And why was he still standing here? You’re an idiot, man. Get out.

“If you’re worried about the store, don’t be. I’ll still help. I can write a check right now. Enough to pay for a billboard—”

“The store? Did you actually just say that? Are you actually standing there, having just called off our engagement, offering me money?”

Philip turned on his heel. He’d leave. He’d pretend he’d never seen that name on the front window. Or if his curiosity got the best of him, he’d settle for Googling. Yes, he’d Google Maggie Muir and Muir Harbor and maybe even Indi Muir, just for the heck of it, and—

“Please don’t walk away, Indi.”

“You’re the one who’s walking away. I’m just ending this conversation before it gets any worse.”

Philip bumped into a dresser, heart picking up speed as realization whooshed in. The voices were growing closer and now he could hear steps and—

They were going to rush through that curtain any second, weren’t they? And he didn’t have a chance of reaching the front door before they saw him, not with a maze of furniture complicating his path, and when they spotted him, they’d know he’d overheard them because his cheeks would turn red. Because they always, always did. Because he was Philip West, forever incapable of anything even slightly close to a poker face.

All this flew through his muddled brain in the milliseconds before he made the decision.

A stupid, stupid decision.

Even as he scolded himself, his legs scurried, carrying him around the dresser and toward the oversized wardrobe next to it. He yanked on the ivory knob and flung himself inside.

Dark crowded around him the moment he tugged the door closed, and then, the voices again. And footsteps. More creaking of the floorboards.

An absurd move, maybe, but at least he’d made it inside in the nick of time. They hadn’t spotted him. If they had, someone would’ve yanked the door open by now. And then he’d have no choice but to dig a hole and bury himself alive. Or move to Bolivia, maybe. Certainly never step foot in this shop again.

“I don’t want to hear any more. Please, just leave.”

He inhaled, the smell of varnish nearly overpowering, a tiny sliver of light slanting in between the wardrobe doors. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to stay in here too long. Hopefully after Ben-the-dumper took his leave, Indi Muir would return to the backroom. Hopefully he could sneak out undetected.

Hopefully she’d be okay.

The voices grew muffled again. They must be nearing the front of the shop. Seconds later, he heard the jingle of the bell over the door and clamped his lips to keep his sigh of relief from giving him away.

He strained to listen for her footsteps, for any telltale sound or lack thereof to let him know he was safe to make his escape. Not long now. Any minute and he’d be back outside in the cold Maine air and he could pretend he’d never let a wayward whim get him into a scrape like this and—