âAbby, about that proposal.â
âIâm not going to talk about it, Donovan. Itâs over. Iâm over it. Iâve moved on. So should you.â
âYou sound so hard. I donât remember that about you.â
She stared straight at him.
âTime and circumstances do that to you, Donovan.â
He returned her look without flinching.
âMaybe you should tell me what you think happened that night, Abby,â he said, a quiet tension threading his voice. âWhat did your mother say?â
âWhatâs the point in rehashing that period of our lives? Itâs over. Now, if youâll excuse me, I need to get back to work.â Abby turned her back, pretending to concentrate on the ring in front of her.
A few minutes later, she heard the door close.
So Donovan was back.
So you avoid him, she thought. Keep yourself busy and away from him. Donovan never sticks to anything anyway. At least not the Donovan she remembered.
Doing your best usually meant redoing. Abigail Franklin had learned that at her motherâs knee.
With a sigh, Abby squeezed her forceps, lifted the paste stone and dropped it in the center of her newest platinum setting for the third time.
âLooks good,â a voice offered.
âGood is never good enough,â she muttered. Then the familiar voice hit a nerve.
Abbyâs fingers numbed. Her forceps slid out of her hand. She lifted her head and stared.
âHello, Abby.â
He was backâafter five long years.
Forcing taut muscles to obey, Abby slid from her stool and faced Donovan Woodward, the man whoâd promised her the world. And never delivered.
Memories of that smile, all sparkle, charm and appeal, swamped her.
âIâm not an April Foolâs joke, so stop staring,â he ordered, his grin slashing his handsome face. âHow are you?â
âOkay.â She studied his jutting cheekbones. âAnd you?â
âIâm all right.â
He didnât look all right. He looked tired.
But the longer Abby stared at Donovan Woodward, the more she knew tiredness wasnât the right word. True, there were deeply carved lines around his ocean-blue eyes, stripped now of the sparkle of pure fun that once dared her to join in. But tiredness wasnât the reason. Donovan never got tired, not the life-of the-party Donovan that Abby had known.
Still, a girl didnât forget the face of the first man to ask her to marry him, even after five years. Yet his face had changed, matured.
âArenât you going to say anything?â he demanded when the silence stretched too long and the air bristled with tenseness.
His testy tone irked her.
âSuch as what? Welcome home?â Abby suggested, glaring at him. âOr maybe we could discuss that note you told my mother to give me five years ago. How did it go? âI made a mistake. Iâm leaving. Sorry.ââ
She gritted her teeth, irked sheâd let that slip out.
âThat wasnât my best moment,â he admitted. âBut if youâll listen a minute, Iâll explainââ
âAfter five years youâre finally offering an explanation?â She tossed him a scathing glance before turning back to her worktable. âForget it.â
âAbby.â Donovan touched her arm, wordlessly asking her to face him. âI know I should have explained my reasons to you personally. Asking you to marry me on prom night and leaving two days later for Europe wasnât exactly what Iâd planned, but I figured youâd understand I was doing it for you.â
âFor me?â Incredulity filled her. âIs that how you justify it?â
âI didnât have to justify myself afterââ Donovan shook his head, cleared his throat. âThe gossip must have been awful. Iâm sorry I left you alone to face that, Abby.â
An apology from Donovan? That was nice. But all he was apologizing for was the gossip. Heâd even intimated his leaving had somehow benefited her, which was ludicrous. But then, maybe five years in Europe had changed his memories.
Still, how could he say his decision had anything to do with her?