I know. It’s gotta beNorthanger Abbey.
Mostly because the idea of terrifying outlaw Troy Taylor reading gothic satire for me is deeply entertaining.
Smiling to myself, I slide the book free from the shelf just as the bell above the front door jingles.
“I wondered how long it would take you to show?—”
The words die instantly.
My stomach drops so hard to the ground, it physically hurts.
Caleb—not the one from the hardware shop, but the one I’ve been trying to avoid—stands framed in the doorway in an expensive wool coat dusted with snow, sharp blue eyes sweeping slowly across the room before landing on me.
Horror freezes me in place.
His mouth curves faintly.
Cold. Familiar. Controlling. My stomach churns and a wave of nausea washes over me.
“So,” he says smoothly, “this is where you’ve been hiding.”
I swallow hard. “I haven’t been hiding.”
“You and your words.” His lips curve into that twisted smirk of his. “Call it whatever you want. But the point is, I’ve found you.”
EIGHT
TROY
Well… Hell.
I’ve been standing in front of the greeting card display for almost five minutes when Hank finally clears his throat from behind the register.
“Troy.”
I grunt distractedly, still staring at the shelves.
There are approximately three Valentine’s cards left in the entire store despite it being nowhere near Valentine’s Day.
One says:
YOU’RE THE CHEESE TO MY MACARONI.
Absolutely not.
Another has a cartoon bear holding flowers.
Also no.
The third just says:
FOR SOMEONE SPECIAL.
Which somehow feels worse.
“You know,” Hank says slowly, “most men just grab flowers.”
“I know.”