I blow out a breath. “Is it that obvious?”
He glances at my cart. That’s answer enough. I laugh before I can stop myself, which feels wildly inappropriate considering my current level of stress.
“Okay, fair. In my defense, I didn’t wake up this morning planning to become a hardware store cautionary tale.”
He waits. Which somehow makes me keep talking.
“I bought a cabin outside town,” I say. “Online. Sight unseen. Because I was having what I would now describe as a highly emotional post-divorce episode.”
There … it’s out. The word divorce still scrapes a little on the way up, but not enough to stop me.
“Anyway, the photos were gorgeous. Very rustic. Very charming. So now I’ve got gutters hanging off the roof, water pouring down the side of the house every time it rains, and ground around the cabin that feels like a punishment from God.”
He listens without interrupting. The fact that he just listens is somehow annoying, but incredibly attractive. Most men either cut in, try to fix, or wait impatiently for their turn to talk. This one just stands there, looking at me like everything coming out of my mouth is worth hearing even if it’s moving at ninety miles an hour.
I keep going …
“I thought maybe I could handle some of it myself. You know, basic stuff. Gutters. Minor repairs. Maybe start a garden because apparently I’ve decided I’m the kind of woman who grows vegetables now. Reinvents herself. Heals in nature. Becomes one with mountain soil.” I gesture at the cart. “But judging by this collection of poor choices, that may not be the direction I’m headed toward.”
He looks at the cart again, then back at me.
“You’re going to hurt yourself.”
I bark out a laugh. “That is also what my divorce lawyer implied.”
The cashier snorts. I don’t even care. At least someone in this building appreciates my suffering. The big man shifts my bag of concrete over his shoulder.
“There’s a diner across the road,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
“Millie’s.”
His voice stays level and unhurried.
“You can start over there with your story. Slower.”
For one second I just stare at him. Because that is either incredibly kind or the opening scene of a cautionary Dateline episode. Then again, if he were dangerous, I feel like my instincts would be screaming.
Instead they’re doing something much more inconvenient. They’re purring.
I plant a hand on the cart. “Are you asking me to lunch because I seem unstable, or because my story is that compelling?”
His eyes hold mine.
“Both.”
I laugh. Actually laugh. A real one this time, sharp and surprised and completely involuntary. Well, that’s irritatingly effective.
I tilt my head. “And here I thought I was doing a bad job of hiding the instability.”
“You’re not.”
“That’s fair.”
He sets my concrete bag on the counter and offers his hand.
“Troy.”
