“Cookies?” He smiles, and those irresistible creases appear by his eyes. “You have cookies?”
“I do.”
“That’s . . . just . . .” He shakes his head, still smiling. “That’s . . . adorable.”
“Would you like one?” I ask primly, trying my best to hide my fluttery pleasure at being called adorable.
“Absolutely,” his smiling face turns serious. “I’m starving.” He stands up and takes his suitcoat off.
“You can hang your jacket over...” but before I finish, he drapes his coat right where I intended on the cherry wood hat rack in the corner.
“I like this,” he says. “Vintage?”
“Yes! It’s been in this office since the 1940s.”
“I dig it.” He makes a swift survey of the room. “Was that the last time this place was decorated?”
“It might look like that was the last time it was painted. But no.” I smile, but inwardly I’m smarting. This wing of the hotel desperately needs a paint job, but I never have enough money for general maintenance. “I’ve had to prioritize the more public locations for new paint.”
“Yes, of course,” Edward casually cuffs his shirt sleeves while keeping his eyes steady on me. “That was meant as an observation, not a criticism.” He says kindly as he resumes his seat. “I don’t understand why my grandpa didn’t give you more money to work with. From what I’ve seen, you’ve done an extraordinary job with a paltry budget. The flowers in the lobby are a nice touch.”
“Thank you. I’ll tell my sister. She grows them.” I slide forward the tin of cookies. “Here, help yourself—I have both gingersnaps and snickerdoodles.”
My eyes drift to his toned forearms, and I have the strangest urge to touch his bare skin. Me, Elinor Greenwood—who, by the way, has always ranked touch as the last of my love languages and has never called a man “hot” my entire life—is imagining myself running my fingers across this stranger’s forearms. What is happening here? The stress of the situation must be getting to me.
He takes one of each. “You made these?”
“No, my mom bakes them for the cafe. I just like an afternoon treat. Plus cookies help smooth over tricky conversations.”
“Like this one.” He says before taking a bite from the snickerdoodle.
“Like this one.” I parrot back numbly. Inwardly, I brace myself for bad news. “Please, Mr.—is your last name Norland?”
“No, Frechette, I’m Edward Frechette. Sorry, I should have started with that. I’m just a little discombobulated here. I didn’t expect you to beyou.”
“I see... well then, Edward, could we please get on with this? The suspense is killing me. Are you kicking us out?”
“Kicking you out—no!” He splutters on his cookie, then begins to cough. I quickly pour him a glass of filtered water. He takes a long swig. “Sorry about that—I... it’s just, your comment—it... uh... surprised me.”
“It’s a day of surprises,” I say dryly.
“You can say that again.” Something about his tone makes me suspect he’s referring to more than the coincidence of having met before.
“I’m not here to evict you, Elinor. I just came to... um... take a tour of the park.”
“You’re not going to force us to relocate? Or fire me?”
“No, nothing like that,” he says as he focuses on brushing a few crumbs off the desk.
“Oh! I . . . well, that’s good. I . . . I . . .”
My chest tightens the same way it did when Dad got his diagnosis. Apparently, my body can’t distinguish between good news and bad. I place a hand on my racing heart.
The backs of my eyes sting. A lump rises in my throat. I never, ever cry in front of other people. Except apparently today.
A strangled sob escapes me before I can stop it. I swivel my office chair around and burst into tears.
I have no idea why I am crying. This is such happy news—absolutely, unbelievably happy news. My tears make no sense. But the more I try to calm down, the more my shoulders shake. I have been trying to be so brave for so long. It’s as if I am finally allowing myself to feel all my pent-up fears and worries.
