Page 42 of Unpacking Secrets

“You have a problem,” I told myself sternly.

The boxes cluttering the living room floor offered no response.

“You know who’d know what to do, boxes? Sarah.”

The thought of my best friend brought on a pang of homesickness. I picked up the phone and fired off a text that didn’t mention my hiking accident, the resulting injuries, orthe terribly attractive inn manager who’d spent the night in my home. No sense freaking Sarah out over what probably wouldn’t amount to anything.

Especially after I’d gotten her all riled up in my defense by describing our unfortunate first encounters.

As soon as it was sent, I froze, staring down at the screen. I was almost certain she’d be asleep by now with the time difference, but if she tried to video call, there’d be no way to hide my forehead from view, not without gazing off into the distance the entire time. Sarah would absolutely suspect something was up if I did that.

I waited a few tense minutes, then breathed a deep sigh of relief when she didn’t respond to the text. I’d give her all the details eventually, preferably when there were no physical signs of my unfortunate fall.

For a brief moment, I allowed myself to imagine how my best friend would react to meeting Henry in person. Sarah’s husband, Andre, was handsome in his fair-haired, Nordic way, but the contrast between the two men would tempt even a devoted landscape artist like myself to try to capture it on canvas.

With that in mind, I grabbed my sketchbook again in an attempt to distract myself from thoughts of Henry. I let the pencil lead while my mind wandered.

Some indeterminate amount of time later—minutes or hours, I wasn’t sure—I stared down at the paper, bringing into focus a sketch of the lake from the day before, the lighthouse standing proudly in the background, Blue frolicking in the waves at the front. Seeing it, I realized I hadn’t taken a single photo, not even on my phone.

Is he really that distracting?

I considered the question carefully, running one fingertip over the sketch.

Yes, as a matter of fact, he was. If only I could predict whether that was a good sign or a bad one, maybe I’d be able to put him out of my mind.

As if summoned by the question, my phone chimed with a text from Henry asking if I had plans for dinner. I bit my lip to keep from grinning like an idiot as I replied that I did not.

Are you up for company? Your choice of takeout, my treat. Chinese? Italian? Thai?

I gave him my preferred dishes from each option and told him to surprise me, then I set the phone aside and wandered into the bedroom. As I stood before my limited wardrobe, I wondered what the dress code was for this kind of non-date.

Nothing low cut,I decided that much right away, considering how his attention had drifted to my cleavage the day before. The memory of it was enough to quicken the blood in my veins and cause a slightly giddy feeling to rise up in my chest. A little flirtation at the beach was one thing, but brushing it off in the coziness of the cottage might be beyond my abilities right now.

There wasn’t much to be done about my bruised forehead, though I'd removed the butterfly bandages that morning as Libby instructed, but there was no way I was greeting Henry in yoga pants and the shelf-bra cami I’d spent the morning in. In the end, I grabbed a simple teal t-shirt and a pair of jeans, managing to carefully clasp a regular bra without tweaking my wrist as I got dressed.

Would he think I’d done it for him if I left my hair down? I spent a ridiculous amount of time in front of the bathroom mirror as I debated hairstyles.

Finally, annoyed that I’d given his words so much power over my decision, I pulled my hair into a ponytail and forced myself to stop thinking about what Henry Walker liked. I was a grown woman who could make her own damn choices.

My last relationship had ended poorly during my mother’s illness, but it wasn’t as though I’d never spent time around attractive, flirty men before now.

It never affected me like this before, though, turning me into a frazzled mess of hormones.

I was deep in thought about whatever mysterious chemistry seemed to exist between me and Henry when a light knock sounded at the door. Steeling myself, I opened it wide and watched a slow smile spread across his face.

“Hey, Red,” he said. “That’s a good color on you.”

Though the telltale flush crept along under my skin, I responded with an arched brow and demanded, “Do you compliment everyone in town like this?”

Henry sidled by me to set the bags of Chinese takeout on the kitchen counter, then he turned to let his gaze wander more slowly over me, from head to toe and back up again. There was no mistaking his interest this time—and my rebellious body was responding to it.

“Nope,” he said once he’d finished his perusal, turning to unpack the bags.

I pulled plates from the cupboard, flustered into silence. A smile lingered on his lips when I finally turned back to him, but I scowled.

“What are you grinning about?”

“You look good. Sunburn from yesterday has faded, your forehead is healing right up, no wrap on your wrist, no limp.” I rolled my eyes, but he only winked as he added, “And now I can’t decide what hairstyle I like better, because that ponytail shows off your neck perfectly.”

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