really need any extra stuff. Iâm not sure how long Iâm going to be staying here, anyway.â
Ignoring the last part of her statement, he set the box on the coffee table and gestured to its contents. âWell, just take a look. If you want me to find another home for it, I will. In the meantime, though, I better give you your space.â He strode toward the open door, only to stop a few inches from his target. Glancing over his shoulder, he drank in one final look, his gaze lingering on the sleep-tousled hair that cascaded over her bare shoulders like a waterfall.
âAgain, Iâm sorry for barging in the way I did,â he said, taking a final step toward the door. âI just had to know you were okay. And like you, I guess Iâm letting my past dictate my present more than it should.â
Chapter Ten
Despite what sheâd just said, Maggie knew she didnât want Rory to go. Why else did her heart sink at the click of the door? Why else did she feel like running after him and begging him to stay?
âBecause youâre sick, thatâs why,â she mumbled.
She clapped a hand over her lips as her words registered. Was she? Was she truly having the nervous breakdown her uncle had predicted was on the horizon?
No. She was just trying to find her way. And she would. Eventually.
Eventually has to start sometime, Maggie.
Closing her eyes, she inhaled the sound of Jackâs voice, willed it to give her the courage she needed to put one foot in front of the other. Yet, the face that propelled her to actually move from her spot belonged to someone else.
It would start now. Slowly, she made her way over to the box Rory had left behind, the concern in his eyes and the tenderness of his touch playing in her mind as she lifted the flaps and peered inside. Basic wood frames in various shapes and sizes were neatly stacked along oneside of the cardboard box. Along the other were binsâcolorful plastic containers nested atop one another. She plucked out the top one and opened it to find an assortment of seashells and sand dollars. She grabbed the next few tubs, finding sequins, flat-back faux gemstones, beads and polished stones. The final container held a glue gun, spray adhesive, invisible thread and a large jar of beach sand.
âWho on earth could have left this stuff behind?â she whispered. Leaning back against the sofa, she studied the treasure trove that now covered the coffee table, her creative juices flowing and her mind running in a thousand different directions.
She grabbed a rectangular frame that was designed to house a five-by-eight-inch photograph, and looked at the various bins, her attention stolen by the one containing the seashells. With some beach sand, and a sand dollar or twoâ¦
Her mind made up, she searched the room for an empty outlet, plugging the glue gun into the first one she found. Next, she scooped up the supplies she needed and made her way over to the kitchen table, its clear surface a testament to the fact sheâd eaten nothing more than apples since arriving.
Well, apples and a Belgian waffle.
And lasagnaâ¦
She bit back the smile that came with both of those memories, and forced her attention onto the project in front of her, remembering to cover the table with a few old newspapers her uncle had left behind. Once herworkstation was ready, she uncapped the can of adhesive and sprayed the whole front of the frame. When she was done she sprinkled on some of the beach sand, slowly transforming the basic wood frame into something much more.
Next came the sand dollars. Maggie agonized over their placement until she was sure sheâd found just the right spots, cementing her decision with the help of the hot glue. After applying the final shell into place, she scooted back in her chair and admired her work.
âNot bad, if I say so myself.â
This time she allowed the smile to come, to lift her mouth in a way that felt more
Ignoring the last part of her statement, he set the box on the coffee table and gestured to its contents. âWell, just take a look. If you want me to find another home for it, I will. In the meantime, though, I better give you your space.â He strode toward the open door, only to stop a few inches from his target. Glancing over his shoulder, he drank in one final look, his gaze lingering on the sleep-tousled hair that cascaded over her bare shoulders like a waterfall.
âAgain, Iâm sorry for barging in the way I did,â he said, taking a final step toward the door. âI just had to know you were okay. And like you, I guess Iâm letting my past dictate my present more than it should.â
Chapter Ten
Despite what sheâd just said, Maggie knew she didnât want Rory to go. Why else did her heart sink at the click of the door? Why else did she feel like running after him and begging him to stay?
âBecause youâre sick, thatâs why,â she mumbled.
She clapped a hand over her lips as her words registered. Was she? Was she truly having the nervous breakdown her uncle had predicted was on the horizon?
No. She was just trying to find her way. And she would. Eventually.
Eventually has to start sometime, Maggie.
Closing her eyes, she inhaled the sound of Jackâs voice, willed it to give her the courage she needed to put one foot in front of the other. Yet, the face that propelled her to actually move from her spot belonged to someone else.
It would start now. Slowly, she made her way over to the box Rory had left behind, the concern in his eyes and the tenderness of his touch playing in her mind as she lifted the flaps and peered inside. Basic wood frames in various shapes and sizes were neatly stacked along oneside of the cardboard box. Along the other were binsâcolorful plastic containers nested atop one another. She plucked out the top one and opened it to find an assortment of seashells and sand dollars. She grabbed the next few tubs, finding sequins, flat-back faux gemstones, beads and polished stones. The final container held a glue gun, spray adhesive, invisible thread and a large jar of beach sand.
âWho on earth could have left this stuff behind?â she whispered. Leaning back against the sofa, she studied the treasure trove that now covered the coffee table, her creative juices flowing and her mind running in a thousand different directions.
She grabbed a rectangular frame that was designed to house a five-by-eight-inch photograph, and looked at the various bins, her attention stolen by the one containing the seashells. With some beach sand, and a sand dollar or twoâ¦
Her mind made up, she searched the room for an empty outlet, plugging the glue gun into the first one she found. Next, she scooped up the supplies she needed and made her way over to the kitchen table, its clear surface a testament to the fact sheâd eaten nothing more than apples since arriving.
Well, apples and a Belgian waffle.
And lasagnaâ¦
She bit back the smile that came with both of those memories, and forced her attention onto the project in front of her, remembering to cover the table with a few old newspapers her uncle had left behind. Once herworkstation was ready, she uncapped the can of adhesive and sprayed the whole front of the frame. When she was done she sprinkled on some of the beach sand, slowly transforming the basic wood frame into something much more.
Next came the sand dollars. Maggie agonized over their placement until she was sure sheâd found just the right spots, cementing her decision with the help of the hot glue. After applying the final shell into place, she scooted back in her chair and admired her work.
âNot bad, if I say so myself.â
This time she allowed the smile to come, to lift her mouth in a way that felt more
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