He grinned, and her stomach did a slow, traitorous flip.
Honey recognized the sensation immediately—an inconvenient rush of warmth followed by the mental scramble to contain it. She’d felt something like it once before, years ago, when she was still in training and had nearly approved a wish for a widower who smiled the same way Ethan just had. Back then, she’d written herself up for “emotional compromise.” She imagined the phrase still printed in neat ink on her personnel record.
Mr. Aldridge, still a senior auditor at the time, had advised her that “compassion clouds judgment, Miss Baxter. Best to keep feelings separate.” He hadn’t said it unkindly—he never did—but the disappointment in his tone had stayed with her longer than the reprimand itself.
This, she thought, was the same category of problem: the kind that started with empathy and ended with paperwork. She crossed her arms across her middle.
“Where are the girls?”
“Off to school,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. “Hope the ruckus this morning didn’t wake you.”
There was something startlingly tender in his words. He’d folded her clothes. He’d wanted her to sleep well.Honey knew her standards were ridiculously low, but still, she felt like a stranger in a very familiar scene, as if she’d been given a temporary backstage pass into someone else’s life. Someone else's family.
“Well, I better get to work.”
“Let me make you a cup,” Ethan offered, already reaching for the cabinet beside the microwave, where the coffee mugs used to be. After he opened the cabinet, he paused, hand hovering midair.
His brow furrowed.
The cabinet door remained ajar as he opened the one next to it. Then another. And another. His movements grew more clipped with each swing of a door until, finally, he found the mugs directly above the coffeepot.
A much more logical choice, in Honey’s opinion.
He pulled one out, slowly, and stared into the perfectly aligned rows of drink ware. Mugs sorted by size. Handles all facing the same direction.
Still looking into the cabinet, he asked, “What did you do?”
“I had some extra time, so I thought I could help?—”
He shut the cabinet with a little more force than necessary, then closed his eyes for a long breath. When he opened them again, his tone had cooled.
“Ms. Baxter,” he said evenly, “this is my home. You’re here because I need that well shut down. That’s it. That’s the job.”
She blinked, thrown by the sudden change in tone.
“I didn’t ask for your input on how my kitchen runs, or how my family does. I didn’t ask you to reorganize my life while I was sleeping. I don’t care if you think it makes more sense. That’s not what this is. This isn’t your place. There are boundaries.”
She pulled back. “Right. Of course. I’m?—”
“Forget it. I have to check the trees. There’s leftover stew in the fridge if you’re hungry for lunch. Otherwise, Poppy’s number is on the fridge, and he can take you into town to get something.”
Before Honey could apologize or thank him for his thoughtfulness, the door slammed behind him.
Honey stood in the center of the kitchen, the goat long gone, the cabinets all gaping open like they were just as embarrassed as she was.
This was how it always happened.
She was charming at first. Quirky. Endearing even. People liked that she “helped.” That she fixed things. Until it stopped being helpful and started being invasive. Until a stressful night or a misplaced sock drawer or an “improvement” no one asked for cracked the foundation.
Admittedly, this had happened quicker than usual.
She stared at the mug he’d left empty on the counter for her. She hadn’t meant to overstep. But she had. She always did.
She should be grateful it happened so quickly. It should be enough to quash any silly notions about his hands folding her underwear, or whether he had the same dimple his daughters did.
An apology was in order. She poured some coffee into her mug and swallowed it black. Then, she shut each of the cabinets, trying to steady her thoughts.
Maybe she could make the girls a healthy snack this afternoon to apologize. Something simple. Maybe her honey wheat flax muffins. Growing bodies couldn’t subsist on boxed mac and cheese, no matter how colorful the packaging. They needed omegas. Fiber. Warmth?—
