Back in her kitchen, she determined to finish her tasksbefore Gilbert arrived home. There was soap to measure, to cut, to package for delivery. Orders to fill. Responsibilities to keep.
She was a businesswoman, a successful shopkeeper. She had made goals for herself, and through sheer will and careful planning, she was achieving them.
And yet?—
When she reached for the knife, her hand trembled.
She stilled, staring down at her fingers, at the subtle, traitorous shake.
His eyes.
She hadn’t seen those eyes in years.
Light green. Alive. Hopeful. Mesmerizing.
If not for the flecks of amber swirling near his pupils, they might have seemed cool—but she knew better. Oh, how they could burn.
Similar eyes had once melted her heart.
Now, they unraveled her. So familiar, yet so distant.
Her grip tightened around the handle of the knife.
It was not him.
It couldn’t be.
Lack of sleep was playing games with her mind. That was all.
Nearly a week had passed since she and Gilbert had begun caring for him, and it had been a week of uncertainty, of exhaustion, of waiting.
More than once, she’d been sure he wouldn’t survive.
There had been nights when his pain was so great, so all-consuming, that she believed he might have welcomed death.
But he had held on. He had endured.
As had she.
And now, her imagination must be playing tricks on her.
It was not him.
It could not be him.
“Get a hold of yourself,” she whispered.
And now she was talking to herself.
Her fingers pressed into the wooden worktable, grounding her as she exhaled. Oh, but for one fleeting second, she had been seventeen again. Swept back to a time before?—
Before the old duke’s death.
Before her world crumbled beneath her feet.
Before she had learned that love was not enough.
She had been so young, so hopeful—so in love.
