A bond that not even time can break…

As kids, Emily Quinn and Matt Malone were thick as thieves in the tightly knit community of Cassabaw Station. Then Emily’s world crumbled into tragedy, and she was sent away. She’s just returned to run a beachside café she now owns. A free spirit…with a guarded heart.

But while this town still feels like home, Matt is nothing like the boy she remembered. He is a man lost to shadows and doubt. As he helps Emily restore the café, however, their childhood bond reignites and unfurls into bittersweet longing. Now they face the greatest test of friendship…love.

What if?

What if he had kissed Em? Would she have pushed him away? Matt highly doubted it. Her body language had spoken volumes. He could tell she was completely in tune with him. He could see it in the shine of her eyes, in the way she leaned into him, and the light touch of her fingertips against his shoulder. The way she’d stumbled over words. She’d felt the same pull he had.

So strong was the current between them that Matt had literally wanted to pull her hard against him, dig his fingers into her hair and find the perfect angle of her head, just before lowering his mouth and fitting it to hers. So close he’d come to tasting those full lips, that long, soft throat, and holding her lithe body in his hands.

“Dammit!” Matt muttered under his breath, willing the images to go away. They wouldn’t. They stayed. Grew. Morphed into more than just a kiss.

Dear Reader,

Those Cassabaw Days introduces Matt Malone and Emily Quinn, childhood friends separated by time and now reunited on the small barrier island they grew up on. But this is more than simple romance. More, even, than just falling in love, experiencing the rush of butterflies, the fever of passion. It’s about building a friendship rooted in childhood innocence. It’s about having memories and making more memories. And it’s about overcoming all the barriers that stand in the way of forever.

I wrote this novel from many of my own memories: the place I grew up, people I knew and loved, and beloved recollections that still resonate within me when I inhale a certain scent or hear a particular song.

I hope you enjoy these memories embedded in Those Cassabaw Days, the unique souls who inhabit the island of Cassabaw Station, the families and hearts who fall desperately in love. It might even set you on a journey to find such a place—even if within the pages of a novel.

Happy reading!

Cindy Miles

Those Cassabaw Days

Cindy Miles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CINDY MILES grew up on the salt marshes and back rivers of Savannah, Georgia. Moody, sultry and mossy, with its ancient cobblestones and Georgian and Gothic architecture, the city inspired her to write twelve adult novels, one anthology, three short stories and one young-adult novel. When Cindy is not writing, she loves traveling, photography, baking, classic rock and the vintage, tinny music of The Great Gatsby era. To learn more about her books visit her at cindy-miles.com.

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For Wimpy and Frances Harden—

they really did fall in love as kids

and grow old together.

For the Greatest Generation of our time—

the men and women of World War II.

For Deidre Knight—

someone who always believes

and is always my champion.

For my mom, Dale Nease—

best cheerleader ever!

And for Logan, Liam and Lachlan Pierce—

my crazy Texas monkeys who fill me with joy.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

PROLOGUE

Island Cemetery Cassabaw Station August 2000

WHAT WAS IT about death and rain, anyway? Emily Quinn’s grandma had said it was the angels’ tears falling from Heaven, and they were sad that Mama and Daddy had to leave us behind to join them. She’d also said God was full of euphoria to have two new angels beside Him to do His work. What was euphoria, anyway? And why didn’t God do some of His own work? There were plenty enough angels in Heaven. Emily and her little sister, Reagan, needed Mama and Daddy more than God did. But it didn’t matter to Him. He had them now, and was keeping them. Forever. No take backs.

Emily stood just outside of the cover of her grandpa’s umbrella, staring at the cemetery workers as they turned a metal crank, lowering her father into the grave. She wondered who’d dressed him in that stupid dark gray suit. He looked stuffy and pinched and uncomfortable with that tie yanked up close to his throat. Daddy hated suits. He liked shorts and T-shirts and his favorite old brown leather flip-flops. They’d also brushed his unruly sun-bleached curls to the side. He never, ever wore his hair like that, and it looked dumb. Even now she wanted to fling that lid open and ruffle his hair so it was messy and Daddy. No one had listened to her, though.

Her eyes slid over to her mom’s casket. She didn’t want to think of her mama lying in that stupid shiny container, wearing that new gray dress Grandma had bought for her; it was ugly. Her mom always wore bright, sunny colors. Not drab gray. And, she had too much blush on her cheeks. Too much eye shadow. She would have hated that. Mama was naturally pretty and didn’t need even a stitch of makeup. Tears burned the back of Emily’s throat, and she pressed closer to Reagan, who was two years younger, at ten.

The drone of the preacher’s final words, meant for comfort, Grandma had said, sounded more like a hive of bees, mad and buzzing in Emily’s ears. It made the stitches under the bandage circling her head throb, and the gash burn. Anger boiled inside her at the thought. Why did I survive while Mama and Daddy didn’t? Why did they leave me behind?

Suddenly, a sob escaped Reagan and she hurried over to stand between their grandma and grandpa. She began to cry pretty hard. Emily squeezed her eyes tightly shut, refusing to set free the tears pushing at her eyelids. Slowly, she lifted her face, breathed and opened her eyes.

The rain fell from a blanket of dreary gray clouds in fat, heavy plops that sank straight through her hair to her scalp. Dull thuds pinged off the umbrellas as the rain fell a little faster, and chorused through the crowd of mourners gathered at the graveside.

The cemetery workers began turning the crank again, clink clink clink, lowering her mama into the ground beside her daddy. Her eyes followed that shiny container, and Emily felt cold and alone, and her body began to shake. She hated that suit. She hated that dress. And she hated those caskets. She couldn’t stop the tremors no matter how hard she tried.

She wanted to run. Run as fast and as far away as she could and just keep going and going. Her heart pounded hard against her ribs, and it hurt. It hurt to breathe, it...just hurt so bad inside—

A hand—warm, a little bigger than hers and stronger, too—slipped into hers and squeezed with a firm gentleness that caught her off guard. Emily didn’t even need to look to see who had eased through the crowd to stand beside her, and her body sagged against his skinny but surprisingly strong frame. Matt Malone’s hand squeezed hers a little tighter, as if trying to take the pain away, and Emily felt his warmth seep straight through his long-sleeved white dress shirt, deep into her skin.

Even though he was a boy, Matt had been her best friend since, well, forever, and his presence eased the hurt a little. Emily breathed, her head resting against Matt’s shoulder, and soon her body stopped shaking so much.

She knew it’d start up again, the shaking. And the tears would not stay inside her eyes for too much longer, either. She was leaving Cassabaw Station. Leaving her best friend. Leaving her dead mama and daddy in the ground in those shiny caskets.

Leaving home.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, we return Kate and Alex Quinn to Your servitude, oh Lord,” the preacher droned on. “In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, amen.”

Thunder rumbled far in the distance, almost as if God was answering the preacher’s offering. Sniffles rose through the air as mourners sobbed out loud, and Emily blocked them all out, turning her head to look at Matt. He was already staring at her, and she gazed right back into his strange green eyes. Eyes that always held mischief and devilment now looked glassy and sad. Long black lashes fanned out against his wet, bronzed skin. His dark hair sat plastered to his head from the rain, but a long hank flipped out from his cowlick and hung across his forehead. His black tie was crooked and soaked. She fixed her gaze on his eyebrow, the one with the scar slashing through it. The emptiness returned, and a big, swelled-up tear rolled down her cheek.

“I wish you weren’t going,” Matt said, his voice low, steady. He still had her hand in his. “I don’t want you to go. It ain’t fair.”

“I know,” Emily answered. Her voice cracked as the pent-up sobs grabbed her over. “I don’t want to leave.”

Matt leaned closer to her ear, and for once, he smelled clean, like soap. Not salty from the river water. “Jep says it’s horseshit that you and Rea have to move away to Maryland,” he whispered. “Says you should just stay and live with us, on Morgan’s Creek.” He pulled back and stared. “That this is your home.”

Jep was Matt’s grandpa, and Emily felt the very same way. She’d pleaded for her and Reagan not to leave Cassabaw, but Grandma and Grandpa said they had to take care of them, and their home was in Maryland. Right next door to the President of the United States, they’d said. Emily had begged to stay with Daddy’s aunt Cora; that she and Reagan didn’t care one bit about living close to the president, but Grandpa said no, because Aunt Cora was too busy and had the café to run.

It hadn’t taken their grandpa long to pack up all the things from the river house and load them into the U-Haul. They were leaving straight from the funeral, heading to their home in Bethesda. Nine hours away, Grandpa had said.

A sob caught in Emily’s throat as the tears kept rolling down her cheeks. “I’ll come back one day,” she whispered, “right here to Cassabaw, and I won’t ever leave again. We have to fly in our flying machine. Right?” Jep had taught them an old song, “Come Josephine in My Flying Machine,” and they’d sung it together since they were little. It was their song now, and they’d sworn they’d fly in one, someday.

Matt dropped their entwined hands, reached up and gently wiped Emily’s tears away with the rough pads of his fingers. “Yeah, that’s right. So don’t go flyin’ away in one with anyone else, okay? Promise?” he asked, and jerked a pinkie toward her. “Promise, Em. Promise you’ll come back. For good. And never leave again.”

She nodded, and hooked her own pinkie around his. “I promise.”

Matt’s emerald gaze regarded her for a long time before he gave a single nod. “Deal.” He dropped his hand and it disappeared into the pocket of his black dress pants. When he withdrew it, his closed fist hovered in the air. “I got something for you. Hold out your hand.”

Emily held hers out. Matt lowered his fist and opened it. Something small and cool grazed her skin. It was an angel-wing shell. At least, that’s what she and Matt had always called them. Although in the ocean the shells were closed, like little clams, with a little creature inside. Once the shells washed onto the beach, they opened up like a pair of angel wings. Emily looked at Matt.

A slight grin lifted the corner of his mouth, and he reached down with his bony fingers and broke the two wings apart.

“What’d you do that for—” Emily began.

Matt flipped each wing over, and Emily stared. Inside each shell, a name. Matt in one, and Em in the other. She lifted her gaze to his as he claimed the one with her name.

“This is for you to remember me by,” Matt offered. “Since you like ’em and all. I’ll keep yours, see, and you keep mine.” Then his brows furrowed. “It doesn’t mean boyfriend and girlfriend, or anything stupid like that.” He drew closer, his voice dropping once more to a whisper. “It just means best friends. Forever.” His eyes softened. “No matter what.”

A sob escaped her throat as she flung her arms around Matt’s neck. His skinny arms went around Emily, and he hugged her hard.

“No matter what,” Emily repeated against his damp shoulder. “Forever.”

“Emily, darling, it’s time to go.” Grandpa’s deep voice sounded behind them. They broke apart and, once more, Matt swiped Emily’s tears away with his fingers. Her grandpa gently grasped her hand and led her away.

Emily’s vision blurred as more tears filled her eyes, and even more pain returned. She watched the mossy ground move under her feet as she walked, and she’d kick an occasional pinecone when it got in her way. The rain had eased up, and the salty brine of the Back River wafted through the cemetery. Moss hung from the live oaks like ratty old hair, and puffy dandelions swayed with the breeze. She didn’t once look up, but she knew Matt followed, just a little behind. At her grandparents’ Bronco, she turned and met her best friend’s gaze. Matt stared hard and didn’t say anything, seemed almost angry, and she stared back. In her palm, she squeezed her Matt angel wing shell tightly.

Grandpa opened her door, and Matt mouthed the word bye.

Emily, her heart in her throat, mouthed it back.

She climbed in, and as the Bronco began to move away, the U-Haul heavy behind it, Emily kept her eyes trained on Matt Malone, standing there in his white shirt, crooked black tie and dress pants, his hand lifted in goodbye. She raised her hand, too, and didn’t look away until her grandpa turned out of the cemetery’s long driveway, heading toward the interstate.

Then, Emily reached over the seat to grasp little Reagan’s hand, closed her eyes and silently said goodbye to her home.

CHAPTER ONE

Cassabaw Station Present day Late May

EMILY QUINN WAITED in a single line of four or five cars as the big steel bridge to the island broke apart, each side rising high. The warm early-afternoon sun poured in and warmed her skin. Fats Waller’s “Ain’t Misbehavin’” played as she watched the large shrimp trawler pass beneath her. She turned the volume up, the trumpets and trombones and tenor saxophones of the vintage twenties music she loved so much coming to life through the speakers. Down the river, stilt houses and wooden docks hugged the water and marsh grass. She was almost home. Moments later, after the trawler had passed safely below, the bridge lowered, and she was again on her way, heading off the mainland and onto the island.

The early-summer wind whipped through the Jeep’s open doors and top and Emily inhaled, filling her lungs until they squeezed against her ribs.

Emily peered ahead down the stretched two-lane highway. Palms and oleander trees lined the narrow seven-mile tract of road over the marsh to Cassabaw Station, and it was just as she’d remembered. A tinge of excitement raced through her body, making her skin tingle. She had missed this—the salt life, her daddy had called it. She remembered only hazy bits and pieces of her past, but that one in particular stood out. That, and her father’s sandy-blond curls.

The humidity lingered as heavy as the brine of the creek—so much that it clung to her skin, her tongue. Emily swept her gaze to either side of the road as she drove. Rudy Vallée sang “As Time Goes By” and she hummed along, and somehow the vintage music fit right into the feel of Cassabaw. Low tide and clumps of saw grass hugged the edge of the muck. Oyster shoals rose in scattered little hills from the water and blinked in the sunlight.

Across the marsh, a lone white shrimp trawler sat anchored to the pilings, its masts and outriggings jutting skyward. Multiple docks stretched out over the saw grass to the water. Several had small tin-roofed dock houses. One of them now belonged to Emily and her younger sister.

Not for the first time since leaving Maryland a jolt of self-doubt shot through her, an unfamiliar sensation to Emily. Had she made the right decision? Was this new life, this brand-new start in the place where she’d grown up, really for her? Emily wasn’t fond of these niggling, questioning fears because it was more typical of her character to ponder, make a sound decision and be done with it. Stick to it and be confident in it.

Now, she questioned herself. Was it just butterflies? The return home after so many years? Her dad’s old aunt Cora—Emily’s last living relative, save Reagan—had passed away and left them the river house and the Windchimer, a seaside breakfast-and-lunch café. With Reagan now in the air force and deployed to Afghanistan, and Emily’s recent breakup, there had been no better time to accept.

It was a good decision. It had to be. In truth, Cassabaw had been pulling at her for some time. She’d been unsettled with her retail manager’s job, with her relationship and the hustle and bustle of the city, and politics. Alone in Bethesda, or alone in Cassabaw? Somehow things didn’t seem so rimmed with despair on the island, even though she’d still be alone. The city never was her cup of tea. Now? The opportunity to leave it had been perfect. The therapist she’d had, so very long ago, had informed Emily that she suffered abandonment issues. Maybe. Possibly.

A couple of months earlier, Emily’s boyfriend had ended their relationship. She’d met Trent Hughes her sophomore year of college where they’d both played lacrosse for Mount St. Mary’s University. He was nice. Generous. Safe. Charming. Athletic. Everyone liked Trent. She may have even loved him, really, and had at the very least fancied the idea of growing old together. At first, she’d been hurt by the breakup. Hurt and rejected.

But politics and business—and his mother—always came first with Trent. And from the start Emily, with her spontaneity, her quirky love of the twenties and thirties and otherwise average life, just didn’t fit in with Trent’s political upper-crust Georgetown family—no matter how hard she’d tried. Mrs. Hughes definitely wasn’t thrilled about her dating Trent. The longer they stayed together, the bolder those facts became to Emily. Trent had always assured her he loved her the way she was, but over the past several months that assuredness didn’t really sit well with Emily and she had no doubt Allegoria Hughes had been a major factor in Trent’s decision to break things off. Emily, possessing a mammoth amount of pride, didn’t fight his decision—and that surprised Trent. And when the opportunity arose to move back home, she knew it was right. She wanted Cassabaw, not the Capital. She didn’t want someone to just merely accept her the way she was. At twenty-seven, her whole life lay ahead. Alone, she supposed it didn’t really matter. She’d make it work no matter what.

Finally, after fifteen long years, she was home. She inhaled deeply, letting the breath escape her pursed lips. Yes, indeed. It felt right.

Emily’s eyes slipped over the long, narrow road, crossing the marsh and river as she passed. The USCG station entrance stood ahead on the left. Matt Malone instantly rushed to the front of her memories. She fondly remembered her neighbor, Mr. Malone, as being part of the Coast Guard. He had worn his Coast Guard hat, and had really big muscles. Matt was his middle son and had been her very best friend. The years that separated them had somewhat dulled their old life together.

Now that she was back on Cassabaw...? Matt Malone seemed solid, real. Kind of like he would be waiting on the path that ran between their houses; a lanky twelve-year-old boy with a wide, toothy grin and emerald-green eyes. Random silly things they did as kids rushed back like a pot of water boiling over fast. Climbing trees. Eating wild blackberries that grew beside the keeper’s cottage. Racing up the steps to the lighthouse. Crabbing off the floating dock. Chasing fireflies in the summer. Dancing decades-old dances Matt’s Irish grandfather had taught them. So many recollections...

Emily had bumped into Mr. Malone—Owen—and his old sea-dog father, Jep, at Aunt Cora’s funeral in King’s Ferry, and told them she was moving back to Cassabaw. Emily hadn’t spoken long to the Malones, but Owen had told her that Matt had joined the marines right after high school. When she’d returned to Bethesda after the funeral she’d tried to find him on Facebook, but nothing. All she could find when she did an internet search was an old picture in the Cassabaw Station Gazette. A cocky, proud, eighteen-year-old newly enlisted Matt Malone. Even seeing that picture had been strange; he looked like Matt, yet different. More mature. Still a kid, though. She tried hard to picture crazy little Matt Malone grown-up, and it was nearly impossible. What had driven him to join the marines? To leave Cassabaw?

Matt Malone. Was he married now? With kids? God, how weird, she thought, to think of that little prankster with kids of his own. She’d have to visit the Malones and find out for herself.

The speed limit dropped to forty-five as she edged closer to the small island’s city limits. a large sign displayed a hand-painted beach, with sea-oat-covered sand dunes and the familiar black-and-white lighthouse against the picture-perfect gray blue of the Atlantic. Welcome to Cassabaw Station stretched in a half circle of wide black letters at the top. At the very bottom, in the right-hand corner, the artist left her mark with a single dandelion, its wispy little petals floating up and away.

In the center of the flower, the letters KQ were inscribed. Emily remembered it well. Katie Quinn. Emily had the same dandelion tattooed onto her shoulder, the petals scattering up and over. Trent had always liked it; his mother despised it. She’d said tattoos were a little on the distasteful side. But Emily loved her body art. Loved what it meant to her. And on her shoulder it would stay. Forever.

Her eyes skimmed over her hand as it gripped the Jeep’s steering wheel. There, on her inner wrist, her parents’ birth year was forever embedded with black ink. 1965. Trent’s mother had disliked that one even more.

“You can do this, you can do this,” Emily encouraged herself out loud. A burst of confidence surged through her, and she squealed. “Yes! I can do this!” It’d be her new mantra.

Although dying to see the Windchimer, she decided to go to the river house first. Then, later, the island cemetery. Emily heaved a gusty sigh and pressed the clutch, downshifting to Third as the speed limit declined again. Suddenly, the Jeep sputtered, almost stalling. With her foot pressing the clutch, Emily shifted back into fourth. The transmission lurched, but finally caught the gear.

“Oh, well, that’s just supergreat.” Emily could do many things, but working on cars was not one of them.

Ahead on the right was the same old Chappy’s IGA and Fuel Stop. As she approached, Emily noticed the brightly colored beach towels, the foam wakeboards and the variety of kites that still lined both of the wide picture windows of the storefront. Up ahead and around the big curve to the right she knew were the beachfront, pavilion, pier and boardwalk. Had it changed in fifteen years? She could hardly wait to find out.

Emily’s heartbeat quickened as she hit the left-turn signal and downshifted again. This time, the Jeep simply sputtered. She passed the lively little cottages from the twenties and thirties that hadn’t changed a bit. Painted in colors varying from pink to green to baby blue, and decorated in nautical themes, they sat nestled beneath oak trees draped in Spanish moss and aged wisteria vines. Scrub palms graced every yard. Yes, everything was exactly as Emily had remembered. She, Reagan, Matt and his brothers had trick-or-treated here every single Halloween. Made out like bandits, too. They’d last been zombies, walking through the streets, moaning and dragging their legs. God, what fun they’d had.

Just then, the Cassabaw Station Lighthouse came into view, jutting skyward. Sitting directly across from it was old Fort Wilhem—the Civil War fort. How many times had she and Reagan climbed those spiral steps clear to the top and looked out over the Atlantic? She and Matt, too.

Emily continued around the curb. Soon the cottages grew sparse, and through the canopy of moss and live oaks, the sunlight blinked in and out. She slowed and scanned the mailboxes that sat at the entrance of each long, shady driveway. Clark. Harden. Malone.

“Quinn,” she whispered as her gaze found the large rural mailbox. The name was faded now, painted in big swirling letters so long ago by her mom. Great-Aunt Cora had lived in the house after the accident, unmarried and without kids, and had run the café until she passed at seventy-six. Emily drew another deep breath as she eased onto the narrow driveway.

More recollections swamped her as she crept down the azalea-lined driveway, and they were fond ones. Happy. And so thick you had to brush them away with your hand like a swarm of gnats. Massive oaks and magnolia trees with blooms the size of softballs formed a shady awning over the two Quinn acres and, before long, the old whitewashed river house came into view.

Just then, the Jeep’s engine coughed, sputtered and died. Close to the wide, raised porch, Emily coasted to a stop and threw the Jeep into Neutral. Yanking the emergency brake, she leaned back against her seat and blew out a breath of relief. Barely made it. She would need a mechanic sooner than ASAP. But for now, she was finally home. With excitement, she pulled her shades off and drank it all in.

Crickets and cicadas chirped a deafening chorus. The saw grass rustled as the wind rushed through the salt marsh. The oyster shoals bubbled in the low-tide mud. And although it was only late May, the moisture hung so thick that it stuck to Emily’s skin like a sopping wet blanket. Her eyes drifted to the front porch, where her mom’s hydrangea bushes still sat, full of wide green leaves and almost-ready blooms. God, she loved it here. Why had it taken poor Aunt Cora’s passing for her to come back? She’d been so busy with school, then college, then she’d met Trent, work... Time had just flown by. With her eyes closed, she inhaled, and let her senses take over.

Emmie! Reagan! Time for supper!

A sad smile tugged at Emily’s mouth as she recalled her mom’s sweet voice. It seemed like forever ago that she’d heard it. Blinks in time, those memories. She cherished every single one.

Male voices rose from the river, interrupting Emily’s reverie. She peered through the trees in that direction. Easing out of the open door, she slid her iPhone into the pocket of her vintage sundress and started across the hard-packed dirt path that wound to the marsh. Flip-flops smacked her heels as she walked, and the voices cleared.

“Owen! Dammit, boy, I told you it was that check valve on the bilge pump through-hull! Christ almighty!” The voice was old, graveled and familiar.

“Dad, calm down. Eric’s picking up the valve on his way home. We’ll have it fixed tonight.”

“Can’t take ’er out with a busted bilge pump.”

“I know that, Dad.”

Emily smiled as she made her way to the marsh. Those voices belonged of course to the elder Malones. The wood groaned beneath her feet as she stepped onto the sun-faded dock and started out across the water. Picking her way carefully, she noticed every third board was missing, others were rotted and, finally, she had no choice but to stop. A big gap of sheer drop-off to the salt water, maybe ten feet or more, lay between Emily and the rest of the dock. Beyond that, the tin roof of the little dock house had faded from red to salmon in the blazing sun. It, too, had seen better days.

Shading her eyes with her hand, she peered over at the anchored shrimping trawler and the two older men standing beside it. They both looked in her direction, and she waved. “Hey there!” she called.

“Little Emily Quinn, is that you?” Owen Malone hollered back.

Even though fifty feet or more stood between them and Emily, his deep voice carried over the water, strong and clear. He wore a dark cap, khaki shorts and a dark T-shirt. Years of being in the sun had bronzed his skin.

“Didn’t expect you till next week.”

It had already been over a month since she’d flown in for Aunt Cora’s funeral. For some reason, Emily had resisted driving out to Cassabaw to see the old homestead before. She hadn’t been ready then, she supposed.

“Yes, sir,” she answered. “I decided to come a little early. Just got in.”

“Who is it?” Jep Malone grumbled, peering in Emily’s direction. He wore the same white cap and light blue short-sleeved coveralls she remembered. She was surprised he hadn’t worn the same thing to the funeral. Quite a character, Jep Malone.

“It’s Alex and Katie’s oldest girl, Dad,” Owen told his father. “Cora’s niece. Emily. We saw her at the funeral.”

Old Jep stared in Emily’s direction and waved a hand. “’Bout time you came back home. Your dock’s got a big hole in it, missy.”

Emily laughed. “I see that!” she called back. “I’ll add it to my fix-it list. My Jeep just died on me, too. You wouldn’t happen to know a good mechanic?”

“Sure do,” Owen hollered back. “One of the best.”

“Great!”

“What about that dock?” Owen asked.

In reality, Emily had thought she would do as much of the work as she could. But now, staring down at the missing planks, the rotted ones and the water below, she wondered how successful she’d be. It was a bigger job than she had thought, and the café entered her mind. She definitely had a lot on her plate. “I’ll probably need someone for that, too.”

“I’ve got just the man for both jobs. I’ll send him over directly.”

Emily smiled and waved. “Thanks, Mr. Malone!”

“You bake, Emily Quinn?” Jep asked.

She cocked her head, still smiling. She liked the Malones. Nice men. “Yes, sir, I do.”

Jep stared in her direction. She didn’t need to see his face. Digging back into her memory, she had a perfectly picture of the tanned, weathered skin and lines around his eyes from the sun. He may have looked like an old sea dog, but she recalled that his startling emerald gaze held a lot of warmth. And mischief. Just like Matt’s.

“Good. I like pie.”

“Dad,” Owen chided.

“Well, I do!” Jep grumbled. “You any good at it?”

Emily chuckled. “Pretty fair.”

Owen shook his head and waved. “Ignore him. Let us know if you need anything, Emily. And you should stay off the dock until it’s fixed. It’s too rotted. I’ll send your man around directly. And don’t let him charge you too much.”

“No, sir, I won’t. And thanks!”

Emily started back down the dock. She had been home for only twenty minutes, and already had a mechanic and a fix-it man. She made a quick plan to bake a couple of pies to take over to the Malones after she’d settled in.

As she stepped off the dock and back onto the dirt path, Emily pushed her sunglasses up onto her head and made her way through the shade to the front porch. Grabbing her travel bag and a box of renovation magazines from the Jeep, she climbed the steps. Looking to the left, she took in the porch, scattered with dead leaves. The swing she and Reagan used to spend hours playing on with their Barbie dolls sat on its bottom; the white paint was faded, and the chains hung limp. Poor old Cora must’ve had a hard time keeping the place up by herself. Although, the property itself looked to be in decent shape. The azalea bushes were trimmed, and the grass cut. Pulling the key out of her shorts pocket, Emily unlocked and opened the front door and set her belongings down. Keeping it open, she stepped inside.

The aroma of lemon hung in the warm interior, and hazy sunlight filtered in through the windows. The estate attorney had arranged for a cleaning crew to go through the house, and they’d done a pretty good job.

Painted wood walls reminded her of Irish cream, and the ceiling rafters were exposed. Upon a polished wide-planked wood floor sat sheet-covered furniture, still as ghosts. A fairly new sixty-inch flat-screen TV filled the space above two bookcases. A small brick-faced fireplace with a white-and-green painted mantel faced the opposite wall, its gaping mouth dark and hollow. Above it sat a large photo in a frame. Emily moved toward it, and swallowed hard. She grazed the polished wooden frame with her fingertips, and her eyes roamed the faces staring back at her; herself, Reagan and their parents, sitting on their dock at sunset. Emily sat in their father’s lap, while Reagan sat in their mother’s. Their mom rested her head against their father’s shoulder.

Emily remembered the day Aunt Cora had taken that photo, three weeks before the accident. For a moment, she squeezed her eyes shut. Could she do this? Could she make it through all this? By herself?

Yes, yes she could. She had to. Stop questioning yourself, Quinn. Sheesh.

Emily drew a few deep breaths and moved slowly through the small, quiet river house, down the hallway to what used to be her and Reagan’s bedroom. From the shapes beneath the sheets, Aunt Cora had turned it into an office, more than likely running the Windchimer’s finances from home. She would have to dig in right away and see if she could make heads or tails out of all that paperwork. Emily’s eyes roamed the room, to where their twin beds used to be. Reagan’s had been all pink and frilly; hers was Scooby-Doo. She continued down the hall, peeking inside the bathroom and then her parents’ old room. More white ghosts sat dormant in the filtered light. A huge sheeted bed, minus the mattress and box spring, rested catty-corner, and a small pair of French doors opened up onto the covered porch. Emily turned and headed back up the hallway. Aunt Cora hadn’t been a pack rat—that was for sure. Just the bare necessities, so it seemed. The movers would arrive tomorrow with Emily’s belongings, and then she could start settling in. For tonight, though, she had her overnight bag, a pillow, sheet and blanket.

Across from the living room, Emily walked through a white-trimmed archway leading into the kitchen. Everything was just as she remembered. A smile pulled at her mouth as she made her way to the mammoth white porcelain sink, its vast picture window facing the marsh and Morgan’s Creek. With her eyes closed, she could easily see her mom, clear as day standing there, baking oatmeal-raisin cookies, or cooking supper.

Slowly, Emily opened her eyes. A shaft of sunlight filtered through the magnolias and shot right through the window. Dancing bits of dust swirled in the light like so many diamonds. She waved her hand through it—

“Ma’am, the front door was open and—”

“Whoa!” With her heart in her throat, Emily spun around, and backed up until her rear end bumped against the sink. Fear and adrenaline surged through her veins as she gawked, wide-eyed.

The man was a beast. Heavily muscled. Close-cut hair. He just stood there, like a solid rock. Muscles flexed at his jaw. An emerald gaze stared right back at her.

Then, Emily looked—hard. Dark hair—although buzzed short. A scar through his brow over very familiar eyes. She’d know those eyes, and that scar, anywhere, no matter how long it’d been. “Holy moly, I can’t believe who I’m looking at.” Then she simply shook her head in shock and gave a light laugh. “Well, you’ve grown. I still really love the color of your eyes, Matt Malone. They remind me of the green mossy algae that sticks to the sand at low tide.”

Something Emily deemed as confusion flared in Matt Malone’s eyes. Then, they widened. “Emily Quinn?” he asked. His matured, slightly deep and raspy voice filled the small kitchen.

Emily moved then and gave her old best friend a hug around the neck. No longer lanky, his body was warm, thick and hard as solid stone. “You remember!”

Then, she backed up and couldn’t help but stare some more. Matt Malone had really, really changed quite a lot in fifteen years.

Well over six feet, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, Matt loomed over her. He had the same long dark lashes that framed those trademark Malone eyes. Although his hair was shorn, the cowlick remained just off the center of the hairline near his forehead, and was as obnoxious and untamed as ever. The gash through his brow still stood out, like a brilliant bolt of lightning, just as fresh as the day Emily had given it to him when she tripped him during a race to jump off the dock. It now gleamed silver, intriguing. Gangly had turned into lean. Confidence, maybe arrogance, wafted off him in waves.

His black T-shirt was just snug enough that she could see his chiseled chest and biceps. Muscles flexed at his unshaven cut-in-stone jaw as he studied her. How had her prank-playing, skinny little childhood friend turned into this man?

Then his handsome face hardened. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

Emily blinked, stung by his brusque, sharp tone. Hard, somewhat cold, Matt’s eyes did not welcome her. Not at all.

What had life done to her old best friend?

CHAPTER TWO

EMILY. QUINN. WHAT the hell? Matt couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t do a damn thing but stare. She was the last person he’d expected to find. Green mossy algae?

“I live here now,” she began. She seemed...unchanged. Bouyant. Beautiful. But he saw the flash in her eyes at his sharp tone. “Can you believe it? After all these years. And what are you doing here?” She cocked her head to the side and looked up, studying him, so it seemed, her strawberry-blond ponytail sliding over her shoulder. Her face drew closer, her gaze narrowed. “Why do you look so cantankerous?”

Matt Malone stared into the soft hazel eyes of his childhood friend.

Not a kid anymore. But apparently still as unfiltered as before.

His face pulled into an even deeper frown. “I’m not...that.” Even as a kid she’d used words no other kid did. Seemed to be a trait she hadn’t lost. Taller than most girls, but not as skinny as she used to be. Same long tanned legs. He spotted some ink on her shoulder. A tattoo. Free spirit. She’d had that same spirit as a kid—that was for damn sure. Apparently, she’d never lost it, either. He was glad of that, for some reason.

Her head tilted more. “Matt? Why are you here? And how did you get here so fast? I just spoke to your dad a few minutes ago.”

He cleared his throat. “I just got home. Dad sent me over. Said it was an emergency. I took the path.” Running his hand over his stubbled hair, he drew in a slow breath and exhaled. “They didn’t tell me it was you.”

Emily hadn’t taken her eyes off him, waiting for his answer, he guessed, so he hooked his thumbs into his jeans pockets and studied her hard. This was Em. They went way back. Back before Iraq, Afghanistan. Just...Emily.

“It’s been a damn long time, Emily,” he finally said. “You look...different.”

Without thought, his eyes dropped to her breasts, which were pushing against the material of her shirt. Those definitely weren’t there the last time he saw her.

Emily’s giggle made Matt snatch his gaze back to hers. “Well, I hope I look different,” she said.

Her smile widened, and her eyes softened. She still had that deep dimple in one cheek. As a kid, he remembered thinking it was kind of weird. Maybe not so weird anymore.

“Since I was only twelve when we last saw each other,” she added. Her gaze moved over him, and she crossed her arms. “You sure look different, too, Matt Malone.” She pointed at his arm. “I used to have bigger muscles than you.” Her lips quirked. “And I see that scar never faded.”

Idly, his finger grazed the mark through his left brow. “Nope.”

“Forever proof of my victory that day on the dock.” The laughter was still there in her voice.

Matt pursed his lips to keep a straight face. Which was a new sensation for him. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Emily’s lips curved up.

He could hardly believe he was standing here, in her old kitchen, talking to her.

Just then, her cell phone screeched. She pulled it from her pocket and looked at the caller. She glanced up. “Sorry, just a second.”

Matt nodded, and waited.

“Hello,” she said as she answered the call.

Matt looked at her and jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the open front door, indicating her Jeep. She understood and nodded, and while she continued her conversation he wandered over to the doorless driver’s side, popped the hood latch and moved to the front. While he peered at the engine, he couldn’t help but catch pieces of Emily’s discussion with the estate attorney as she walked outside. She smiled, nodded and thanked him for sending out a cleaning crew.

She ended the call, stuck her phone into her back pocket and rested her forearms against the Jeep’s fender. “So, any idea what’s wrong with it?” Her ponytail slid over her shoulder.

“Why don’t you start her up and let me listen to it?”

“Okay,” she said. Sliding into the driver’s seat, she turned the key. The engine sputtered a few times, then started. After a little more inspection, Matt stepped around the hood.

“All right, you can turn it off.”

She did, and slid back out. “Well? I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”

He rubbed his hand over his head and looked at her. Her eyes were wide, soft. “Might be your alternator.”

“Oh, man,” she said. Then, her brow lifted. “Your dad signed you up to be my fix-it man and mechanic. You still up for the job?”

Matt rubbed his chin and studied her. “Yep. Won’t be cheap, though.”

Emily fake scowled, with her brows slashing together. “Your dad said not to let you charge too much or else.”

God, the way her face screwed up into that silly frown, it made her look twelve again.

“I’m the cheapest you’ll find. But you’re going to need a loaner car for a few days until I can order the parts and get the job done.”

She smiled. Instant relief softened her features. “Deal. I’ll call my insurance company right now.” Pulling her cell from her back pocket, she started to tap the front of it.

Matt stilled her hand with his. Her skin felt soft beneath his fingers. Soft, and warm. “Nope,” he said. “You’d have to go to King’s Ferry to pick one up. You can use Jep’s old truck for a few days.”

“You’re sure he won’t mind?” she asked.

Matt shook his head. “That old dog lives on the water. He’s out on the trawler with Dad and Nathan every day.” He pressed his lips together to keep from smiling at her like an idiot. “He won’t even miss it.”

The uneasy lines by her eyes and mouth relaxed. It almost completely transformed her face. Funny, how worry did that to a person. He’d seen enough of it to know.

“That would be so supergreat,” she said. “Thanks, Matt.”

“No problem,” he answered.

“And did Owen tell you about the fix-it part of the job?”

“He said you had a crater-sized hole in your dock.”

Emily’s laugh hadn’t changed too much over the years. Not too loud, or obnoxious, but definitely infectious. “Yeah, that’s true.” She turned her head toward the marsh, and Matt studied her profile. Slender neck, straight little nose, firm jaw, full lips. And not a lick of makeup on. Little Emily Quinn had grown into a natural beauty.

“I’m afraid the whole dock needs repairing.” Her eyes returned to his. “And the dock house. And from what the estate attorney said, minor repairs need to be made to the house and to the café.”

Matt lifted a brow. “So you’re taking over the Windchimer?”

A bright smile lit up her face. “Sure am.”

“I guess you’re moving back to Cassabaw?” Stupid question, Malone.

She glanced at the house, and back at the marsh before answering. “I am.” Pride shone in her eyes. Made her smile widen. Made his damn heart lurch.

“For good?” he repeated.

Emily’s eyes softened again and she glanced around before returning her gaze to his. “I can’t see myself ever leaving again. This is home.” Her slight shoulders lifted. “Always has been, I guess. It just took me a while to remember that.”

A breeze came in from the marsh and brushed Emily’s ponytail off her shoulder, exposing the tattoo.

Matt rubbed his chin. “You’re going to be a busy girl, then.”

She cocked her head. “I sure hope so. And what about you? I didn’t see you at Aunt Cora’s funeral.”

Matt rubbed his jaw and shrugged. “Wasn’t here. I’m on a day-by-day agenda at the moment.” What it really depended on was whether his ex-commander proposed any special-op missions to him. Matt missed the corps. Missed his role in it.

“Well,” she said, fidgeting with the charm on her necklace, “now that I’m lined up with who Owen Malone claims is the best mechanic and fix-it man around Cassabaw, I’m all set.” She nodded at the house. “The power will be turned on by five this afternoon. The truck will arrive tomorrow with all of my stuff.”

Matt fought a grin. “Stuff, huh?”

That barely there laugh left her throat and shot straight through him, leaving his insides feeling...weird.

“Yeah, all my spectacular stuff. I need to take inventory at the café, order supplies and check on repairs.” Her hazel eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you’re up for all this? I mean, do you have other work planned on that day-to-day agenda of yours? Your dad said you were in the marines?”

Emily probably thought he was some sort of loser drifter. He didn’t know how much of his special-ops past Owen and Jep had told her, but the less she knew, the better.

“Been in the corps since I turned eighteen. Two tours in Iraq, two in Afghanistan. The last one left a load of shrapnel in my shoulder from a blast. Was just released a few weeks ago.” That’s all she’d need to know about his military history.

“God, Matt—I didn’t know. I mean, Owen didn’t say you’d been injured.” Her gaze moved over him, and her eyes softened again. She chewed on her bottom lip and leaned a little closer, as if she wanted to touch him. Instead, she hugged herself. “Looks like we made it back home together then, huh?”

He met her gaze and held it. “Looks like it,” he responded.

A quiet stretched between them. Beneath the shade of the trees, the breeze grazed the back of his neck. The brine of the marsh ran through his lungs, and it reminded him of simpler times. He ran his hand over his head, breaking their trance.

“Well,” he said, and cleared his throat. “We’ve got work to do.”

“We do!” A spark lit her eyes. “What to tackle first? I guess you’ll want to go over everything and then give me an estimate?”

Matt grabbed the hood and closed it. “Yep. But I need to take your Jeep for a spin, see what’s up, then get it over to our place and on the lift so I can see what’s going on with it.” He glanced out over the way he came. “Let’s drive it on over and you can bring Jep’s truck back.”

The smile she gave him was brilliant, full of hope, full of light.

“Sounds like a plan. Are you all mechanics now, too?”

He shrugged. “We’ve always done our own mechanic work. Trawler, trucks, cars. Started working on a project in high school with Jep and Dad. An old Nova. Never finished it.”

“Do you still have it?” she asked.

“Under a tarp in the shop.”

Her smile was wide. “Well, you should definitely finish that project, now that you’re home. There’s good money in classic-car restoration.”

“I guess so.”

“So did you cut through on our old path to get here?”

“Yep,” he answered. “The brush is overgrown, a lot of vines and oyster shells in the lane. I’ll take a machete to it as soon as I can.” He moved to the driver’s side, and Emily climbed in on the passenger side. How crazy was it that after fifteen years they were riding in the same vehicle?

As Matt started the engine after several tries and put the Jeep into Reverse, Emily giggled. He backed up, then paused. “What?”

“It’s so weird to see you driving,” she said, echoing his own thought. Then, she reached over and punched him in the arm. “Matt Malone.” Again, the dimple.

As he shifted into First, he shook his head and he couldn’t help the tug of his lips. “Emily, I’ve been driving for twelve years.”

“You used to smile and laugh so easily,” she said. “Such a hot dog, doing anything it took to make other people laugh.” From his peripheral, he watched her turn her head to stare out the window as they moved down the gravel drive. “Growing up just plain sucks.”

His eyes fell on her now, and to the ink he’d noticed earlier on her shoulder. He couldn’t see all of it, but it looked familiar. Flower petals or something, floating away. Farther down her arm, he noticed another tattoo on the inside of her wrist. Before he could stop himself, he grazed it with his fingers. “What’s that?”

As they bumped down the driveway, Emily turned her wrist and lightly touched the number inked into her skin with a long, delicate finger. “It’s the year my parents were born.”

Matt nodded as he braked and shifted gears at the road. Pulling out onto the two-lane highway, the Jeep sputtered as it tried to catch a gear. Finally, it did, and he picked up speed and shifted again. “What about the other one?” he asked.

Emily’s hand moved to her tattooed shoulder. “It’s a dandelion. My mom’s artist mark.”

He nodded. “I thought I knew it from somewhere. Cassabaw’s welcome sign.”

As Matt pulled into the Malone driveway, his damned eyes found Emily again. At once, questions flooded his mind. Did she have a boyfriend? A husband? He didn’t think she’d had kids. As he watched, her eyes followed the drive, taking in the sight of the big stilted river house Jep’s father had built over a century ago. Sitting beneath a canopy of aged pines and live oaks draped in Spanish moss, it was much like the Quinn place, only a lot older. He’d missed it.

Matt studied Emily, from her ponytail to her shoulder, and farther down those long, tanned legs. Jesus.

This was definitely not the same Emily he’d gone mud bogging with, or crabbing at the mouth of Morgan’s Creek. Not the same girl he’d lain on the dock with and stared up at the stars. This was a grown-up Emily. And they’d spent years apart. Strangers.

“I’ll drop you off and pull the Jeep around to the garage.” Even to his own ears he sounded harsh and businesslike. Maybe it’d be best, at least for him, to keep things that way.

Emily placed her hand on his, oblivious to his brusque dismissal. She squeezed. “Thanks, Matt. I’m so glad you’re here.”

He glanced at her delicate hand resting over his rough one and had no words to answer her. So he just half grunted—a noncommittal type of answer to a statement he had no idea how to respond to.

As Matt drove to the side of the house and stopped to let Emily out, he watched his new employer climb from the open door, throw him a grin and hurry over to his dad, Jep and Matt’s older brother, Nathan.

“You remember my oldest boy, Nathaniel, don’t you, Emily?” Owen asked.

“I sure do,” Emily said. “Hey, Nathan! Boy, your hair’s long. I really like the color.” She ducked behind him, inspecting. “It reminds me of a samurai warrior, only sun-streaked instead of black.”

Nathan laughed. “Well, that’s a first! Come here, girl, it’s been a long time,” Nathan said. “Look at you! All grown-up and pretty!”

His brother’s big arms went around her slim frame as they exchanged hugs.

“You got plans for supper, missy?” Jep croaked. “If not, maybe you can cook us something.”

“Dad,” Owen chided, “cut it out. Emily, you have supper with us tonight. Eric’s picking up chicken. There’ll be more than enough.”

“Sounds great,” Emily replied, throwing a wave Matt’s way.

Matt put the Jeep in Reverse, backed up and then drove it around to the shop. He shifted into Neutral and climbed out, pulling the chains to open the fifteen-foot metal door. He stood there for a second, glancing over his shoulder toward the house, his family and Emily Quinn. A long, exhausted sigh pushed out of his throat.

Jesus Christ, this was going to be one long damn summer.

CHAPTER THREE

EMILY COULD BARELY believe she was standing inside the Malones’ river house after so many years. Everything was exactly the same. The decor favored a true authentic nautical theme at its rawest. On the walls, an old cast net and faded blue-and-white wooden paddles decorated the space way above the brick fireplace. It had been fishing gear once belonging to Jep’s father. Known by everyone on Cassabaw, Patrick Malone had been the island’s very last lighthouse keeper. Emily remembered black-and-white pictures of him. Straight from Galway, Ireland, Patrick and his wife, Annie, had brought little Jep to Cassabaw when he was only seven, and from there, the Malone legacy grew.

An old red-and-blue faded buoy leaned against the hearth, and a restored seaman’s chest served as a large coffee table. Two large, dark leather sofas took up the space in the middle of the open room. Not bad at all for a bunch of guys. Then again, Owen and Jep had been in the Coast Guard. And Matt in the marines. Orderly. Neat. It was a trademark.

“Just like you remember?” Nathan asked.

Emily smiled and faced him. “Exactly like I remembered. Even smells the same. And has the same record player in the corner.” Jep always played old music from the twenties and thirties. It probably was why Emily grew to love the vintage melodies and orchestras of the time.

Nathan, too, had turned out to be a handsome guy. As tall as Matt and just as broad and muscular, he was two years older. He was the oddball of the Malones, with longer dark blond hair streaked by the sun, and half of it pulled into a short ponytail. And he did remind her of a samurai warrior. His skin was swarthy and tanned, but those trademark Malone green eyes stared down at her, curious. They differed from Matt’s, which were cautious, sharp and a bit angry. Sad, maybe? Even when he smiled, she could see it in there. She couldn’t help but wonder.

Her eyes searched for Matt, who still hadn’t come inside. She found it sort of funny that she was inadvertently looking for him.

“I remember you and Matt throwing plastic army men from the railing up there and bombing me and Eric while we watched cartoons,” Nathan continued. He rubbed his head as if he’d just been hit by one. “Those damn little things are hard as hell, and hurt.”

Emily laughed and glanced up at the high wooden catwalk that connected one side of the house to the other. It was open from the floor up, maybe fifteen feet or so.

“We tossed down more than just plastic army men,” she giggled.

“Don’t let Dad and Jep hear you say that,” Matt said from behind. Emily jumped and spun around, and Matt eyed his brother. His mere presence filled the room. “We pretended to be rescue swimmers and launched over the rail a few times ourselves. Maybe more than a few.” He turned to her, and his gaze was quiet but steady. Daring, almost.

Emily’s heart leaped. For a second, he looked like a young, eight-year-old Matt.

Owen Malone walked into the living room. Tall and still handsome, he’d retained his Coast Guard physique through the years. And although in his sixties, he still had quite a lot of chestnut hair, sprinkled with silver, and kept it cut short. He draped an arm over her shoulders.

“So what are you kids talking about?”

Emily’s gaze shot to Matt’s, and her eyes widened. She cleared her throat. “Just...old times,” she said, trying not to laugh.

Owen gave her a gentle squeeze. “I’m glad you’re home, Emily,” he said. “And you’re welcome over here anytime.”

Emily liked his sincerity. Owen Malone was indeed a gentle soul. “Thanks, Mr. Malone.” She cocked her head. “I really like your skin.” She looked up at him and smiled wide. “Reminds me of a perfectly aged copper penny.”

Owen laughed. “Is that so?”

She nodded. “It is.”

“Do you always do that?”

Her eyes moved directly to Matt’s—he was intently watched the interaction. For a split second, his face softened.

She knew exactly what he was talking about. “Yes, I do. I like to find something right off the bat appealing about a person and let them know what it is.” She shrugged. “I find it a rather useful bonding agent. Plus, it lets people know I pay attention to them.”

Nathan laughed, and Owen gave her a gentle hug. “I think it’s a fine quality, Emily.”

“Thank you.” She looked at Matt. Just as she could see sadness in Nathan’s eyes, there was something altogether different in Matt’s. Almost feral. Yet she also felt like he saw completely inside of her.

“Let’s head to the kitchen, then,” Owen said, and tugged on Emily’s shoulders. “Eric will be home any minute with supper.”

Emily allowed Owen to lead her through the foyer and into the wide-open kitchen, where Jep stood in front of an enormous white enamel stove, stirring something in a big white enamel pot. Still wearing those baby blue coveralls, he now donned a red apron. Jep had to be all of eighty years young, and although his hair was now silver throughout, he had plenty of it.

“I like your hair, Jep,” she announced. “The way it flips up by your neck and over your ears. Reminds me of the feathers of a snowy owl.”

Jep stared at her from the stove. “An owl, you say?”

She grinned and nodded. Nathan again laughed.

“Well, I suppose that’s all right. You like potatoes, missy?” Jep called loudly from the stove. He glanced over his shoulder at Emily. She liked the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. “Round here we eat lots of potatoes. Good solid Irish fare.”

Emily patted her stomach. “Yes, sir. I love them.”

“Would go really nice with pie,” Jep added.

Emily laughed, and just as Owen was leading her toward a set of French doors that led out onto a massive veranda overlooking the marsh, another male voice stopped them in their tracks.

“Holy God, in no way is that little Emily Quinn!”

Emily whirled around and saw Matt’s younger brother, Eric, smiling wide. Holding a brown paper bag in one arm and a plastic bag filled with two-liter sodas in the other, he set them both on the counter and headed straight for her.

“Excuse me, Owen,” Eric teased, moving in front of his dad and throwing his arms around Emily in a tight hug. He pulled back and looked down at her, grinning. “You used to be all knees and elbows!”

Emily laughed, holding him away and inspecting the youngest Malone.

“Yeah, and you used to be missing your two front teeth.” She studied him closely, peering at his mouth. “I really like your teeth now. Reminds me of really white pearls. Only square. Maybe more like Chiclets.” Against his tanned skin Eric’s teeth did look like pearls.

Eric burst out laughing. “Well, thank you! I think!”

“And we used to beat the crap out of you,” Matt said, suddenly beside her.

“Not true, bro,” Eric argued. He wore a white USCG hat, a navy blue short-sleeved shirt with a USCG patch and Station 34 embroidered onto the chest and navy trousers. Handsome as all get-out, just like all of the other Malones. “You used to beat the crap out of me. Emily here would smack you on the head and tell you to stop.”

“Uh-huh.”

A hand moved to Emily’s lower back and before she knew it, Matt was guiding her away from Eric and through the French doors and out onto the veranda.

“Sit here,” he said, pulling out a chair. Emily sat. Matt’s eyes locked onto hers. “Enjoy being a guest, since this is your first day home and all. The next time, Jep will probably put you to work.”

“I think he already has,” she admitted. “He’s put in an order for pies.”

A half smile crossed Matt’s face, and he shook his head. “He’s got zero filter. You two will get along great. His hearing is going fast, so he’s not yelling at you. He just talks loud.”

Matt disappeared through the French doors, and Emily breathed, took everything in. It was a lot. It wasn’t enough. It was...fabulously perfect.

Looking out over the rising tide of the Back River over Morgan’s Creek, she drew in the air. Salty and delicious. Had she been back only a few hours? How she wished Reagan was here, too.

Before long, the Malone men shuffled from the kitchen and onto the veranda, their arms laden with supper stuff. Roasted chicken was laid out on a platter; Jep’s mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans and rolls accompanied the main course. Nathan set a basket of silverware and napkins down, along with heavy green plates and glasses to match. Eric opened a bottle of soda and Jep set down a pitcher of iced tea.

“We’ll say grace now,” Jep announced.

Eric pulled off his hat, and Jep began.

“Dear Lord, thank You for this day, and thank You for not only bringing my hardheaded grandson back home safe from Afghanistan, but also for bringing little missy back to Cassabaw. It’s been a while since I had good pie. Amen.”

Emily grinned as she opened her eyes and when she lifted her head, Matt was watching her. Intense. Steady.

It nearly knocked the wind from her lungs.

“All right, let’s eat!” Eric said.

Over the next half hour, everyone ate, and the Malones made idle chitchat, asking about Emily’s life in Bethesda.

“So what’s your little sister up to these days?” Owen asked.

Emily swallowed a mouthful of potatoes and wiped the corner of her mouth. “She’s enlisted. The air force. Afghanistan right now.”

“Are you serious? Little Reagan? The air force?” Eric said, and nodded. “Impressive.”

“You got a fella, missy?” Jep blurted.

Emily’s gaze slid to Matt’s, then back to Jep. She shook her head. “No, sir. Not anymore.”

Everyone in the room went dead quiet for several seconds. Then Owen spoke. “Well, he’ll never know what a treasure he’s missed out on.”

“Thanks, Mr. Malone,” she answered with a grin. “It wasn’t awful or anything. We were just...too different, is all. His family is heavily into the political scene on the Hill. And I’m—” she grinned and shrugged “—a little saltier than that.”

“Salty, you say?” Jep repeated. “I like salt. Makes your spine straight and your legs anchored.”

Emily grinned. “Yes, sir, it does.” She turned to Nathan. “So have you always worked the trawler with your dad and Jep?”

Again, the veranda grew quiet. Nathan slowly shook his head. “No, that’s a fairly recent development,” he explained. “I just left the Coast Guard last year. Alaska.”

Emily could tell by the sad light in Nathan’s eyes that something tragic had happened. Had something gone wrong with a rescue? She wasn’t about to scratch open any fresh wounds, and from the looks of it, no one was willing to talk about it.

“Well, I’m sure your dad and Jep are glad to have you home.”

Nathan simply gave her a smile and a nod. “Yes, ma’am, I suppose they are.”

“And now it’s like a damn summer camp around here again,” Jep said. “Three boys moved out. Three boys moved back in.”

“You missed us, Jep,” Eric accused.

Jep grumbled something unintelligible, possibly Irish Gaelic. Emily remembered he’d used it now and then when they were growing up. The thought made her smile.

“Jep, I’ve got to work on Emily’s Jeep for a few days,” Matt finally said. “I told her it’d be okay if she used your truck until I had hers running again.”

Jep’s gaze immediately darted to Emily’s. Green eyes gleamed as they narrowed, the weathered skin at the corners crinkling. His face was filled with lines of years and sun and wisdom and mischief. He didn’t hesitate. “You know what that means, don’t you, missy?”

Emily smiled and gave a nod. She didn’t miss a beat, either. “Pies.”

Jep winked. “You’re catching on fast. I like that.”

“Jep’s old truck is three on the tree—”

“Manual transmission, Emily. Stick shift, three gears,” Eric clarified with a grin.

Matt shook his head. “A little stiff to shift into gear,” Matt continued. “If you want to run over to the Windchimer, I’ll ride with you. Make sure you can shift it okay.”

Another ride in an enclosed area with the mysteriously quiet ex-marine Matt Malone. She supposed she could withstand it again. “Yeah, that would be great. Thanks.”

Emily helped clear the table, but the guys shuffled around her like a military base camp. Everyone seemed to have their duties, and they did them well. It was beyond impressive—especially since Trent and his family had servants to do their chores. And when Trent had visited Emily at her apartment? He’d obviously forgotten that she didn’t have servants. He’d sit back and allow her to handle everything domestic. It had been sort of fun at first—cooking for him, taking care of him.

Nadine, an older woman from work, had scoffed at Emily, saying it was because she was a nurturer. As if that was a terrible, awful disease. Now that she thought about it, though, the way Trent allowed her to nurture him annoyed the absolute bull mess out of her. That would definitely be something to chalk up to lessons learned. Not that Trent had been a bad guy. He’d actually been very sweet and thoughtful.

Before long, the veranda was back in order, dishes were stacked in the dishwasher and she and Matt were headed out. The sun hovered over the river, and shadows stretched long across the yard. The chorus of frogs and crickets pitched and echoed through the pines.

“Don’t be a stranger, now,” Owen called to her. “This side of Morgan’s Creek is awful glad to have you back.”

Emily’s heart melted a little. What a sweet man. She threw her hand up and waved. “Thanks again, Mr. Malone. I sure won’t.”

Eric and Nathan followed her and Matt down the steps and around the back of the house to a smaller lean-to. Matt disappeared, an engine roared to life and within seconds an old faded blue Chevy pickup began backing out.

“That thing is a beast,” Eric said, grinning. He stood beside her, arms crossed over his chest. “You sure you can handle it, Emily?”

Emily liked Eric’s easygoing, somewhat cocky character. He hadn’t changed much in that department.

“I can handle it,” she assured him.

“A girl with confidence,” Eric said, and clapped her on the back. “I like that.” He leaned close to her ear. “Do you like younger men? I’m definitely open to dating older women.” He flashed a toothy smile. “What do ya say?”

Emily laughed. “You’re still a ham, you know that?”

Eric smiled wider. “That’s no answer.”

Emily waved. “Bye, Eric.”

He just laughed and shook his head.

When Matt stopped the truck, Emily walked to the driver’s side and waved to his brothers. “Bye, guys. See ya round.”

Matt slid past her as she jumped in and closed the door. On the passenger’s side, he climbed in, reached over and killed the engine. “Now you start it.”

Emily did as he asked and pushed in the clutch, then started the engine. Although the engine felt a little stiff, she shifted into First and started down the shady drive. At the end of it, she pulled out onto the two-lane, picked up speed and shifted into Second, heading for the boardwalk.

“Not bad,” Matt remarked. “Hit Third.”

It took a little muscle, but Emily shifted once more. The gear grinded a bit, but caught and they continued on.

“Eric’s right. This thing is a beast,” she said, giving Matt a quick look. “But I’m grateful to have it. Thanks.”

Along the road, the dusk shadows lurched beneath the canopy, and the salty late-May breeze blew in through the opened windows. Matt’s presence beside her filled the cab of the old truck—he was almost crowding her and she felt a fluttering in her stomach. He had this smoky voice that she liked listening to. And that profound, brooding stare unsettled her—or rather, her reaction to it did.

“You remember Miss Mae Kennedy? She still lives there,” Matt said, pointing out a coral-colored cottage with a white concrete seahorse mailbox as they moved through the little neighborhood.

“She’s the lady who was friends with your mom in high school, wasn’t she?” Emily asked. “She used to make those chocolate cupcakes with white frosting and bring them over to your house, every single week.”

Matt’s gaze stayed on the house as they passed it. “Yeah, she did. I stopped by to see her after I got here.” He looked at her. “I don’t remember my mom, Em. Only in pictures. I remember yours, though.” He quieted for a moment. “She laughed a lot. Like you.”

Downshifting, Emily rolled to a stop at the intersection and held Matt’s gaze in the hazy light of dusk. Matt’s mom had died of cancer when he was four, leaving Owen and Jep to raise three small boys. Eric had just turned a year old.

“Yeah, she did. I remember her, too,” Emily answered. The ache she always got when she missed her parents settled into the pit of her heart.

“It still hurts,” Matt said pointedly.

Emily nodded. “Sometimes. It’s like someone is squeezing my insides in their hand.” The light turned green, and she started forward. “I was so angry for a while. Like they left me on purpose or something. But I have mostly good memories. I choose to focus on and remember those. They’re fun, and they make me feel happy.”

“So what does being here do?”

Emily followed the curve, and the gray Atlantic coastline came into view. She sighed.

“I’m not sure yet, Matt Malone.” She glanced at him, and he regarded her closely. “I’m sort of winging this whole alone thing. But right now it feels...right to be here.” It felt right that Matt was here, too.

Wordlessly, he nodded.

The backside of the Windchimer came into view, and Emily slowed and pulled the truck into the small parking lot behind the café. The old Chevy’s door squeaked as she opened and closed it, and Matt rounded the truck and stood close to her. Again, she felt crowded, as if Matt’s body took up all the space and air surrounding her. The sounds of the surf breaking, gulls crying and a lone wind chime tinkling in the wind infiltrated Emily’s senses nearly as much as Matt’s presence did. It threw her into sensory overload. She breathed in the sea air.

“Well,” Matt said. He rubbed his head with his hand, then dragged his fingers across his jaw. He glanced behind her. “Let’s go check it out.”

Even in the fading light of dusk, the way Matt studied her so thoroughly made her aware of, well, everything. He’d always had that quality, though. Almost a commanding characteristic that made people pay attention closely. Even as a kid, he could speak to her, and she’d feel compelled to listen.

She gave a nod. “Okay, let’s go.”

They crossed in silence to the wooden boardwalk leading to the beachfront, where sea oats waved in the constant coastal breeze. The Windchimer faced the ocean along a boardwalk of several other establishments. It was brightly painted in a soft pink with white concrete columns, and a swirling mural along the side of the building that depicted sea turtles, mermaids and sand dollars. A long wood-planked covered deck, housing several tables, had a beautiful view of the sea and pier.

A loud clap of thunder boomed over the water. Emily jumped. Big fat plops of rain smacked her skin. Matt was silent as his gaze fell on her, then dropped to her mouth and lingered there before he raised his eyes back to hers.

“I, uh, guess we’d better get inside,” Emily said, fishing the key from her pocket.

“Yep,” Matt agreed.

As she pushed the key into the lock and opened the door, Matt flipped on the light switch and a soft amber hue fell over the café’s interior.

“Let’s go,” she said, and excitement flushed her. “I’ll make a list of supplies while you make a list of repairs.” She turned and pressed her lips in a tight line. “Okay?”

Lightning flashed through the storefront windows, followed a few seconds later by a thunderous boom. The rain fell in buckets now, a fast, turbulent sea storm. “Storms are magical mantles of fairy wrath, don’t you think?”

“Yep,” Matt finally answered. Without another word, he walked to the back of the café and began his inspection.

Emily watched her now grown-up best friend, who filled out his jeans in a way that made her pause. Narrow hips. Broad shoulders. Confident swagger. He wasn’t the same Matt Malone from before. She wasn’t the same Emily. Not kids, but adults. Each with pasts.

Which just might be the problem.

Or, not.

CHAPTER FOUR

AS EMILY TOOK inventory and inspected the interior of the café, she knew one thing for certain: the Windchimer possessed an old-time charm, just like Cassabaw Station. While it no doubt needed a cosmetic overhaul, the ambience emanating from within the 1920s establishment excited her. The layout worked; a long bar with stools that had seen better days stretched from one side of the café to the other. Behind it was an equally long cooking area with butcher-block counters, an old refrigerator, an even older double gas stovetop, a griddle and an oven. Long open cabinets hung overhead, along with a pot rack.

She slowly walked through, taking in the seating area. The twelve tables were made of solid wood, and were fairly sturdy. Lowering into several of the chairs and giving each a good wiggle, she was happy to realize they were pretty steady, too. Taking several photos with her cell phone, she opened her notepad app and quickly tapped in her plans.

When she looked up, Matt was watching her. Despite the stone-like unreadable expression he wore, she blew a loose piece of hair from her eyes and grinned. “Well, I can definitely make this work. This aqua-and-white checkerboard floor tile is so art deco and is beyond gorgeous. It’s just the vintage look I want to keep.” She rose and pointed to the cooking area. “I don’t think this place has been upgraded since the seventies, though. Those old appliances need to skedaddle. I’ll replace them with stainless steel. New cookware.” She smiled, and began to hop from tile to tile. She looked over her shoulder. “Classic white dishware. To start with.”

Matt gave a nod. “Dishwasher is shot to hell. Pantry shelves are sagging and need replacing. Probably need to install a new wash sink. Faucets all leak. The wood flooring around the sink and chest freezer is boggy. It all needs to come up.”

“Okay, I’ll work that into the budget.” She tapped it into her notes and nodded toward the back. “I want to install a long stainless-steel work counter in the back. New stools for the bar.” She grasped one of the chairs and shook it. “I haven’t checked all of these yet but they seem to be made of solid wood and pretty stable. I can use these, although I’ll probably paint them.” She glanced to the ceiling. “The exposed beams I love. And these old milk-glass light fixtures.” She looked at him. “I definitely want to keep them, but the wiring needs inspecting. Can you do that, too?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yep.”

Emily gave him a skeptical glance. “Are you sure you’re up for this job? Might be a long one. And you’re going to fix my Jeep? Dock? Dock house? River house?”

Those trademark Malone eyes never wavered. That mouth didn’t smile. “I can handle it.”

She studied him for a moment, then stuck out her hand. “Okay,” she said, and took Matt’s hand in a shake. His long, strong fingers wrapped firmly around hers, and she found she liked the way it felt. “As soon as we have quotes we’ll go over costs of repairs and upgrades, then your salary.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He moved past her and headed out the door.

“Where are you going?” Emily asked.

“Rain’s stopped. Need to check the exterior for repairs before it gets dark,” he said curtly.

Emily sighed. Matt was all business. Maybe after a while he’d loosen up a bit. “Good idea.” She followed. “I’ll inspect the outdoor dining.”

Emily had just stepped through the café front doors when voices caught her attention. The sun now peeked through a cloud-riddled sky, and a breeze wafted through the air. As she moved onto the wooden deck she saw five much, much older men gathered around Matt at the edge of the boardwalk. Two of them had canes. One shook Matt’s hand, another slapped him on the back. Pulled into a parking space close to the boardwalk sat a young man in an extended golf cart. He smiled and nodded at Emily. Curious, she stood back and watched the exchange.

“Son of a gun, boy, it’s good to see you back,” the one shaking Matt’s hand said. He was stocky, not as tall as Matt and wore a pale blue bucket hat. “Was just asking Jep about you a couple of weeks back.”

“Yeah, buddy boy, it’s about time you got your skinny marine ass back home,” another one said. He talked fast, loud and confidently. “Turn around and let us take a look at ya. Make sure you’re in one damn piece.” He was stockier than the others, with a barrel belly and a buzzed flattop. He wore old-style black framed glasses, and he turned his head toward Emily and sort of jumped in surprise. “Hot damn, boy. Who’s the dame?”

All eyes turned on Emily, and before she could say anything, Matt did.

“Guys, this is Emily Quinn. She used to live next door to me growing up.” His gaze met hers briefly. “She just moved back and is the new owner of the Windchimer. Emily—” he pointed at the one in the bucket hat and the loud one “—these are the Beasts of Utah Beach. Wimpy and Ted Harden. They both stormed Normandy on D-day.” He inclined his head. “Those two are Sidney and Dubb Christian, and the little guy there is Nelson Clark. Navy. Terrors of the Pacific.” Matt looked at Emily. “All brothers except for Nelson. He’s Wimpy’s brother-in-law. We call him Putt. A tail gunner.”

Emily smiled at the tough-looking group of eightysomething-year-old warriors. “Very pleased to meet you all.”

“So you’re Cora’s great-niece, eh?” Wimpy said. He smiled and shook her hand with his big calloused one, and the corners of his blue eyes crinkled. “You look just like your daddy, gal. We’re neighbors. Me and the wife live just up the river.”

“The rest of us live just up the way.” Putt pointed. “Seaside Home for Vets. Resident nurse is a dish,” he said with a wink. “That there’s our driver, Freddy.” He inclined his head to the guy in the golf cart. “He breaks us out from time to time.”

“When are you gonna get busy and open these doors again, gal?” Ted asked. “This here’s our rendezvous, see?” His grin was wide and full of mischief. “A place we meet to get some good grub, talk a little baseball and check out the skirts on the beach when the wives ain’t lookin’.”

Dubb stepped forward. He wore an Atlanta Braves baseball cap. “Don’t mind Ted, Emily. He still thinks he’s a hotshot twenty-two-year-old tank head.”

“So can you cook, little lady?” Sidney asked. His eyes were so blue they seemed like sea glass. With a head full of wavy white hair, Emily figured he’d been pretty good-looking in his day. “Me and Putt here like your aunt Cora’s apple-cinnamon pancakes.”

“With cane syrup,” Putt added. He grinned, displaying a slight gap between his two front teeth.

Emily laughed. “All right, fellas,” she began, and answered Sidney. “Yes, I can cook, and I’ll make sure apple-cinnamon pancakes are on the menu. Gunner,” she said to Nelson, “I’ll stock up on cane syrup.” She looked at Ted. “You with the flattop. Hopefully I’ll get her opened and serving breakfast and lunch within the month.”

“Good. Just in time for the Fourth of July Shrimp Festival,” Putt said. “You know about that, right? Cora used to run a face-painting station here for the kids every year.”

She looked over her shoulder at the solitary wind chime hanging from the rafters. Rusty, about to fall. “There’s a good bit of work to do first.” She turned back around. “But yes. I think I can have it up and running by the festival.” She winked. “And I’ll definitely continue on with Aunt Cora’s face-painting station. Mr. Wimpy, it’s nice to be neighbors. I’d love to meet your wife.”

Wimpy barked out a laugh. “Well, it’s good to have you back here on Cassabaw, Emily. I’ll let the wife know you’ll be stopping by.”

“You know the Festival of Kites is in three weeks,” Sidney said with a grin. The sea breeze caught his white hair and tousled it about, making him look more boyish than older. “You don’t want to miss it, I guarantee. Sort of the official opening of summer.” He smiled. “It’s quite a sight. We make it every year as long as the ol’ heart can stand it.”

Emily grinned back, noticing the twinkle in his blue eyes. “Well, I wouldn’t want to miss that, would I?”

“So is this your girl, Matt Malone? You bringin’ her to the Kites?” Ted asked. He looked at Emily and wiggled his bushy brows. “Or is she up for grabs?”

Matt’s eyes met Emily’s and lingered. “Not my girl,” he answered. “My boss.”

The old warriors laughed and whistled. “Well, now,” Wimpy offered, “you’ve got yourself a fine carpenter, that’s for sure.”

“So, up for grabs?” Ted asked. “Malone here ain’t much of a lady’s man.”

“I am certainly up for grabs.” Emily laughed. “But only for handsome Beasts of Utah Beach and the like.” She winked. “I’m selective, you see.”

Ted’s grin split his weathered face in two.

“And since you fellas seem to be steady patrons here, any ideas for upgrades?” Emily continued, thinking that veering the conversation away from her and Matt would be a good thing, especially since Matt seemed so uncomfortable with it.

“Ceiling fans,” Sidney suggested, and pointed to the rafters. “When the air is still it gets hotter than Hades out here. Makes my asthma flare up.”

Emily nodded. It was a good idea. “Done.” She tapped it into her notes.

“How about a radio. So we can listen to the ball game?” Putt added.

“Can you add squirrel to the menu?” Wimpy asked. “Squirrel and grits.”

Emily glanced at Matt. His mouth didn’t smile, but his eyes did.

“Grits, yes. Squirrel, Mr. Wimpy,” she said. “I just...no. No squirrel. Definitely a radio.”

The old guys all laughed, and Dubb tipped his cap back a bit. “Well, as long as you get Cora’s recipe for her shrimp po’boy sandwich, I’ll be good to go.”

“You don’t mind if we sit here and drink our coffee in the mornings?” Dubb asked. “Least till you open?”

Emily smiled. “Not at all. Help yourselves, anytime.”

“I knew I liked her,” Dubb said as the men shuffled up the deck and gathered around a table in the corner. Finding their seats, they began chatting about the Braves’ season.

Emily just grinned and continued her inspection. When she looked up, Matt had disappeared around the back of the building, checking for any exterior damages she supposed.

Matt’s brusque behavior disappointed her. Growing up, they’d talked about anything and everything—even at an age when boys and girls really weren’t supposed to be so close. They had been. She knew things couldn’t pick up where they’d left off—they’d been children then. So many years, so much...life had passed between them. They were grown now. Different people. Right?

Somehow, she hoped things would change.

After an hour, Emily had inspected every inch of the Windchimer. There were more upgrades than actual repairs, so that was a relief. Still, she had her lists, and combined with Matt’s it was a tall work order.

“It’s going to be tight to have it finished by the Fourth,” Matt said, climbing the deck to stand beside her. Their visitors had packed it in for the evening, leaving Emily and Matt alone.

“Well,” Emily said, pushing her hair behind her ear. “The faster we get on it, the sooner it’ll get done. Right?”

“Yep.”

She shoved her iPhone into her back pocket, climbed the veranda and turned to lock up the café. She let the screen door close, and then looked up at Matt. She noticed how the setting sun had left purple-and-red streaks in the sky above the ocean, and how the colors reflected against his gruff skin. Without thinking, she reached her hand and grazed his jaw. “Since when can you—”

Matt’s hand shot out like a bolt of lightning and grabbed hers, stilling the movement. They exchanged shocked glances, and without a word he dropped her hand.

“I’m sorry,” Emily finally said. The awkward moment didn’t pass quickly enough. “I—”

“It’s all right,” Matt said quietly. His gaze shot above her head, to some distant spot behind her. “Quick movements and me don’t mix, Emily.”

Emily blew out a sigh. “I’ll keep that in mind.” A feeling of embarrassed confusion washed over her. She was just going to ask him when had he been able to grow stubble. For now she supposed it’d be best if she just dropped the question. “Well, I’m finished here. I suppose we should head home. I have a copious amount of drudgery to complete.” Without waiting for his answer, she moved past him and headed to Jep’s old truck. By the time she’d climbed behind the wheel and stuck the key in the ignition, Matt was already in the passenger’s side. Silently, she turned over the engine and started home.

Matt didn’t say a word after leaving the Windchimer, and the moment she stopped the truck his door was opened and he was jumping out of it. She gave Matt a surprised look when he met her at the door.

“Repairs, right? Or did you want to go over that tomorrow?” he asked.

“No,” she said, and closed the truck door. “Absolutely, now’s fine.” She started up the lane, the humid air sticking to her bare arms and neck. “Come on in.”

Matt’s long strides carried him past her, and he pulled open the screen door while she stuck the key in the lock.

“Thank you,” Emily said and hit the lights as she stepped inside. Matt followed, the screen door creaking as he let it close. Setting her iPhone onto the kitchen table, she pulled out a chair and nodded to Matt. “Have a seat.”

He did, and she took one herself, pulled her feet up and sat cross-legged. Opening the notepad app on her phone, she looked at Matt. Seeing his face, with that off-center cowlick at the top and that scar through his eyebrow, made a smile creep across her lips.

“What’s so funny?” he asked. He tipped his chair back, watching her.

Emily shook her head. “I just can’t get over the fact that I’m sitting in my old kitchen with my old best friend.” She gave a soft laugh. “It’s just so crazy, don’t you think? After all these years? Do you remember when we—”

“I’m not that kid anymore, Emily,” he said, interrupting her. “I’m...just not.”

She didn’t let his gruff dismissal scare her. Instead, she softened, and felt a little sad about it. Somehow, she hoped a little of the old Matt Malone lay buried beneath all that hardened exterior. “Well,” she said with a confident grin, “maybe you should be more like that kid, instead of sharp-tongued cantankerous ol’ Matt Malone.”

Matt’s gaze stayed steady on hers; it didn’t waver, and he didn’t smile. He sort of had a perma-frown stuck on his face. But before he had time to respond, Emily blew out a gusty sigh. “Okay. So. Let’s get down to business here.”

Matt relayed all of the repairs he’d discovered while going through the café. Emily tapped it all into her notes. “Okay. I’ll research materials and have the list ready for you in the next day or two. Then you can determine your fee.”

“Fair enough. I’ll let you know about the parts needed to fix your Jeep,” he said. Rubbing a hand over his hair, he pushed away from the table.

“Sounds good.”

He strode to the door, and Emily followed. “I’ll check out the dock at low tide tomorrow.” He opened the creaky screen door and pushed it open, then looked over his shoulder at her. “It’s a lot of work. It won’t be a cheap repair. Materials won’t be, either.”

Emily leaned against the frame, propping the screen door open with her bare foot. “Yeah,” she said as Matt sauntered into the shadows, making his way to the old path they took as kids that ran between their houses. For a second she saw the skinny boy she once knew, running home for supper. And then before her eyes his shape grew, expanded, took on the form of the broad-shouldered ireful man he’d become. “I expected as much. See ya tomorrow.”

His deep, raspy voice drifted from the darkness. “Yep. Night, Emily.”

She moved out onto the porch and eased down onto the old swing. Despite the repairs, the work and the cranky once-best friend who lived next door, Emily knew that all of her previous decisions had led to this. College. Work. Trent, and their breakup. A new life. A new start. And it suddenly felt right.

For once, Emily sensed she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

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