“You know, because he never married. And then your dad dies and your other dad, he finds her again and—”
“Stop,” Zack said.
“Sorry. Awkward.”
“Yeah.”
“I hate to think about my parents doing it.”
“He‟s not my . . .” Zack‟s voice cracked, humiliating him. It hadn‟t done that in months. He cleared his throat. “My father
is dead.”
Under the black liner, her blue eyes were serious and sympathetic. “It doesn‟t take anything away from your dad if you get
to know the new guy.”
Morgan‟s voice rolled through his memory. “You have no idea of the dangers out there . ”
“I was fine until you came along.”
“Which only proves how little you know . ”
Zack stood, his chair scraping on the concrete floor. “I don‟t want to know him. I don‟t want anything to do with him.”
“Why not? You might have more in common with him than you think. You probably take after him, at least a little bit.”
Zack‟s pulse pounded in his head. “That‟s what I‟m afraid of.”
“It‟s not like he‟s an axe murderer or something.”
His hands clenched into fists at his sides. Inside his boots, his toes curled. Not an axe murderer. A shark. Merfolk. Finfolk.
Whatever the hell he was.
She studied his face. Her own expression softened. “Anyway, he made the first move. I guess what happens next is up to
you.”
Her words steadied him, made him feel as if he had a choice, a measure of control.
It was up to him.
He met her gaze, profoundly grateful. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” She strolled closer, tilted her head up. She was so pretty, so forceful, it was almost a shock to realize he was
actually taller than she was. Standing on tiptoe, she touched her lips to his. Her lips were sweet and slightly sticky. Cherry
Chapstick. Her silver lip ring brushed the corner of his mouth.
His head swam. He put his hands on her waist, tried to kiss her again.
She shook her head and took a step back.
He was wanting, aching, confused. “Stephanie . . .”
“Break‟s over. My dad will be looking for us.”
“But—”
She tossed her red-black hair. “I made the first move. What happens next is up to you.”
The forecast called for fog and rain. Summer in Maine , Liz accepted with a shrug. There would be no walk on the beach
today.
They could meet in her office.
All those interruptions , her practical side protested.
Or at the inn.
All those beds , temptation whispered.
But when she called the inn to suggest a change of location with Morgan, he dismissed her concerns.
“The weather will clear,” he had predicted.
He was right.
By the time they emerged from the trail, blooming with Queen Anne‟s lace and goldenrod, overgrown with blackberries
and beach roses, the clouds had pushed offshore. Liz could see the storm over the mainland, the dramatic gray slant of rain
over the water. But here was sunshine and the piercing cry of gulls.
The cove was wild and deserted. No picnic tables or access signs disturbed the natural landscape, only a peeling wooden
rowboat and an orange fiberglass canoe drawn up above the water line.