And yet—considering the man on the other side of the door as Myrtle settled back into the water, slipping farther under the hot surface—Val was none of those things.

He was surly and brooding.

His smile came as reluctantly as the English sun.

And she couldn’t imagine there was anyone who jested and laughed less.

And he certainly didn’t appreciate or respect Miss Jane Austen.

He’d also accused her of having an overactive imagination—which, well, she could concede him that point—possibly. Possibly.

But now, she wondered if she’d had it all wrong.

What if she’d merely dreamed herself a paragon and not allowed herself to think about what it would be to wed a real man? One so fully dimensional who, with his gruff demeanor, didn’t fit with the heroes of the romance tales she’d read, but who, in his every way and in his every action, was a true hero in every sense of the word.

For he could have let her to her own fears. He hadn’t.

He could have left her in the cold and dark. He hadn’t.

He could have simply ignored her knocking and said to hell with her worrying. And he hadn’t done that, either.

For despite the rough exterior, the walls he’d built up about himself, he was also the manner of man who, with his every action, challenged her heart’s natural rhythm.

He was a man whom she could imagine herself spending her entire life with.

And for a moment, an imagining slipped forward: the two of them alone, reading Miss Austen together, with Horace at their feet, and Myrtle teasing and challenging Val and—

She froze. “And what are you thinking?” she croaked, and then terror clogged her senses, and in a rush to be free of those terrifying musings, she quickly submerged herself underwater.

“Myrtle . . . are you all right?”

The water filled her ears, muting Val’s voice. His concerned one.

Proving yet again that he was not the rough, unfeeling figure he presented to the world.

And she damned herself for noticing, because now she couldn’t un-notice, and she couldn’t slow the flow of these new thoughts of him.

“Myrtle?”

She exploded from under the depths, blinking back the sting of soapy moisture in her eyes. “Fine,” she squawked. “I’m fine.”

Except her heart raced, and the last thing she was sure of was that she was fine. Because she didn’t feel fine. She felt confused and panicked and—

“You don’t sound fine,” he called back.

And she’d learned enough from Mrs. Belden to know that a proper gentleman would never dare speak such words to a lady. That a gentleman would have accepted the lie and certainly wouldn’t have challenged her on her assurances.

“Well, I am. I’m bathing and thinking, and . . . bathing,” she added weakly.

“It sounds like you’re drowning.”