The next morning, Andrew arrives at the inn with a bouquet of wildflowers and that bright smile I remember from our forest meetings. But I’m more tired than I expected, and everything feels slightly off-kilter.
“Good morning, beautiful,” he says, pressing a kiss to my cheek that feels warm and familiar. “I brought you these. Thought they might brighten up this dreary room.”
“They’re lovely,” I say, accepting the flowers gratefully. “Thank you.”
I arrange them in the water pitcher while he settles into the room’s single chair. I perch on the edge of the bed, noticing that there’s something comforting about having him here, even if Turnville still feels strange to me. I don’t like this town. Something about it feels wrong, though I can’t put my finger on what.
“I’ve been thinking about o
