Grateful for the toiletries from the lodge that she’d stuffed in her backpack, Brighton showered, then donned the only articles of clothing that weren’t muddied?—a frilly white, sleeveless shell, and a pair of yoga pants. “At least my agent will never see me in this.” Not that her contract was good anymore, thanks to Leon.
After towel-drying her hair, she looked around for a comb. Opened a drawer?—shaving gear. Ironic considering the beard, but who was she to judge? The cabinet below the sink had cleaning supplies and … a travel kit. Surely the man had a comb somewhere. She spotted another drawer and opened it. Aha! She lifted the comb … and stilled.
Beneath it lay a picture. Of her and Stone. “What …?” she whispered and picked it up, heart pounding. He still had it. She remembered being with him in that little village in Virginia. Looking at antiques. Simply enjoying being together. Alone—well, mostly.
As governor, he wasn’t ever alone, but his security detail did a good job keeping their distance. He had his hat and her heart. She’d begged for a selfie, and he’d finally relented. Stood behind her, his chest her pillow, and wrapped a muscular arm around her, engulfing her in his strength as he lifted the phone. Holding onto him as he snapped the selfie, she felt the scrape of his scruffies. Even now, she felt them against her cheek, a realization that made her heart stutter and ache. It’d been complicated seeing him, dating him, but it seemed so simple compared to now.
Voices in the living room snapped her out of the reverie. She slid the photo back into the drawer, wondering that he still had it, and gathered her things.
A soft knock on the door startled her out of her reverie. “Hello?”
Brighton stilled at the jovial voice. “Yes?”
“It’s Clara, dear. Stone asked me to look at your ankle. I was a nurse.”
Brighton hobbled over and unlocked the door, sheepishly peering out at the older woman.
His mom stood back and gaped. “Oh, you can’t wear that. It’s too thin.”
Hugging her things closer, she cringed and shivered at the cool mountain air that swirled through the cabin. “I … I don’t have anything else that’s clean.”
Mrs. Clara angled her head toward the front of the cabin. “Stone, do you have a sweater or hoodie she can borrow?”
“Wardrobe, lower right drawer.”
Nodding, his mother went to the large black furniture piece and opened it. She returned with a sweatshirt. “Here you go.”
When Brighton saw the design, she felt her insides seize. “Oh, I can’t?—”
“Sure you can. He said so. He won’t mind.”
But he would. A lot. Because that sweatshirt was one she’d bought him from the place where they always started their evenings?—Manny’s Crab Shack. “Honest. I’m goo?—”
“Put it on before you freeze and end up with pneumonia.” Mrs. Clara wagged her hands at Brighton, shooing her back into the bathroom. “Go on, dear, so I can get a look at that ankle.”
Reluctantly, Brighton closed the door and stared at the sweatshirt. Traced the embroidered logo. Why did he even have it still? Between this and the picture …
Don’t think about it. Just put it on. Clearly, he’d forgotten about the memento. Bottom drawer meant least-used, right? She slipped into the sweatshirt. True, she was warmer, but Stone … he’d think this was her idea. He’d get mad. Accuse her of trying to rub it in his face.
The photo … the sweatshirt … Reminders of their time together. The best six months of her life. Had he wanted to remember those times just as much she had?
“Get her out of here!”
“Haven’t you done enough damage?”
Yeah, no desire to remember. And when he saw her wearing this sweatshirt, he’d likely burn it?—with her in it! Maybe she should get a different one from the?—
“C’mon, dear!”
Reluctantly, she moved into the living room as quietly as possible, doing her best not to draw his attention from where he was cooking in the kitchen.
But he turned. And like a hawk, his gaze homed in on the sweatshirt. A shadow spirited across beard-roughened features.
And somehow, locked in that moment, she knew he was recalling their dinners, conversations, laughter. Holding hands. Kisses.
Dreading his anger again, she scrambled to explain. “I?—your mom?—it was in the drawer.” She chewed the inside of her lip. “I can change??—”
“Don’t be daft, dear.” Mrs. Clara motioned her into to the living where she was sitting. “Come. We’ll get you into the recliner and put that leg up.” She motioned to Stone. “Help her over.”
