“Long Beak Silver got into Cannon Bowl and terrorized a group of kids who came for a field trip.”

I wince.

Pretty sure Dad’s wincing back in the kitchen too.

Probably Grady down the street as well. His bakery’s right next to the bowling alley, so he’s undoubtedly already heard.

“Maybe we should ship him up to Sarcasm for a couple weeks.”

Aunt Bea gasps. “Tillie Jean. Watch your mouth.”

“Would you rather he tell a bunch of school kids to fuck off, or would you rather he says nice throw when one of their balls goes in a gutter?”

“She’s got a point, Bea,” Dad calls. “I’ll talk to Annika’s mom. See if she knows anyone good with parrots over that way.”

“Grilled chicken salad with vinaigrette on the side for Mr. Predictable,” I tell Dad.

“Don’t call customers names, Tillie Jean.”

“It’s on his driver’s license. Middle name. I checked. Make sure you put the red pepper under the sliced chicken. He likes it best that way.”

“Ignore her,” Dad says to Max.

“He usually does,” I answer for him. “And look at that. School’s out and the bus dropped off all the kiddos. Here we go.”

A flood of teenagers pass the front door, and five of them stop and come inside. They take over three tables in the center of the dining room once a week to play Dungeons & Dragons, usually cobbling together dollar bills and coins to afford sodas and nothing else, and we spoil them with swords and cannonballs—also known as french fries and fried mushrooms.

Pretty soon, at least two of them will be old enough to work here part-time, and I can’t wait. Our other help left us for college, so it’s mostly been Dad, me, and our night and weekend people.

Between the kids and the early dinner crowd, I’m busy nonstop for the next few hours.

Max stays the whole time, taking refills on his tea and playing on his phone after he’s done with his dinner, making my body painfully aware that he’s hanging out without having to do a thing beyond breathing.

No one from the team joins him.

No teammates. No training staff. No mascots.

Just Max.

All alone.

Occasionally answering questions and being friendly with the locals, always ignoring me.

But still hanging out.

Looking lonely and a little out of place.

He’s still on the same stool when the dinner crowd thins out. I don’t know if he’s been listening in as I catch up with my friends and neighbors about who took a trip where and who’s having surgery next week and who’s going to be grandparents soon, but he hasn’t moved.

“Dessert?” I ask him as I cruise past him behind the bar with a tray full of dirty dishes. “Sugar rush in a bowl? Dad made homemade cinnamon ice cream to go with the apple pie. I can slap a slice of cheddar on it and call it second dinner. Protein and calcium, right?”

“Where’d you get all the paintings in your house?”

“Hold on. I need to catch this tray before I drop it. Are you talking to me? Are we having a conversation?”

He gives me a look that he never gives anyone else. The one that says don’t be cute, you’re annoying me.

And it’s so normal that I smile. If he can be annoyed by me, then he’s probably also suppressing being turned on by me.

At least, that’s the theory I’ve been working on since he keeps catching himself kissing me—and more—all over town.

I slide the tray up on the bar and lean my forearms next to it. “I did them.”

“All of them?”

“All of them.”

“And these?” He hooks a thumb toward the far wall.

“Half of them. Pop’s Aunt Thelma did the faded seascapes and pirate ships. I did the rest, the ones with bright colors.”

“Even the ones with people?”

“Especially the ones with people,” Dad calls from the kitchen. “She has a gift.”

I wave a hand. “Bah. I have fun and I get to make Shipwreck a little more colorful.”

“Pretty sure that’s what you have that bird for.” Max’s gaze hasn’t wavered off me, and it’s making me warmer than hefting around trays full of food all night.

And I don’t want to talk about me.

I want to talk about him. “What’s with the lone wolf routine tonight? The guys ditch you? Or should I be very, very cautious when entering my car and my house after my shift? Are you Cooper’s lookout man again? Is my ketchup getting replaced with hot sauce? Are my sheets getting swapped out for sandpaper? Will my car look like a pirate ship when I get home?”

“Cooper’s having a sleepover.”

“Ew.”

He laughs, and teenage Tillie Jean makes moon-eyes at the sexy sound.

I have it bad.

I have it so, so bad.

“What about Trevor and Robinson?”

“Shopping.”

“Grocery shopping?”

“Christmas shopping. Robinson’s sister’s into unicorns, and—”

I put a finger to his lips. “Say no more if you want to live,” I whisper.

You don’t say unicorn in Shipwreck. It’s against the rules ever since Sarcasm started having a unicorn festival the same week that we do our pirate festival.

And I’m doing my best to keep thinking about Sarcasm and Shipwreck and our town rivalries. If I don’t think about something other than Max holding my gaze while I keep my finger touching his soft lips and the scratchy scruff around his mouth, I’ll start thinking about what happened in the garden the other night, and then I’ll want to do it again.

I keep trying to convince myself that a guy who’ll tell me he’s not good for me really isn’t good for me, because I want a man who loves himself first and foremost and doesn’t need me to save him, but there’s something about Max that gets under my skin.

He makes me question why I’m on this earth if not to help my fellow human beings.

He’s a fellow human being.

He clearly has some issues he needs to work through.

And he’s here tonight. Alone. Watching me work my shift like he has nothing better to do.

Which means he’s either a stalker, or he’s a guy who doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants.

Or possibly he needed a change of scenery and felt comfortable enough to take it here.

Gah.

I need to get out of my own head.

“Max got something on his face, TJ?” Dad asks.

I straighten and jerk my hand back, then rub it over my apron like that can remove the feel of him off my skin. “He said the u-word,” I stage-whisper.

Dad lifts his brows like I’ve lost my marbles.

I jerk my head at the corner table, where Nana is still eating banana pudding with Aunt Glory, then mouth unicorn to Dad.

“Oo-ee-oh?” he asks like he can’t read lips.

Max coughs one of those I’m not going to get caught laughing coughs, which makes him even more irresistible.

Dad grins. “You looking for artwork, Max? Tillie Jean can paint about anything, and Cooper mentioned you spend time in galleries in the city sometimes. Maybe she can make you something similar to things you like.”

“Dad. I don’t forge art.”