Page 45 of Merry Mended Hearts

It should matter what I thought of her. After our ride, I’d never see this woman again.

She was a guest.

Nothing more.

The least I could do was be civil. Not for Junie, but because the fact that Grace called me out on my behavior in such a non-confrontational way made me want to change it. I wanted to let her know I wasn’t all prickles.

During our ride, I’d apologize. I’d be kind to her and show her I was a decent human being. Come what may.

Boy, that was a dangerous phrase.

GRACE

I cursedmyself the entire way back to the inn and up to my room.

“I know you don’t like me, but thank you?” I muttered, wanting to shake myself.

What did I say that for?

He would be a grump during our entire sleigh ride. I’d just have to ignore him, that was all. He couldn’t snap at me if I didn’t say anything to him, right?

I was going there to write. I would drink in the sights and scribble every thought that came to me. Less interruptions would be all the better.

Still, I buzzed with emotion and anticipation. The same urge that came over me whenever a new idea struck took over despite the block I’d felt since Mom’s phone call—and since calling Stephanie afterwards.

Steph hadn’t seemed to know I was even away from home, which meant that Mom already assumed I’d be coming back before she’d called to twist my arm about it. Which had only blocked my muse even more.

Yes, I definitely had to write this while the sensations were fresh and feelable.

I plopped on the floral armchair, pen in hand, and submersed myself in my thoughts. Everything I’d written about Demon Boone had been stellar.

He was cruel and cunning.

He killed his enemies and even his own soldiers without a thought.

He inflicted torture with all the delight and craftiness of a maimed soul.

I couldn’t wait to have my heroine strike him down with her magic. Multiple times.

But something about this latest interaction with Boone had been different than his previously brusque, snappish manner. He’d shown remorse. Not verbally—but it’d been in his eyes.

Their expression had reached through me. Something about him had been so different just now. His dark, sultry eyes, his brooding handsome features, his closed-off reticence and the way his mere proximity made me come alive in spite of myself.

So he was attractive. So what?

His personality cancelled that out like positive and negative numbers being added together.

Writing had always been therapeutic for me. I shifted my focus, smoothing a hand over my notebook’s empty page. I could craft this other version of him, assigning my fictional love interest with some of Boone’s better qualities the way I’d done with Demon Boone.

But I didn’t want to write about my characters right now. These emotions pinging inside of me were raw and real, and writing always helped me sort out my thoughts.

The truth was, Boone had a glance that made me come apart at the seams and instantly stitch together all over again. He was confusing. He was alarming. Disarming. He’d gotten under my skin, and I didn’t know how to get him back out again.

So I let it all out.

I shouldn’t be feeling this way. Boone is all cactus, letting me know the minute I get too close I’ll get pricked. He’s a mirage in the desert, seeming to be one thing but turning out to be something else entirely the closer I get.

But every time he looks at me, it’s like the world stops spinning. Everyone and everything else in the room disappears. He’s all I see, and I’m not sure if it’s because of me or because some otherworldly force is attempting to push us together.

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