“What’s wrong?” Hugh asked for the tenth time since I’d arrived at his house. “I know something’s wrong.” We were sitting in his treehouse, where we were supposed to be reading, except instead he was worrying. About me. “Hugh, I’m grand,” I replied for the tenth time. “Stop worrying.” “I can’t.” He reached over and traced his finger over the part of my brow between my eyebrows. “You get a dimple right here when you’re worried.” “I do?” “Yeah, it’s a tiny one, but it’s there,” he explained, brown eyes flicking to mine. “So I know something’s bothering you.”
