rushed downstairs to tell me she didn’t have enough eggs, I couldn’t not offer to go get them.
That’s why I found myself weighed down by plastic bags filled with eggs as I marched out of the convenience store and abruptly slammed into a hard body.
The eggs!
I winced, not even caring I’d bruised my cheek on someone’s shoulder as I looked down into the bags. Oh man, those babies had better be okay.
Glancing up at the person I’d crashed into to belatedly apologize, I gaped in shock.
It was West Elliot, up close and personal.
In the nearly four months I’d lived in Alnster, this was as close as I’d gotten to the man.
Lucas must have inherited his eye color from his mother, because West’s were dark. He was a tall, strapping guy, still rugged and handsome. However, there was a hardness to his eyes and his mouth that I didn’t like.
He flicked his cold gaze down my body and back up again. “You’re the American.”
I tried not to roll my eyes.
That was me. The American. I had a feeling I could live twenty years in this village and I’d still always be the American!
“Yup. You’re West Elliot.”
He gave me a lift of his chin before his gaze fell to my left hand. He scowled. “Rushing into that, are you not?”
I scowled back. “Not sure that’s your business.”
West’s lips pursed as he studied my face.
“Well, if that’s all, I have eggs to deliver—”
“I’ve heard nothing but good things about you.”
Surprised, I faltered. “Uh . . . that’s nice.”
“Which is why I think you should know the truth.”
Something about his tone caused a shiver, not the good kind, to skitter down my spine.
Disapproval darkened West’s already frosty expression. “I know what it’s like to be made a fool by someone you trusted. And if you’re a good lass, like everyone says you are, you don’t deserve that.”
The uneasiness settling around me made me irritable. “And what’s the truth?”
“Roane Robson is lying to you.”
I felt my defenses rising. Bad-mouthing Roane was the wrong move with—
“He has all his friends, nearly the whole damn village, covering up his lies for him. I’ve heard them joking about it. How the American girl had rules about dating, and he lied about who he was so you would give him a chance. Has he told you the truth now that he’s got a ring on you?”
Thinking this was just some sick, bitter attempt to cause misery, I huffed, “You’re unbelievable.”
“He hasn’t,” West surmised, crossing his big arms over his chest. “Ask him, lass. Ask him his age. Ask him how much younger he is. But more importantly ask him if he was ever planning to tell you that you’re not only marrying into a fortune, you’re marrying into a baronetcy.”
I leaned away from him, shaking my head.
No.
He was lying.
West sighed. “His father is Sir William George Robson, the twelfth Baronet of Alnster, and when he dies, Roane will be Sir Roane Robson, and if you marry him, you’ll be addressed as Lady Robson.”
If this was a lie . . . it was a very colorful one.
“Ask him, lass,” he repeated before striding by me.
Sick to my stomach, I hurried toward the bookstore. My heart was racing and pounding so fast and hard in my chest, I thought I might throw up. I couldn’t remember even getting to the store.
Yet suddenly I was there. In the apartment, staring at Caro.
She stopped in the middle of pouring batter into cake pans as she looked at me. “Evie, what’s wrong?”
My throat felt dry, rasping as I forced the words out. “Is it true? Is Roane wealthy? Is he the heir to a title?”
Her face paled as she stepped back from the counter. “Evie . . . he’s been trying to tell you.”
The bags in my hands dropped, and the room spun.
Oh my God.
What was I doing? How had I not seen he was keeping secrets?
It looked like I didn’t know Roane Robson at all.
Twenty-Five
Everything felt unreal, the wall and the wood burner merging into one as I stared into space with the cold mug of tea between my hands.
I’d vaguely been aware of Caro calling Roane, sticking a cup of tea in front of me, and packing up her stuff. She left a few moments before with the promise that Roane would be there to explain everything.
Explain everything.
How could he explain this?
When I heard feet pounding up the stairs followed by the familiar clack of dog nails on hardwood, the wall and