And he just couldn’t square it. Couldn’t for the life of him imagine Professor Ray Camden writing anything so wordy and tender. Either Grandfather had changed, hardened through the years, or he wasn’t the man Philip had known his whole life. Probably both.

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

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” For the first time, a tremble entered the woman’s voice.

Indi, her name is Indi.

He liked it. Liked the rhythm of it paired with her last name. The kind of name that waltzed off the tongue—or, well, would waltz, he assumed, if he ever had a reason to say it out loud. Or maybe not. If he tried to say it to her, if she was anywhere near as pretty as her voice and her name or, most likely, even if she wasn’t, he’d stumble over the syllables like a toddler just learning to walk. Er, talk.

But what reason would he ever have to say the woman’s full name out loud to her face anyway? How weird would that be?

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.