The One Real Thing
Page 37

After returning to the inn, I’d forced breakfast past the butterflies in my belly and then walked to Emery’s for some much-needed quiet.
For the fourth time since I’d arrived in Hartwell I’d snuggled up on an armchair in Emery’s and whiled away my time reading. As always Emery was quiet, but every time I visited with her she said a few more words. I was starting to think she was becoming comfortable with me.
“I still can’t believe Emery Saunders talks to you,” Bailey had said at breakfast when I mentioned where I was going. “She looks like a frightened rabbit when I try to talk to her.”
I’d contemplated Bailey and her disgruntlement. “Let me guess—you brought up her shyness to her?”
Bailey had made a face as she collected my dirty plate from the breakfast table. “I only suggested she not be so shy around me. It’s me. I’m not scary.”
Snorting, I’d stood up to leave. “I used to be pretty shy as a teenager. I can tell you for a fact that someone as outgoing as you telling a shy person not to be shy around her just makes her even more insecure about her shyness.”
Looking horrified, Bailey had whispered, “Fuck.”
I’d patted her shoulder. “You meant well.”
“Don’t. I messed up.” She’d cocked her head to the side in thought. “Maybe I should come with you and try to rectify it.” She’d taken in my expression and sighed. “Maybe not.”
In truth Emery reminded me of an abused animal. She’d take patience and gentle coaxing until she’d trust me enough to be a friend. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t be in Hartwell long enough to do that. Or long enough to get to the bottom of why someone like Emery was so closed off.
“You’re welcome,” Emery said to me and gave me a gentle smile.
I smiled back, feeling a pang of longing as I wandered out of her store.
The thought of not being in Hartwell for very much longer upset me. I didn’t know if it was normal to feel that way about leaving your vacation spot or if the feeling ran deeper than the usual back-to-work blues.
For now I shook it off because I had other things on my mind. Or a person on my mind. A person who was giving me prehistoric-dragonfly-sized butterflies in my stomach.
Huh. Say “prehistoric-dragonfly-sized butterflies” five times fast.
The quiet time at Emery’s hadn’t worked to distract me so I decided to head to Antonio’s for ice cream. On the way I spotted Vaughn Tremaine standing outside the entrance to his hotel, typing away on his phone. I almost considered turning back around.
It was childish of me, but I didn’t know how to interact with Vaughn, considering Bailey disliked him so much. I felt it would be better in my short stay there to just avoid him completely.
But there was no avoiding him now.
“Dr. Huntington.” He looked up from his phone and I stopped to be polite.
“Mr. Tremaine.”
He gave me that wolfish grin of his. “So you’re Bailey’s guest.”
“And friend now, too.” I thought I’d make that clear.
“I bet you are.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Just that Miss Hartwell has a habit of turning strangers into family. That’s why people return to her inn every year.”
I studied him, alerted by something in his tone that he couldn’t quite hide. “You admire her.”
Tremaine gave me a smirk. “I’m just amazed that someone with that much apparent charm and warmth can be sharper tongued and colder than the Snow Queen.”
“Descriptive,” I said dryly. “But that’s my friend you’re talking about, Mr. Tremaine.”
“Actually the woman I’m talking about is the one who has pitted an entire town against me because unlike the rest of them I refuse to divulge every aspect of my private life like we’re living in an episode of The Real World.”
“Ooh, watch, you’re showing your age there.”
He grinned at me. “Bailey’s rubbing off on you.”
“Nope, all me.”
“Well, I can see why you’re friends . . . but a warning, Dr. Huntington”—he stepped closer, the humor fleeing his expression—“Bailey Hartwell and her town like their openness. They don’t like secrets.”
Chilled, I tried to hide my sudden shiver.
Tremaine stepped back. “We city folk . . . we like our secrets, don’t we?”
What the hell . . . There was no way Vaughn Tremaine knew my secrets . . . “What does that mean exactly?”
What did he know?
“It’s just a friendly warning. If you have anything you don’t want these people to know, then it’s better not to get attached to them.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” My heart was racing.
He gave me a small smile. “I don’t know your secrets, Dr. Huntington,” he assured me. “But from your reaction, I now know you have them.”
“What kind of game are you playing?” I crossed my arms over my chest defensively, because suddenly I felt very vulnerable.
I was surprised then when a look of contrition entered his usually steely eyes. “No game. I promise. I just . . . It’s easy to get swept up in the charm of this place and forget that these people are only loyal to their own. I wouldn’t like to see anyone get hurt.”
There was something sincere in his voice that eased me. But also something telling. Had Vaughn Tremaine been hurt by the people of Hartwell? Was it possible for someone like him to be hurt?