“Yes. Her recovery is slow but steady.” Slow being the operative word.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Danny handed her his credit card. “So, you’ve been running the place by yourself?”

“It’s just temporary.” Mandy stared at the card. The familiar panic welled up inside her. Her mother was going to be OK. She had to be. Mandy couldn’t take over the inn and Bill and everything. She’d only been doing it for a couple of months, and she was exhausted already. Her stress level was busting through the roof, even without Nathan hanging over her head for the next year. “How many nights will you be staying?”

“I’m not sure. Could be a couple of weeks. I feel responsible for Reed’s house. I’ll have to arrange for the repairs or cleanup or whatever.” Of course, Danny would do the honorable thing.

“Oh.” Two weeks of looking at him, the hero, and being reminded of what she’d done. Two weeks of not letting her thoughts slip out of her mouth no matter how much his eyes tempted her to spill everything. Two weeks of resisting the heat simmering deep in her belly right now.

“Is that a problem?”

“No, of course not.” She smoothed the anxiety from her face and handed him a key. “The room should be all set. Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will.” He pocketed the key and picked up his duffel bag from the floor. “Try to get some sleep. You look tired.”

“You, too.” Mandy watched him ascend the stairs until his long, jeans-clad legs disappeared from sight.

What was she going to do? She’d barely resisted him when he wasn’t living under the same roof. Now she didn’t stand a chance. After two weeks, his constant questions about Nathan were going to feel like a barrage.

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER TEN

Danny closed his shaving kit and dried his face with a fluffy, white towel. He left the steamy bathroom. The room was small, the furniture probably antique but not fussy. The décor was Yankee sparse, nothing taking up space that wasn’t useful. The wood floor chilled his bare feet. Spring mornings in Maine felt like freaking winter. He massaged his hand. After last night’s batting practice with the lamp, his arm was stressed. Fiery pinpricks shot from his elbow to his fingertips, and it wasn’t even six a.m. Not a good sign.

He dressed in jeans that didn’t smell like an ashtray and grabbed a pair of socks from his bag.