Page 33 of The Matchmaker's Cottage

She hesitated slightly. “Well, no. But the farm down the street does. I’m sure they would let me use their stables for revenge purposes.”

“Of course they would.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “As I was saying—”

“Right, right, the nicest rooms. That means we’ll give them Lakeside and Victorian Elegance. They’re the biggest.”

“Sure,” Ethan agreed. “Whatever works. And after they settle in, we’ll give them a tour of the town that doesn’t end in disaster, delicious meals each day, walks through the gardens, trips to the lake—you name it.”

“Icanname it,” Julia said. “Doyouknow what you’re talking about?”

“No!” he replied, throwing his hands up. “That’s why you’re here! You have to do this for me. Take them to all the placesthey’ll like, places where they can do the quiet, romantic thing that will hopefully trigger whatever it is in them that could possibly elevate their relationship.”

“Oh my god,” Julia breathed. “Youarea pimp.”

Ethan groaned. “I’m not actually trying to make them fall in love or”—he shuddered—“anything else. If they do, I don’t want to know. That is not the intention. We just need to get a few nice pictures sold to a few popular websites about what a good time the two of them are having together and then let the speculation do the rest. They’ll carry on as good friends, I’ll keep my job, your bed-and-breakfast will become world famous, and everyone will be happy.”

Everyone will be happy.

Sure.

Of course, not having to worry so much about the money would be nice. That was the whole point of all this, wasn’t it? Julia would contrive a few romantic scenarios, plan a few sunset walks, prepare a few candlelight dinners (with Maggie’s help) to make it all seem like a modern-day fairy tale. After all, she knew the trails where the sun hit just right between the trees. She knew the nights when they did live music in the town square. Or the mornings that the farmers’ market was open. All the stuff Hallmark movies were made of.

So what if it all felt a little bit like the “sha-la-la-la-la” scene inThe Little Mermaid, where all the aquatic friends were trying to make Ariel kiss the prince? At least she wasn’t Ursula in this scenario, right?

She nodded slowly as she looked down at Ethan, sitting there at her feet, his gaze expectant and somewhat hopeful. She could do this. Maybe not for him, but forher. For DonwellCottage. And for the chance to finally move on after all these years. To get some closure.

“All right,” she agreed. “I know what to do. We got this.”

Ethan rolled his eyes up in relief and flopped backward on the bed, half his body hanging off and his legs still on the floor. “Jesus Christ. Thank god for you, Gem. Thank you.”

He turned his head to look up at her, and the familiar blue of them took her aback for a moment. She clenched her fist so she wouldn’t put her fingers in his hair, so close to the knuckles of her right hand.

Instead, she swallowed hard and nodded, looking away from him.

“It’s fine,” she said, her voice tight. “It’s for this. I’m happy to do it for this place.”

It’s not for you.

The words were left unsaid, but he caught them nonetheless, staring at her for an extended length of time. He turned and propped himself up on his elbows to turn to look at her fully. She tried to hide the shock waves that coursed through her body when she felt him gingerly place his hand on her knee, just hitting her thigh, touching the bare skin there and burning her with the feel of it.

She regretted putting shorts on again after her bath rather than pants, despite feeling overheated. She’d figured it was easier access for her sore ankle, and the long-sleeve shirt she threw on as an afterthought balanced it out.

But now she felt too exposed, too bare, and it allowed him the advantage of touching her and having her actuallyfeelit, down to her bones. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched her, all those years ago now. Well, actually, she could…

And she didn’t want to think aboutthat.

“Gem—”

“I think you need to stop calling me that.”

Her voice sounded foreign to her, hard yet still emotional. She wished she had the strength to remove the uncertainty from her voice:You need to stop calling me that. NotI think. She refused to look at him or acknowledge the hand on her leg in any other way. Just:Stop calling me that.

It hurt too much, this callback to another time, a time when things were different. More comfortable, safer, not so emotionally fraught. It was too easy to pretend, to fall back into the old habits and ways of behaving with each other, and it was a slippery slope. A road she didn’t want to take, not again.

She felt his hand lift from her leg. Heard him mumble an apology.

“I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s fine,” she interrupted. She didn’t need his apologies, not anymore. Didn’t want his excuses or his platitudes. Whatever he was going to say, she’d already heard it. And she wasn’t interested in hearing it ever again.