Such a realization had reaffirmed his will to avoid her, however, and when she straightened, noticing him through the window, he’d simply kept walking.

When he entered the diner, all eyes fell upon him. It was annoying to the point of nausea, the way every man moved according to Henry’s will. It was supposed to be this way, the way he’d intended. But he was growing exhausted by it all. At least he no longer had to worry about Regina being one of them, since she’d already been converted to Team Elizabeth.

Upon realizing this, he had sighed and said, “Go,” and a few of them stood, while the rest appeared confused. “Ms. Ashton deserves your business, so go. I know you all want to.” Eustace looked at his cup of coffee with a sudden disgust, and he was the first to rise. He walked to the door with nothing but a respectful nod in Henry’s direction, and the rest followed. The only ones who stayed were Nicole and Brian. Brian eyed him warily, his split lip a most pleasing sight, and Nicole ran her fingers through his hair like he was some baby. Would she be so loving if she knew how he earned the wounds she was babying, or would Nicole only blame Elizabeth?

After a long look, Brian rose, but Henry said, “Not you.” Brian glared. Perhaps he was getting a backbone of his own as well.

“I was drunk, Mr. Clayton. I…it wasn’t me.”

Henry stepped closer. “On the contrary, Mr. Dane. I think it showed us exactly who you are.”

“What’s he talking about, Brian?” Nicole asked, eyeing the slice on his lip. “I thought this happened in Portland.”

Brian studied Henry a few seconds longer, then looked down. “Nothing, Nicki. I think I need to go home and sleep.” He left without a goodbye, leaving Henry and Nicole alone. It was awkward, but Henry reminded himself it was worth it, better than the alternative.

Now, as Arne pushed the button on the middle console and the gate opened ahead—the gate that would always bear the initials of his father—he mentally prepared himself to face Elizabeth. More importantly, facing her at the cottage. He wouldn’t have offered his help, had Brian been decent enough not to ask for sexual favors in exchange. Really, Henry had no choice.

They drove around the house and entered the garage, and as it closed behind them, leaving him and Arne in darkness, Arne said, “It’s just a pipe, Henry. Not a death sentence.”

Henry didn’t respond as he left the car, not waiting for Arne to let him out. Not that he ever did when it was just the two of them. Upstairs, in his loft of a bedroom—with a bed he hardly ever used—he changed into a white t-shirt and jeans. He found his old set of tools—the same he and his mother used when living in that very cottage—and added the repair sleeve he’d bought in Portland to the tool belt.

When he knocked on her door a few minutes later, he straightened his shoulders, attempting to make himself taller, more threatening. She was Ms. Ashton. Not Elizabeth, as he’d only recently begun to think of her.

She didn’t answer, and the part of him that allowed her to fuel his annoyance sparked. He ran a hand over his face, still not used to the whiskers he hadn’t shaved in three days. Here he was, offering his help, and she wasn’t even here. Her car sat on the street but that didn’t say much, given it was Elizabeth, and she liked to walk everywhere in town.

Then a thought struck him: she was Elizabeth, and it was sunny. He walked around the house, to the place he’d found her and Arne a few days before, the same place he used to find his mother whenever the sun had been shining.

Crouched on the porch, Elizabeth tinkered with a potted plant: a small, young azalea, only one pink flower in bloom. While one of her hands poked at the soil, the other—whose thumb wore a bandage—reached to her lower back and rubbed. From this angle, only part of her cringe was visible, but it was enough to fire up the same trigger from that morning, the one that felt like an explosion of heat had blown inside him. It was bad enough she already had to recover from the sore ribs he’d given her only days before, but this was unforgivable. And it also made him no better than Brian.

Her hair spiraled from her head in loose curls, some strands pinned away from her face. She wore a large sweater with sleeves pushed to her elbows, and surprisingly, he found her more attractive this way than he had in their meeting at the bakery, when she and her business attire were soaked through. Both the breeze and sun played with her hair, making him exhale a sigh—silently, since he wanted another moment to admire her before he had to play the enemy.

She straightened then, her back to him. It happened every time she sensed him watching at night, and even now he wondered how she knew he was there. She stood, not bothering to wipe her soil-stained fingers, and looked around her, her mannerisms hopeful as she glanced up to the suddenly darkening sky. But it was just deceiving cloud cover, and when she saw him she slumped. Was she hoping to see someone else? Perhaps the other form of himself?

“Mr. Clayton, you…startled me,” she excused with instantly pink cheeks, closing her sweater. He wished she hadn’t, since the shirt beneath was snug, flattering, and particularly low-cut. She also wore the same silver locket around her neck she always wore. The chain was long, allowing the oval-shaped pendant to rest low on the bare skin of her chest. He wondered what pictures it stored.

“They won’t survive in there,” he said, stepping closer.

Her brows pulled together.

“The azaleas.” Her eyes found the pot, basking in the sun. “That pot won’t allow the soil to drain well, and the sun will fry it. You’d have better luck over here,”—he pointed to the earthy ground below him, just beside the deck, where the overhang would provide sufficient shade all day long—“since the soil here is well drained. Azaleas thrive in the shade.”

She stared at him as though he was a stranger, and he reprimanded himself for saying too much. In and out, he had told himself before he came. Then she said, “I…didn’t know you were an expert on flowers.”

“Just rhododendrons.”

A trace of a smile. “I always pictured Arne doing the gardening.”

“We both do it.” He wanted to smile back, but instead looked away and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I don’t have much time, so—”

“Yes, of course. Come in.”

As he climbed the steps, he said, somewhat shamefully, “Ms. Ashton, about your car…”

She turned to him, raising a hand. “No, please. It’s fine, Mr. Clayton.”

“It’s not fine. I’ll pay for the repairs.” He scratched his head. “Not by Brian, of course, but somewhere in Government Camp maybe.”

She studied him.

“You’ll accept my offer, Ms. Ashton, no questions.”

She only nodded.

“And…” he began, taking a hesitant step. “You’re…Are you hurt?”

Again she studied him in a new light.

“Because if you are, I’d like to cover the medical exp—”

“No.” She scrunched her eyes and waved a hand, appearing annoyed. Perhaps humiliated. “There won’t be any medical expenses. I’m fine, just a little sore. It’ll go away.” She gave a half-smile, lifting her thumb. “And this didn’t need stitches.”

He nodded, and it seemed she couldn’t swallow as she looked to his feet. “I,” she began. “I wasn’t myself after…I mean, I’m sorry for…”

“For what? Wanting to defend yourself?”

“For being a monster. I’m not usually like that, not…like him.”

He ground his teeth, trying with all of him not to be offended. “You’re not a monster. And you could never be like it.”

“It?” After a perplexing moment, recognition relaxed her brow. “Oh. I’m referring to Brian, Mr. Clayton.”

He fumbled over his thoughts, foolishness leaving his face slightly warm. He’d never heard anyone claim another man was more of a monster than himself. “It’s…no matter,” he said, even though it did matter. Because seeing her “monster” left him strangely comforted. It left him strangely connected to her.