Page 8 of Her Wild Coast Promise

His expression turns grim. “If you aim at nothing, Cora, you’ll hit it.”

He’s quoted this before, but never in reference to me. “That’s not exactly fair. I haven’t had time to even know what to aim at,” I reply, my tone hardening.

“Don’t get mad,” he warns.

I inhale a calming breath but it doesn’t help. He’s shutting me down and that hurts. Especially after this terrible day.

“I’m trying to help, Cora,” Doug says.

Okay, maybe I’m being overly critical. His heart is in the right place. “It’s very kind of you to offer me a place to live. I’m just not sure I’m ready.”

“What about me? What if I’m ready?”

My skin erupts with prickles.

He removes a small box from his pocket and opens it, flashing a silver ring at me. “We’re a good match, Cora.” His face has an earnest, flushed expression.

He plucks the ring from the box, and reaches for my hand again. “I love you.”

The room feels hot, and the words I need to say are stuck in my throat. He not only thinks I should switch careers and move in, but agree to marry him—all on the same day I lost my job?

“Wait.” I pull my fingers from his grip before he can slide the ring on my finger.

His eyes turn dark with confusion.

“Doug, please.” I flash my palms, as much for him to slow down as for me to get another calming breath. “This is too much. Too fast. And I lost my job today. I’m not sure what I’m going to do.”

“That’s why this is so perfect. The timing and everything. We can make this work.”

Alarm bells blare in my brain.Make this work? What are we, a peace treaty? “We haven’t even talked about getting married.”

“Don’t you want to?”

I stare as the heat of the room tries to swallow me up. “Someday, yes,” I manage. Doug and I are compatible in a lot of ways, but in this moment, I’m panicking at the thought of spending my life with him. Could this night get any more challenging?

“We can have a long engagement,” Doug says. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Can we pause this conversation, please?” I don’t mean for it to come out sharp, but I can’t help it. He’s not listening, and trying to explain what I don’t yet have words for is too much for me right now.

His face falls. “You’re turning me down?”

I pull on my wrap, the cozy softness grounding me, and stand. Maybe it’s childish to walk out on him, but the last of my bandwidth fizzled out with hisdon’t get mad. “Thank you for dinner.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says, snatching up the box and stuffing it back into his pocket. “When you’re thinking more clearly.”

For the second time today, I lift my chin and stride for the door, fighting back tears.

I breeze past the hostess stand and through the door, the soft fabric of my dress brushing my thighs. My heels tap the pavement like a metronome and the cool night air pricks my cheeks. By the time I get home, my feet are killing me and my fingers and toes are freezing. I slip off my shoes and pad across the soft, cold grass to my little stoop.

I’m so glad to be home that I almost miss the yellow envelope taped to my door. It’s probably the refund check for overpaying my utilities that Gerry was telling me about last week. I peel the envelope loose and step inside, tossing my purse and shoes onto my couch.

It's only after changing into my PJs and brushing my teeth that I remember the note. Now that I’m no longer employed, that extra $36.12 is going to come in handy.

I return to the kitchen, pour myself a glass of water, and open the envelope. No refund check, just a yellow carbon copy of what looks like a speeding ticket. I peer at the little boxes, clueless, until I get to the bottom.

The water glass slips from my hand, but I barely hear it crash.

ChapterThree

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