Sanders looks between the two of us, determination in his eyes. “I see the love you two have for each other. It’s clearly there, but the animosity is clouding it. Without working through that animosity, you’re never going to find the love again.” He grips the ball tightly. “Have a good evening.”

Both Scottie and I step back into the cabin and shut the door behind us. I slip off my shoes and place them over by the dresser before lying on the bed. Scottie takes a seat in one of the chairs at the table and looks up at me.

“Was not expecting that.”

“Yeah, and he wasn’t expecting us to fight over petty things like…bologna. I think we all surprised each other today.”

“I guess so.” Then she glances at me. “Do you really have a problem with bologna?”

I shrug. “I mean, I don’t hate it but I don’t love it.”

“I think you might be the first millionaire to ever say that.”

“I’m down-to-earth, babe. What can I say?”

“I thought I told you not to call me that.”

I wink. “It’s got a good ring to it.” She rolls her eyes and sighs, so I take that moment to change the subject and nod toward the envelope. “What do you want to do? It’s up to you. We can call it quits now, maybe even say that we couldn’t make it work. Thank Sanders and then move on with our lives.”

“I guess we could do that,” she says, staring down at the envelope.

From the droop in her shoulders and the defeat in her voice, I can tell that’s not what she wants to do. But why?

“You don’t want to leave, do you?” I ask her.

“I…I don’t know.”

“Hey,” I say, causing her to look up at me. “Come here. Come talk to me.”

She walks over to the bed, sitting down and leaning against the headboard.

“What’s going on in that head?”

She tosses the envelope from Sanders to the side and drags both of her hands over her face. “God, I’m so sorry I roped you into all this. I know this is not what you were expecting. You probably thought you were going to have a little fun, role-play, and be on your way. You didn’t know you were bunking up with a girl who has a truckload of baggage.”

“You act as if that’s a bad thing,” I say.

Her eyes meet mine. “Isn’t it though?”

“Who doesn’t have baggage?” I ask. “There isn’t one person on this earth who hasn’t opened a metaphorical suitcase and dumped in it. No life is perfect, no journey unmarred. Everyone’s carrying around something. So there’s absolutely no need to apologize.”

Her head tilts to the side as she studies me.

“What?” I ask after a few seconds.