Page 96 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

Who stores eight hundred unsent emails?

They’re all addressed to Patti Whitaker.

Kelsey’s mother, who died when she was twelve.

The most recent one is dated three nights ago.Thatnight.

Subject line:I did something unwise.

I click away. I’m not going to read any of Kelsey’s emails to her mother.

I close the laptop, feeling shaken.

Something unwise.

Probably that was me.

Does she regret it? Was she confessing?

I pace the floor, wishing I could read it, knowing I can’t.

I want to reach out to her and say something. I need to know that she’s real, not some ephemeral spirit that came to me in Colorado and asked me to possess her, like she has me.

I pick up my phone to text her. I can’t stop myself.

I will be there for you no matter what.

I wait, willing her to answer. My heart pounds in my throat.

But there’s only silence.

More silence.

More silence.

I circle her room, once, twice, three times. I resist picking up her nightclothes and bringing them to my face.

I will not obsess. I will not get weird.

In fact, I need to get out of here.

When the door latches behind me, I’m locked out of her room since we have different keys. The house is set up for separate parties.

I breathe a sigh of relief. Temptation averted.

Kelsey is doing what she set out to do. Find a man worthy of her, not someone from Hollywood, upwardly aspirational, fake, or indifferent.

But the need for her only grows as I wander the house, up and down the stairs, standing before the mantel where she decorated the hearth.

His family’s home. The fireplace that witnessed their history.

They’ll love her. Of course they will.

He’ll love her. How could he not?

I sit on a chair in the kitchen, which feels more neutral than any other space in the house. I call Jester.

“Honey bear!” His voice is a balm. “How goes it with our girl? Did you woo her yet, or is she still seeking a hunk in flannel?”

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