Eight miserable days after the kiss that spoiled everything, Henry realized the old adage was true. Things can always get worse.

Isabella, in her naturally happy manner, drilled and filled a cavity. Her patient was one of the UP engineers. This particular man was handsome and unfailingly polite.

She laughed with him, paused in her work to ensure he remained comfortable, and blast it all—remained quite immune to Henry’s presence.

Now that she’d finished with the man’s nearly perfect teeth, the fellow paid what he owed and lingered with her near the exit.

Henry tried, with varying degrees of success, to ignore the engineer. Without a patient of his own at the moment, he forced himself to read the periodical he held.

Weeks ago, he’d promised he wouldn’t leave her alone with a male patient. If not for that vow, he’d have been out the door and down the stairs.

“Dr. Pattison,” the patient—Mr. James?—pressed her hand between both of his. “I’m impressed with your work. My least painful experience in the dental chair in . . . well, forever.”

Must she laugh with him, listen intently to every word, and enjoy his company with ease?

Despite the fact that this man’s attentions were a helpful development and unmistakably good news, Henry shoved down an unwelcome surge of jealousy.

Isabella was not his.

He didn’t want her to be his.

Not now, not yesterday, not tomorrow.

Some things were simply not meant to be.

Mr. James grinned. He dressed well enough, and his polished manners probably appealed to ladies of all ages.

“Are you anticipating the statehood celebration events?” James still held Isabella’s hand.

“I am, very much.”

“Would you be so good as to save me a dance at the calico ball?”

“I’d be delighted.”

Envy fermented in Henry’s gut. Had Isabella looked at him that way?

What did James have that Henry didn’t? Besides confidence as a dance partner and adequate income to take a wife?

“I’ll count on it.” He lifted her hand, kissed her knuckles, and lingered.

Right there, the man lost a solid five points in decorum. Decent men, good men, did not linger.

Henry kicked himself, again. He’d lingered. And he’d relived that lingering kiss one thousand times, at least.

That ill-fated kiss haunted him.

James still pressed his mustached lips to Isabella’s hand, so Henry shifted forcefully, ensuring the chair squeaked. He thumped his boot to the polished floor.

Abruptly, James straightened.

Isabella didn’t spare Henry a glance, so he went to the windows to pull down the new shades on each of four windows. The heat had become unbearable.

James cleared his throat. “The calico ball is a full month away, is it not? July 11? Today is the tenth of June. Such an infernal wait, don’t you think?”

The flirtatious dolt ought to be on his way.

“The month,” Isabella said, teasing in her voice, “will pass quickly enough.”

“It will if I have the pleasure of seeing you again.”

Two more points lost—no, make that three—for his presumption. She’d invite him to call if she wished. No gentleman invited himself, and no man called on a lady without an invitation. It simply wasn’t done.

Though she believed she’d never wed, she had every right to welcome a suitor.

Hopefully James wasn’t terrified of falling for a professional woman.

Isabella tossed a brief glare at Henry. He turned the page, unwilling to let her see he listened to every word.

The moments stretched, and Isabella did not extend the offer James wanted.

Henry fought to keep his expression neutral. Crowing in victory would prove most unhelpful.

The other man claimed his hat from the hall tree. He spun it in his hands. “Might I have the pleasure of accompanying you to the parade? We might have a picnic lunch and enjoy the music.”

The paper had run a detailed list of the week-long celebration events to come. The marching bands planned a concert after the parade, a mixture of patriotic tunes and modern favorites.

“You’re most kind to ask.” Isabella’s voice carried pleasure.

Henry should urge her to accept.

“If the parade and music performance don’t suit you, I’d be honored to escort you to the calico ball.”

But that kiss . . .

How could he maintain his distance and watch someone else court her? He’d figure it out, because he must.

“Thank you, Mr. James. I’ll consider your offer.”

“Very good.” The man’s relief was palpable. “Perhaps I’ll stop by next week. Here.”

“You may.” Her tone cooled. “I might as easily mail a letter in care of the station.”

His heart leapt. Isabella’s disinterest in James might mean . . .

Nothing had changed. Though no longer in danger with creditors, he could not support a household on his current income.

If and when his financial situation were secure, he must make his selection of bride with care. He needed a real home.

No matter how much he wanted Isabella to be the right kind of bride, she wasn’t.

When her handsome, flirtatious patient left the office, Isabella listened to his footfalls on the stairs. One, two, three . . .

Thank goodness she’d heeded that little voice inside her and not given in to Naomi’s pressure to confess her love to Henry. The past eight days had been horrid enough with her secret safely kept.

Ten, eleven, twelve.

Reasonably sure she and Henry were alone, she marched directly to him.

He looked up from his magazine, eyes widening briefly.

What did he think she’d do?

As if dealing with a boy who’d fallen asleep with his book, she eased The Dental Independent from his hands and laid it on the table.

“Would you care to explain,” she asked, unsure whether she’d laugh or cry, “what that was all about?”

He blinked. Had he any idea how clearly he gave himself away? Jealousy slanted his brows, quickly chased offstage by guilt’s rampage. Last, but not least, determination. “I promised I’d not leave you alone with a male patient.”

“You listened to every word exchanged.”

“Yes. I’m your . . .” He circled his hand, as if the motion would conjure the missing word.

“Paid protector, I believe I said.”

“Something like that.”

“What happened to us?” That question had spun ’round and ’round in her head like a housefly trapped indoors, buzzing at all hours through eight interminably long days and nights.

To be fair, the first few were spent floating on a sea of tranquility. Henry had kissed her!

And then shut her out. He hadn’t touched her, even with a friendly pat on the shoulder. He’d not offered his arm. She straightened, realizing he’d not so much as walked beside her.

He rose, as if towering over her made the question easier to address. “Nothing happened to us. We’re still professionals. We still work in this office.” He flung a hand toward the door through which her patient had passed. “Our names are still painted on the windows.”

How, precisely, had she fancied herself in love with this man?

This aggravating, self-centered, petrified man?

How, exactly, did a single kiss . . . in truth, that kiss had counted for at least two, if not three. How did three kisses, in the space of sixty seconds, terrify a man like Henry Merritt?

Finally! The question she’d danced around at two o’clock that morning, unable to identify.

She folded her arms and tipped her head up. “Please, Dr. Merritt, if you’d be so kind, do tell me how one little kiss brought you to your knees?”

“I, uh—” He splayed a hand over the precise location, anatomically speaking, of his heart. “I’m not—you didn’t—”

“Prior to that occasion, eight days ago . . .” One of her eyelids twitched. Once, twice, then picked up an annoying rhythm. “Eight.” She cleared her throat. Twitch. “Days.” Twitch, twitch. “Ago. Heretofore, I’d believed you a man with the constitutional fortitude of a bull elk.”

His brows straightened. Stupefied. “Pardon me, Isabella. Is a question hiding in there somewhere?”

Twitch. She should’ve smacked him. Or pushed him backward into his chair.

Did the man think she’d simper in the corner, waiting for him to come to his senses? Did he believe she’d turn down an offer of companionship from Mr. James because the man she wanted found himself unnerved by The Kiss?

All excellent questions, but she’d do well to stick with the first.

“You kissed me, eight days ago.”

He jerked his head to the right, as if he’d launched into a determined shake of the head, but instantly caught himself. He covered the brusque reaction by palming the back of his neck and massaging with force.

“And I kissed you back.” With tremendous effort, she managed to sound at peace. After all, they were finally talking—and the annoying twitching in her eyelid had ceased. She’d do well to remain civil.

“Prior to that sixty seconds of affection, you’d been a dear friend. We talked about all sorts of scientific matters, the weather, the challenges our patients face. After those sixty seconds, you’ve been a changed man.”

He opened his mouth. He honestly hadn’t a clue what to say.

“Oh, yes. Definitely a changed man. Since that fateful morning, you’ve barely offered me a hand into the wagon or down from that dangerously high seat—”

“My mother taught me better manners than that.”

She raised one brow and paused.

A little huff sounded. The fight left him.

“You’ve exercised great care to avoid touching me. Not intentionally, and certainly not unintentionally.”

“How might I intentionally refrain from touching you unintentionally?”

A chuckle escaped before she composed herself.

“I still make you laugh.” His pleasure faded, and the light in his eyes dimmed.

“Yes, you did.” She tried to sweep her heartache under the rug before he witnessed it.

“Maybe,” he whispered, “I ruminated everything you confided.”

She’d churned over everything as well. Wondered, hour upon hour, what she’d said to chase him away.

“Maybe,” he paused, “I startled, like a bird in the bush, and flew willy-nilly.” Sadness and regret shone in the warmth of his brown irises. “Maybe I realized the emotions in my heart had serious . . . uh, hmm.” He coughed. “Uh—feelings. Feelings connected.”

Had that kiss made him realize he loved her?

“Maybe I realized I’m not the man you want me to be. And need me to be.”

“Henry—”

“Maybe I realized that you’re a woman carrying a bushel of ache in her heart. And maybe I looked at the situation closely and fear I’m not equipped.”

Not equipped? “Henry.” Her corset seemed tight as her heart expanded an extra size.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I’m a woman who believes kisses are a special thing. Like gold dollars, they’re not to be tossed away indiscriminately.”

His Adam’s apple slid down his throat and bobbed back up. Terror flickered over his expression.

“I say this, not as prelude to a marriage proposal—”

“Hey, I didn’t think—”

“—but as an explanation.” She spoke over his objection. “Yes, you and I are friends. We are dentists who work side by side at the same address. I comprehend that everything has changed between us, and yet nothing has changed.”

She’d barely completed her statement when he broke in. “Do you intend to accept James’s invitation? To the parade and music? Or the ball?”

“Why would I do that? The calico dress, petticoats, and unmentionables my mother ordered arrived yesterday by express.”

He blinked, utterly confused. Such a dear man.

“Do you know what matches the yards upon yards of calico I’ll wear to our calico ball?”

His confusion deepened. What adorable incertitude!

“Your undershirt, shirt, collar and cuffs, necktie, and sack suit. Your ensemble matches my costume.”

“Uh . . .”

How had Mother reduced this eloquent man to a single syllable?

“I may have described you in my letter, but only so Mother could order a shirt, sans collar and cuffs. I have firsthand knowledge of men in Almy, near your size, who need a new shirt.”

He dragged a hand over his face.

“Between you and me, no one will ever know if the suit remains in the crate, unworn.” She tiptoed a step closer to whisper, “It’s a handsome suit of clothes. Someone in Almy will appreciate it.”

He seemed to follow the conversation, yet confusion lingered.

Perhaps she could put him at ease. “My mother might have a one-track mind, but I assure you, her gift of an entire set of clothing—yes, unmentionables for you, also—is by no means an expectation of marriage.”