felt wrong about pretending, which he understood, or she thought it was too much to ask and wanted to spare him.
Another possibility came to mind, one that made his gut churn—she could be worried about him actually falling for her. If Justine didn’t see potential there, if she hadn’t felt what he had, she might fear that very thing.
“Well,” Wilfred said after gulping a quarter of his milk. “You’ve got quite the modern day love story. Meeting through technology as you did.” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and leveled a look at Burke. “But tell me this, what is it you love most about my Justine?”
A flash of heat pushed up his neck and into his face. Burke released her hand as he broke out in a sweat and cleared his throat. What didn’t he like?
He turned his eyes on Justine in time to catch a darker shade of pink tint her cheeks. He saw something else on her face too—worry. This wasn’t something they’d rehearsed.
She needn’t worry for long.
“I admire the way she lives in the moment,” Burke said.
The deepening furrow in the old man’s already wrinkled brow said he wasn’t impressed.
“I know that sounds cliché,” Burke admitted. “I’ve heard it said in about a hundred different ways—be in the moment. But I didn’t know what that looked like until Justine came along.” He turned his gaze to her, admiring the way her green sweater accented the hazel in her eyes. Eyes that were fixed on him with interest as she rested her forearms on the table and leaned in.
“She slows down to enjoy things like a good meal,” Burke said, replaying the small moans of approval as she enjoyed the mushrooms, shrimp, and at last, the filet mignon itself.
“She can take a normal, everyday thing and turn it into something magical. Like glancing up at the stars just last night. She makes me see things in a way I never had.”
His pulse sped with hints of anxiety; he was sounding like a true sucker in love, wasn’t he? It made him feel exposed, in a sense. Almost see through. He gulped past the tightness in his throat, remembering that this—convincing Wilfred that he was in love—was precisely what he’d agreed to do.
He only hoped it wouldn’t scare Justine away; he might have been too convincing. But something in the soft set of her face, and the way she inched toward him even still, said these were words she needed to hear. She needed to recognize her desirable traits. Needed to believe them.
So he allowed for one last example, the recollection causing a shallow laugh to sound in his throat. “She gives pieces of her heart to stray animals that meet early graves. She’s compassionate, sensitive, and beautiful in every sense of the word.” A blend of warm confirmation and embarrassed heat swirled in his chest.
His gaze darted back to Wilfred. Something flickered over the man’s expression. Appreciation, maybe? A certain softness replaced the once scrutinizing furrow along his brow. Hints of delight toyed with the set of his mouth. But perhaps most telling was the moisture welling up in his eyes.
“Ah…” he said in a satisfied tone. “You do know her, don’t you? You see what makes Justine one of a kind?”
“Yes.”
The unmistakable chime of a phone alarm sounded from the nearby bench where Justine’s purse sat.
“Oh,” she blurted. “That’s my alarm. I’m supposed to let Marci Foster into the lodge so she can set up her booth.” She snatched her bag off the bench, tugged out her phone, and gave the screen a tap. “I almost forgot all about that,” she admitted, eyes wide with surprise.
The name Foster sounded alarms in Burke’s head—that was his agent’s last name. The guy was single, so it couldn’t be his wife. But in a town this small it was definitely a relative. Would she tell Justine that someone purchased property that was—according to Lenny—a historical piece of land in Piney Falls? And that some passerby named Burke Richards helped complete the sell?
Wilfred stood to his feet. “You two go ahead. I know how busy this week is for you, getting everything prepped for the festival.”
Burke surveyed the scene before him. Plates with mere scraps sat centered on the placemats before Burke, Wilfred, and at the spot where Justine sat through dinner. A cast-iron pan rested in the center, nothing but lemon rinds and fishtails resting inside.
“Here,” he said, grabbing his plate and Justine’s too, “I’ll get this loaded