“When do we ever not have fun?”

It was true. Since the morning after the storm, I’d been having nothing but fun with Drew Hartwell—with the slight exception of that incident with Kyle and Caleb.

But there’d been no fallout from that. I’d never heard from either of them again and didn’t expect to. I was living a new life now, and wished them nothing but luck with theirs . . .

Unless, of course, I heard they were making life miserable for someone else. Then I might have to take action.

“But do you think people are buying them because they’re good?” I asked him. “Or because I’m the girl that saved so many people’s pets after the hurricane, and they want to show their gratitude?”

Drew rolled his eyes. “Bree, look around. Half the people in here aren’t even from Little Bridge, and don’t know who you are. They’re buying them because they’re good.”

“I don’t know.” I chewed my lower lip. “I mean, it’s fine either way. But it would be really great if people were buying them because they actually thought—”

“Byotch!” Daniella appeared as if from nowhere and wrapped her arms around my neck. She was wearing a pair of light-up reindeer antlers, a sequined baseball jacket, and fishnet stockings under a green minidress. “You’re so fricking awesome! The paintings look so great! I miss your stupid face so much!”

“Thanks,” I said, trying to unwrap myself from her stranglehold. “I miss your stupid face so much, too. But you seem to know where to find me.”

“Yeah. It’s okay.” She smiled blearily at Drew. She may have consumed a few too many of the café’s special holiday drink, a Mermaid Moscow Mule. “I like your stupid face, too.” Daniella directed this to Drew. “So you can have her. And the Gare.”

“I promise to take good care of them both,” Drew faithfully swore, raising his beer in a solemn oath.

“You better.” Daniella saw something behind me and pointed. “But her! I love her stupid face!”

“I should hope so.” Angela came up, a Bloody Mermaid in her hand. “Bree, have you seen how well those paintings of yours are selling? You’re going to get famous soon and leave us to go back to New York to become the next celebrity artist, aren’t you?”

I looked at Drew and grinned. “Um, I don’t think so. But I appreciate the thought. How’s my apartment?”

Angela smiled. “It’s my apartment now, thank you very much. And it certainly beats living with my mother. Although I will say there’s never a dull moment with this one. How’s it going, Daniella?”

“Frickin’ awesome.” Daniella looked down at the glass of water Ed had just silently handed to her over the counter. “What’s this?” She sipped the water. “Ooh! Refreshing.”

“You little sneak.”

I looked up to see Patrick and Bill standing in front of me, wearing clashing Christmas sweaters.

“How could you not tell us,” Patrick demanded, “that you’re a classically trained artiste?”

“Um,” I said. “I wouldn’t say classically trained—”

“Nevertheless,” Patrick said, “we’ve purchased one of your paintings—Sunset Over Sandy Point, I believe it’s called.”

I stole a quick glance at Drew and saw that he was smiling. “Good choice,” I said. “That’s one of my favorites.”

“Yes, I thought it was the best. We’re going to hang it over the television. That way, whenever we’re tired of watching the news or whatever dreadful thing it is that’s on, we only have to look up, and we’ll be instantly soothed.”

“I think that’s a great idea,” I said.

“And every time we look at it,” Bill said, “we’ll think of you. How is our favorite feline friend doing over in his new digs?”

“Very well, actually.”

I couldn’t help but smile. Gary had pretty much taken over Drew’s house. His many years of living at the animal shelter must have given him plenty of experience in keeping other animals in line, including dogs, because from the outset, he’d shown no fear of the Bobs. Instead, he’d quickly asserted himself as the new alpha, with a paw to the muzzle of any dog he felt had disrespected him. He alone slept with the humans in our bed, though he did allow the dogs to pile onto the couch beside us.

He had no interest in the beach, however. The deck was his domain, where I was growing a small bed of grass for him—a suggestion from the animal shelter, where I now volunteered several times a week—since he’d so enjoyed chewing and rolling on the grass beneath the dear, departed frangipani.

“You’ll have to bring Brandon Walsh and the girls over for a visit sometime,” I said. “I’m sure Gary would enjoy seeing them.”

Patrick gasped. “We’d love that!”

And then they were swallowed up in the throng of new well-wishers who came hurrying up to congratulate me on the show, which by the end of the evening had sold out. As Drew and I walked along the festively lit harbor toward his pickup to go home, he reached out to take my hand.

“Happy?”

“Of course!”

“But?”

“There’s no but.”

“Then why are you so quiet? You’re not still worrying that all those people only liked your paintings because you saved their pets, are you?”

“No.” I looked out at the marina, where a lot of the boat owners had decorated their boats with Christmas lights, turning their masts into brightly lit angels or Christmas trees. “I just . . . I was just wishing my dad was still alive, so he could have seen this. And met you.”

Drew stopped in his tracks and turned to face me, his expression soft. “I was thinking the same thing about my parents, and you.”

We looked up at each other in the twinkling lights as nearby, the water gently lapped against the harbor wall.

“Don’t judge me,” I said, looking up into his handsome face, “but sometimes I feel like my dad knows. Does that sound weird?”

Drew reached out and gathered me into his arms. “No,” he said. “That doesn’t sound weird at all.”