“I’m not a criminal,” he said again. “I-I only hid in this thing. I didn’t attempt to steal it.”

“Well, I wish you would’ve. It takes up way too much floor space.”

The man just stared at her for stilted seconds before finally opening his mouth again. “I suppose I should explain. Not that I have much of an explanation. Nothing that makes any sense, that is. You see . . . I . . . when I heard . . . when I realized . . .” He shook his head, clearly frustrated at his inability to finish the sentence.

“Oh brother, you might as well come out.” She lowered her shoe and stepped backward, the movement uneven considering her one bare foot.

The man cleared his throat. Again. Smoothed down his tie. Again. And finally, he stepped free of the wardrobe.

Holy buckets. The man was . . . he was . . . tall, for one thing. But also far more handsome than a nutcase who hid in antique furniture had any right to be. She’d never seen eyes that color of gray—rich and deep and frankly, remarkable. His mussed dark hair had the slightest bit of silver at his temples, which only increased his attractiveness, even though it had to be premature. Because the rest of his appearance told her he couldn’t have more than a few years on her. Even the tiniest gap between his two front teeth was somehow charming, and how was it possible she could tell he had dimples even though he wasn’t smiling?

Definitely not smiling. Oh no, that was pure embarrassment on his face, his cheeks almost as red as the fabric she’d chosen for the tufted chaise nearby. The chaise she probably would’ve dropped onto by now for a good old-fashioned cry if she hadn’t happened to catch a glimpse of this man disappearing into the wardrobe just as she came barreling through the storeroom curtain.

“It’s not that I don’t love you. I just don’t want to marry you.”

Goodness, she’d said almost the exact same thing to Bryce seven years ago. Had he, like her, forgotten how to breathe the moment after hearing those words? Had the shock of it made him too go numb?

The numbness probably wouldn’t last, though. At some point, the emotion would crash in and then the panic as she imagined telling Maggie and Neil and Lilian. I guess I’m not getting married, after all.

She couldn’t stand the thought. Dreaded the sympathy and the worry and worse, the cementing of her place in the family. She could handle being the youngest, but the flightiest? The wobbliest? The one not quite steady enough to rely on?

Why did her gaze have to pick that moment to land on the mirror with the gilded bronze frame on the opposite wall? The last thing she wanted to see was her own reflection—messy light brown spirals having long since tumbled free from her ponytail, pale skin, and evidence of the paltry tears she’d allowed back in the storeroom in the red rimming her eyes. Lovely.