Because he didn’t.
He looked like he’d been waiting for her, like she was the answer to a problem he’d been holding too long.
“You’re Magnolia,” he said.
Not a question. A fact.
“Yes,” she answered, matching his bluntness with her own.
He offered his hand, palm up. Huge, calloused, steady.
Magnolia’s fingers slid into his grip, and the contact startled her. Not romantic. Not electric.
Just… matching.
“Silas Thornwood,” he said. “You made good time.”
“Your telegram didn’t leave room for delay.”
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