to be my age.
He writes again.When we were kids.
I frown. “Really? When was that? What happened?”
It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago. It’s slow to explain on paper.
“I like slow,” I say. I bite my lip, and I can’t help but notice the way his eyes follow the movement, his pupils flashing just slightly as my lip slides from my teeth.
Maybe I’m not such an intruder here. Maybe this feels good for him too, at least a little.
Bolstered, I go over and sit in the chair at the table, pulling out the one next to me for him to sit in too.
Jeff used to tell me I was bossy when I got an idea in my head.
I like to call it determined.
The man hesitates, then sits down.
Then, he writes.
Chapter Three
Clint’s pencil moves over the paper for what feels like several minutes straight. When he’s done, he slides his book across the table toward me.
I read, pressing my fingers against my lips as I do.
Because the moment his words transport me back, I remember.
We didn’t go to town much. My mom homeschooled me. My dad worked here on the island, doing what I do now.
When I was old enough, when we went to town, my parents would let me have a little time on my own.
This one time, when I was around ten, Mom and I went to Swan River for supplies.
