"Fair enough. I'm pretty good at entertaining myself."
That should have been reassuring, but something twisted in my gut. Eric Callahan was supposed to be intimidated by my gruffness, not charmed by it. He was supposed to keep his head down, not lean on my fence drinking my coffee like he had every right to be there.
As I watched him gaze out over the fog-shrouded water, his face lit up with the curiosity I remembered from another lifetime. I realized that nothing about our arrangement would go the way I'd planned.
I spent the rest of the morning trying to prove myself wrong.
Eric had come into the kitchen after breakfast, notebook in hand and hair still damp from his shower.
"Hey, quick question—do you know if the south trail loops all the way around to the cliffs, or does it dead-end?"
I wiped coffee grounds off the counter with the heel of my hand. "It used to loop. There's a downed tree about a mile in, last I checked. You'll have to double back."
"Got it. I'll flag what's still clear."
"And the fog…"
"Yes, I'll be careful."
He scribbled something, smiled, and vanished out the door like a gust of wind.
I was hauling a coil of netting back to the shed when I heard him coming up the path again—boots crunching through the undergrowth.
He pushed through the clearing, flushed from the hike, a few bits of bramble caught in his socks, and his t-shirt darkened with sweat and clinging to him in ways I tried not to notice.
"South trail's passable if you don't mind ducking under branches." He panted slightly to catch his breath. "Pretty sure I ate a spiderweb or two."
I meant to answer with something neutral, maybe a nod, but my gaze lingered. His shirt tugged tight across his chest, collar slightly askew, freckles visible at the neckline.
I looked away fast enough to be noticed.
I told myself I was annoyed. It wasn't quite true.
"Thanks, I'll update the map."
He beamed like I'd handed him a trophy. Then, he disappeared inside to clean up, whistling like the hike hadn't drained the life out of him.
I turned back to the netting, hands suddenly clumsy on the rope.
By noon, the fog had burned off enough to reveal the jagged coastline in patches, like a photograph developing in slow motion. Eric disappeared into his room after a peanut butter sandwich lunch—something about organizing his research materials—and I'd thrown myself into maintenance work.
The hinges on the shed door got a complete disassembly and oiling. Next, the section of fence near the bluff that had been listing to one side for months suddenly became urgent enough to require immediate attention. I even dragged out the trail markers that had been gathering dust in the corner of the shed, telling myself it was time to check the blazes on the hiking paths that wound through the island's interior.
I did anything I could to avoid going back inside. Eventually, the physical work ran out, and my knee started sending up the familiar warning flares that meant I'd pushed too hard. I limpedback toward the cottage, telling myself I only went in for some ibuprofen and a glass of water.
I found Eric in the main room, sitting cross-legged on the braided rug with papers spread around him in tidy piles. He'd claimed the coffee table as a desk, opening his laptop. The sight of his things mixed in with mine—his bright blue notebook next to my stack of weather logs and his phone charger coiled beside my reading glasses—jolted me.
He looked up from whatever he was writing. "Sorry, I hope you don't mind. The light's better out here than in the guest room."
I ignored the comment and headed for the kitchen but stopped short when I saw movement in my peripheral vision. Eric had gotten up from his spot on the floor and was wandering toward the wood stove, drawn by something I couldn't see from where I stood.
Then, I realized what had caught his attention, and my blood turned to ice.
The skates.
For sixteen years, I'd avoided looking directly at that corner. Sixteen years of banking the fire, stacking kindling, and reaching for the wool blanket without letting my eyes drift to the shadows underneath the bench.
Eric saw them immediately, the way a lighthouse beam cuts through the fog. He crouched down and reached for them.
