Page 25 of Plentywood
“Sort of,” he admitted, looking toward the kitchen. “She’s definitely something.”
He focused his eyes on me, and I immediately turned away. There was no way I’d be able to look into a pair of eyes so similar to Mark’s. Like my dead husband’s, his eyes sparkled and twinkled like emeralds. The usage of that description of his eyes truly failed to capture them. They were a brilliant green, with what seemed like bursts of silver blasting out of the centers of his eyes.Exactlylike Mark’s.
“You settling in?” I asked, risking my heart and glancing at him again.
I found myself tugging on my sleeves and moving uncomfortably in my chair. He had me damn near ready to faint. Even his hands were perfect. Each nail was cut to precision with a subtle gloss on them. Mark used to tell me it wasn’t nail polish, but rather, a man’s sheen. I’d teased him it was gay,whateveryou called it.
“The clinic has been very busy since I arrived,” he replied. “I’m still living out of suitcases.”
“You’re a big hit, doc.”
I glanced around the room, and all eyes were on us. A quick check of the opening to the kitchen, where prepared food sitsbefore being delivered, found Jill and Agnes gawking at us as well. I knew what Agnes was up to, but worried that Jill was still dealing with romantic disappointment that the new doctor may be gay.
“I’m not sure I’m a hit, or if the town just seems to be needing care all at the same time,” he said, sounding nicer than I wanted to think he was.
“Trust me, it’s all you, doc.”
“Can you call me Ben?” he asked, moving his silverware to the side and placing his hands on the table. “I’m sorry if I came off as distant at the clinic when you stopped by.”
He was impossible to talk with. There was no way I could have a discussion with him without having to make eye contact. I couldn’t breathe when I did that, so I was fucked and probably seemed rude.
“I can do that, Ben, and please call me Hunter, or Hunt, like everyone else does,” I instructed.
“And I’m sorry about your husband,” he said softly, looking into my eyes and hypnotizing me further. “Agnes told me at the clinic. That had to be awful for you, Hunt.”
Shit!I’m sure my eyes welled up at his kindness, another trait I hadn’t been prepared for. Was this man more than his pretty face?God, I hoped not.“Kind of you to say,” I croaked, clearing my throat.
For just an instant, I swore he was about to reach out for my arm. Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn’t. Either way, I didn’t like that the locks on my heart were coming undone. Thank goodness I had a few dozen spares secured to the vital organ.
“I just cannot imagine losing my husband,” he said, his own eyes welling up.
“You’re married?” I inquired. “To a man?” I added, suddenly feeling a different pain in my heart. This one was sad or jealous, not quite sure just yet.
“Oh, no,” he quickly blurted. “Not married. No husband,” he assured me.
“Are you gay?” I asked, holding my breath. “I mean, if you care to disclose that. No pressure if not, and certainly no problem if you’re straight,” I clarified, sounding rattled, I’m sure.
“Gay, yes. Andverysingle, yes.”
I didn’t know how to respond to his direct answer. On the one hand, I appreciated the openness and willingness to share with me. On the other, he seemed a bit determined to emphasize theverypart of being single. Was this a message he wanted me to hear?
I decided to retreat from this topic. “How about your living situation? Will you live in the mansion or buy another place in town?” I asked.
He almost laughed out loud. I assumed he stopped himself from sounding offended that a man of his quality would ever consider buying real estate in a town like Plentywood. Ben Hawthorne had class. That fact was evident in his bearing. Every motion. Every carefully selected word. His overall appearance. Everything screamed,“I’m not from Montana.”
“I’ll live in the upstairs apartment,” he stated. “The furnishings are, how do I put this…a tad old? But I’ll make it work.”
“I’ve seen the antiques. I think they’re extraordinary,” I said. “Some pieces have to be a century old, I’d bet.”
“Totally not my style,” he declared, not surprising me in the least. Just when I was warming up to him and thinking he might actually be a decent guy, his seemed arrogance would show up and shut my fantasy down. I could never be with a man like Benedict Hawthorne. That was a fact. “It won’t matter in a year anyway,” he added, adjusting his sleeve length with one less roll.
“And why is that?” I asked.
“I won’t be here in a year,” he replied. “The next caretaker can make the decision to live there full time or not.”
I was stunned to hear his news. He wasn’t sticking around? “A new doctor like you is just stopping by for a year?” I asked. “No roots? No commitment to the town?”
His eyes narrowed, and he removed his hands from the tabletop, placing them in his lap. “I’m committed,” he stated. “For exactly one year,” he added.
