“Are you lost?” Brock asked me.

I shook my head, holding back the victorious smile I could feel working its way onto my face.

“I…” I held up my now ridiculous-looking bakery bag. “I’m your new neighbor.”

As he regarded me with increasingly suspicious lowered brows, I gave the bag a shake and continued. “I brought cookies!”

Now his scowl reached his mouth. Narrowing his eyes and shaking his head, he said, “The closest town or house is miles off.”

I nodded, speechless. The fact was so obvious. How had it not occurred to me before? I’d been too busy trying to avoid hitting a tree that I had hardly noticed I was driving to a remote hideout.

“So what exactly are you doing here then?” he asked, and this time his voice was cold.

“I…I’m…” I stared at the log cabin behind him—the one that would have the evidence I needed. I had made it here, and now I was messing it up.

“I saw you in town,” I blurted out. “I thought you were cute and wanted to bring these to see if you’d—I don’t know—want to go on a date sometime?”

Once the stupidity was done escaping my lips, I lowered my gaze in horror, unable to believe what idiocy had just come out of my mouth.

There was a long silence, during which I stared at his scuffed-up boots, the brown creased with dirt and slashes. If he found out who I was, this would all be over.

“Oh.”

He didn’t sound angry, only surprised. I chanced a look up to see a tinge of a blush visible through his beard.

His maple, wide-set eyes were scanning me distrustfully.

“Okay, well, do you want to come in for some tea or something?”

This time his voice was guarded, and when I managed a shy nod and stepped up to the door, he stepped in front of me.

He put his hand on my coat zipper. “Do you mind? Way out in the woods like this, every once in a while I get some crazies.”

I nodded dumbly, and he unzipped my jacket, pulling away one side and then the other while I kept my embarrassed gaze on those same boots that were pointed in my direction. Then, after peering into my bakery bag, Brock stepped back, opened the door, and gestured inside.

“I’m Brock, by the way.”

“Alexa,” I said as I walked in, glad he couldn’t make out my face.

I had never been a good liar, and while “Alexa” was the littlest of lies there were, I wouldn’t have put it past him to see right through it regardless.

Behind me, Brock flicked on the light, revealing an interior I had to take a minute to fully absorb. Though sparsely furnished, each piece of furniture was so pleasing that I had to give myself time to enjoy each. The floor, walls, and ceiling were the same gleaming oak. The stove was a pale yellow, antique wonder, while his fridge was wooden and also intricately carved. The stack of books in the corner was something of a well-worn Leaning Tower of Pisa. Just visible at the top of a ladder was a loft with cozy-looking swaths of blankets.

Yet the highlight of the cabin was the paintings that lined the walls: exquisitely rendered pine trees and birches, sprigs of bluebells and forget-me-nots, a curious, alert chickadee.

“Living here, I forget how lucky I have it,” Brock said with a soft chuckle, walking by me to the one cupboard.

He opened it to reveal two plates, two cups, a handful of cutlery, and a kettle, which he took down and placed on the stove.

“It really is something,” I said.

“Yeah. I don’t have visitors much,” he said softly, picking up the kettle and then putting it down again. “Actually, I don’t have visitors at all.”

He turned around, and I found my gaze once again irresistibly drawn to his boots.

“I know what I did, following you here, seems crazy,” I said. “It even seems crazy to me. It’s just that once I got started, once I got halfway up that arduous path, after I’d gone that far, it seemed too late to turn back. You know what I mean?”

My quiet appeal was made to Brock’s worn boots; I still wouldn’t look up.

“Yes. Yes, I do actually,” he said softly.

When I did look up, there was something in his eyes that told me he was just as serious as he had sounded.

Turning back to the stove, he turned a creaky dial and then kicked off his boots.

“I’m sorry. I’ve just had a crazy past few months. I’m not much used to people; that’s all.”

I nodded and took off my own boots.

“Nice socks,” he said.

I laughed, glancing down at the navy, periwinkle and cyan swooshes of water with the little splashes of white flowers.

“Forgot I wore my water lily ones.”

“So you like Monet?”

“Like isn’t the right word exactly. I’d say love is more like it.”

“So you’re into art then?”

His eyes were scanning me once more, this time with excitement more than anything.

“Yeah,” I said. “I took a course in high school, and the rest is history. Though I have pretty dated tastes, I like the pretty things, the Romanticism, the Impressionists, the Realism, like…”

My gaze went to the chickadee painting on his wall.

“Like the paintings on my walls?”

“Yeah, actually. They’re beautiful. Where’d you get them?”

“I made them,” he said, and now it was my turn to gape at him.

“You…made them?”

“Yeah. I—”

At the kettle’s screeching, he hurried over to the stove.

“One minute.”

He poured us two mugs and then gestured to a mahogany-colored couch. I sat down, and he handed me a china cup with little red flowers on the edge.

After blowing on his tea, he said, “I’ve been into art since I was a kid. I was always drawing, painting, making stuff with whatever I could get my hands on. Being an artist has always been my dream. It’s just…life got in the way.”

His gaze was on an old-looking chest with concentric boxes and twining lines carved into its wooden exterior. Something told me that this “life” that got in the way was a lot worse than Brock was letting on, no matter how nice he seemed.

“Well, you certainly have more than enough talent,” I said. “These are fantastic.”

He nodded and said “thanks” without looking over at me, his gaze still on the chest.

I blew on my tea and then took a sip, the burning heat searing my mouth immediately.

I spat it out.

“You okay?” he asked, and I nodded, glaring at the light brown liquid sitting innocuously in the little flower teacup.

After a minute, my glare shifted to the man who had sipped the lava-like tea easily. If I wasn’t careful, I was going to be burned by this job much worse than that.

“So what about you?” he said after another easy sip of his tea. “What do you do? You live here?”

“Yes,” I said, then paused, trying to figure out the next lie that would be easiest to tell.

“I…run my own business,” I said.

At this, he once again looked at me with interest.

“Oh yeah? How do you like that?”

“I love it. I have my dream job. It’s just that…it’s hard too. Everything’s up to me—I mean, success, failure, paying the bills. If I don’t work hard, I’m the only one who suffers. And it’s scary not knowing what the future holds.”

As I ventured another sip of my tea, Brock nodded, smiling ruefully.

“I know what you mean. Every upside has its downside. People always make out that working for yourself, being your own boss, means never having to worry again, when the reality is the opposite. It’s incredibly stressful and hard. Worth it, but hard.”

“It’s weird,” I murmured. “Hearing you talk, it’s almost like…”

“Hearing myself,” Brock said.

Our gazes met. I was hyperaware of his position next to me, his knee pressing against mine, the slight drooping of his eyelids, his parted lips.

If he tried what I thought he was going to do, would I let him?

“I have to go,” he said, rising. “Need to get wood. For the fireplace. There’s a storm coming in.”

I took another sip of my tea, finally able to enjoy the flavor.

“Great. Want help?”

But Brock was already halfway out the door, tossing a “no, no, it’s fine” over his shoulder.

Putting the teacup down, my gaze was drawn to where he had been sitting on the couch. This job hadn’t stopped surprising me. Brock wasn’t anything like I had expected, certainly not anything like an “unhinged criminal.”

I stood up and stretched. I thought of the picture in my car of the sinister-looking man I had come to nab, the Brock I had pegged wrong from the start. Now wasn’t the time to get sentimental about a target. It didn’t matter how handsome or kind he seemed; I had a job to do. After one step toward the chest, I hurried over to the front door to make sure I was in the clear. I opened it a crack and found myself face-to-face with Brock.