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eyes? So disconcerting.
    She wanted this night to be over. She wanted to flop into bed and pull the quilt over her head and pretend none of this was happening. But they’d only been here fifteen minutes.
    On the shore, she passed the first bench and headed toward the one farther back in the shadows, shuffling along the frozen ground.
    Her heart pounded and her limbs quaked. She just wanted to hide for a while. She didn’t want to face Dad and his questions. Or Beckett and Madison and their knowing eyes.
    She couldn’t sit, even when she reached the bench. Even though her ankles throbbed. She perched on the seat back, facing away from the ice, glad for the cover of darkness.
    The strains of “Santa Baby” floated through the air, suddenly cooler in the shadows of the night. Overhead, skeletal branches stretched across the darkened sky like icy fingers. In the distance someone laughed, and she remembered what Murphy had said. About realizing he loved her, about wanting to hear her laughter for the rest of his life.
    “You okay?”
    She jumped at the sound of his voice, so close.
    “No, I’m not okay.”
    He stood in front of her, his face too shadowed to read.
    “I can’t stand this anymore. I’m lying to my father, and our friends think we’re planning a wedding but we aren’t, and someone’s going to figure that out, and even if they don’t, how are we going to get out of this when it’s over?” Her voice rose as she went.
    He set his hands on her shoulders. “Come on, baby, you’ve got to pull it together.”
    She shrugged his hands off. “What’s with the baby stuff?” She didn’t like it. And she didn’t want to think too hard about why.
    “Just hang in there awhile longer. We can’t quit now. There’s too much at stake.”
    Like her whole career. If they called off the engagement now, Stanley Malcolm would probably drop her like a hot potato even if she staged Murphy’s home like the Biltmore Mansion.
    “How can you stand this? How can you field questions and look all … swoony, and do it with a straight face?”
    He stilled. And didn’t speak for so long she was ready to shake the answer out of him. She regretted the shadows now because she couldn’t see his eyes and didn’t have a clue what he was thinking. But she could feel his tension in the rigid way he held himself. Could hear the stress of his shallow breaths.
    “It’s easy,” he said so softly she strained to hear.
    The last notes of the song rang out, fading into the night. Only her heartbeat, thumping hard and heavy, punctuated the silence.
    “I just tell the truth,” he whispered.
    A soft, soulful tune began. The strains of the violins wove around them, casting a sweet spell. Layla couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.
    Murphy turned and walked away, leaving her to stare after him.

Eight
    L ayla took the porch steps, careful of the slippery spots. Murphy’s neighborhood was quiet on this Saturday morning. A dusting of snow covered the ground, and the chill in the air burned her lungs.
    She stifled a yawn as she slid the key into the lock. She’d stared at the darkened ceiling half the night wondering about what Murphy had said. Turning the comment every which way. And every way she turned it, she ended up with the same view: Murphy had feelings for her.
    She couldn’t believe he might love her—though his answer to Dad’s question suggested otherwise. And she definitely wasn’t about to address the subject with him. Last night had been awkward enough.
    Today she anticipated a much-needed break from him. He’d be at the hardware store, and she’d be off to work at Cappy’s before he returned. The thought of a pleasant morning doing what she loved put a spring in her step as sheentered the quiet house. She closed the door, shutting out the cold, and loosened her scarf.
    Murphy emerged from the kitchen.
    Layla jumped, palming her heart. Her eyes took stock. Pajama bottoms, dark skin, rippling muscles. There was a mug