died a swift death, his smile fading.
Why the change?
“Did you always want to run the inn?” he asked, switching gears.
“No,” she replied, and cringed. Her mother would be devastated if she found out Dorothea saw the job as, well, a job rather than a passion. “I wanted to be a meteorologist.”
“So why aren’t you a meteorologist?”
Let me count the ways... “It’s a long story.” Her guts churned as years of bad memories whisked through her mind.
“No worries. I’ve got time.”
“Too bad. I’ve got no inclination.”
He thought for a moment, nodded. “That’s fair. There are things I never share with others.”
“Never?” Not with anyone?
“Never.” Did he realize his gaze had glazed over, the color seeping from his cheeks? Did he know he was rubbing a small scar on his cheek?
That scar...she thought she remembered his dad talking about Daniel’s face being lacerated by shrapnel.
Did his secrets have anything to do with his many missions overseas?
She ran the rag over the faucet, the inside of the sink. “Did you always want to be in the military?” Wait. She had to stop asking him such personal questions. Nowhere in her Make Daniel Go Bye-Bye plan did she get to know him better.
“As a little boy, I ruthlessly and relentlessly led my toys into war. Stuffed animals against action figures. I’d be working my way to general if my dad’s health hadn’t deteriorated.”
Her heart melted as she pictured little Daniel commanding his furry or plastic troops. She’d played with Barbies, sending them into rainstorms and tornadoes—the washing machine and the dryer.
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