“No, honey, you improve it. Whoops. Your mom’s calling. I think I was supposed to send her a pork chop an hour ago.”

He disappears into the kitchen again as two late stragglers push through the door. “Still got pie, Tillie Jean?” my cousin Ray asks. He’s nineteen and seriously in love with Georgia’s little brother, Jacob, who’s completely clueless about Ray’s affections.

Georgia and I can’t decide if he’s actually clueless, or if he plays clueless since he doesn’t want to ruin a good friendship, but I lean toward clueless.

This could go either way for poor Ray if he ever tells Jacob how he feels, and it makes me nervous for him too.

“Just one piece left,” I tell him.

“We can share,” Jacob says. “I mean, if that’s cool with you, Ray?”

Seriously, I have no idea how he doesn’t catch on, but he seems to entirely miss the googoo eyes Ray makes at the suggestion, which makes me cringe.

Poor Ray.

But he’s lit up brighter than the Christmas wreaths hanging up and down Blackbeard Avenue. “Yeah. Cool. I mean, if it’s good with you, it’s good with me. It’s always good with me.”

“Cinnamon ice cream?” I ask them.

“No!” Ray barks. “Jacob’s allergic. Don’t kill him. Jesus, Tillie Jean.”

Max slides a look my way that makes me wonder if he knows that there are two full pies in the kitchen and that I’m very well aware of Jacob’s cinnamon allergy. I grin at him.

He looks back at the two young men, then shakes his head at me. “Trouble Jean,” he mutters.

“It’s the pirate blood. Can’t help myself.”

It only takes me a minute to get the dirty dishes back to the kitchen and emerge with Ray’s pie, but Max is pulling on his coat when I get back.

Disappointment washes over me harder than a surprise spring rain.

“Beauty rest time?” I ask him as I step out from behind the bar with the pie.

“Something like that.”

“Is it like, minus seventy-five degrees outside? You’re wearing a coat.”

“Feeling chilly today.”

“Might want to check your temperature.”

“Okay, sis.”

He doesn’t ask how late I’m working or what I’m doing later or if he can stop by and see my paintings again.

I don’t offer any of the same. “Careful getting home. The goats get frisky with the full moon.”

“They really do,” Ray agrees. “One stood in the middle of the road yelling at all the cars half the day today down by the inn.”

Dad pops out of the kitchen. “Taking off, Max? Travel safe. I hear the Caymans are amazing this time of year.”

I look between the two men, my stomach dropping harder than it has any right to. “You’re traveling for the holidays?” I ask Max.

My voice doesn’t wobble. Nope. No way.

That’s all a figment of my imagination.

He nods.

No eye contact.

It’s all zip-up-the-windbreaker-and-don’t-say-a-word.

“Well. Have fun. Get a tan for the rest of us.”

I’m being ridiculous.

He’s been here all of—what? Six weeks?

And I’m acting like he would’ve been living in that house next door forever.

Of course he won’t. He reports to spring training mid-February, just like Cooper does every year.

But I don’t know if he’ll be back next off-season.

Or who’d move into the house next door for the winter.

Or if Uncle Homer’s kids would sell the house to someone in the meantime.

Max lifts his fathomless brown eyes to mine. “Thanks for dinner.”

And then he’s gone.

“Really nice that Cooper’s helping him out this year, isn’t it?” Dad says as the door jingles shut behind Max.

“Yeah,” I murmur absently.

Ray laughs too loudly at something Jacob says, and Nana and Aunt Glory shoot him indulgent grins.

The entire town is pulling for poor Ray, even without knowing what Jacob wants.

Is that what I’m doing with Max?

Am I making it up that he’s into me?

Or is he into me and resisting it for some unknown reason like everyone hopes Jacob is?

“You wanna take off early, hon?” Dad asks behind me. “Been here all day. I can clean up the last few dishes.”

I should tell him no.

That I’ve got this, and he should head home early.

But he knows what he’s doing.

I know what he’s doing.

And I can send him home early tomorrow.

I’m untying my waist apron before I think better of it. “You know what? Yeah. I’m tired. Thank you.”

He squeezes me in a one-armed hug as I make my way past him to grab my coat out of the back.

I don’t stop to think about what the hug means.

Dad hugs me all the time. I hug him all the time. Mom, Cooper, and Grady too.

We’re huggers.

Just because I think my father knows what I’m about to do doesn’t mean this hug suddenly has meaning.

But if it does, I’m glad to know my dad’s in my corner.

21

Max

I’ve barely stripped out of my T-shirt on my way to bed when someone knocks on my door.

Ignoring it is an easy option.

But it’s my back door.

Someone who doesn’t want to be seen by the neighbors.

“Don’t answer it,” I tell my reflection in the ornate mirror over the bed.

And then I ignore myself and pad through the house to the kitchen, barefoot, in just my jeans, and answer it, letting in a blast of cold air around a woman whose dark hair and pale skin is lit by the light of the full moon, shining like a candle in the dead of winter.

Tillie Jean opens her mouth, drops her eyes, and sucks in a breath. Her tongue darts out to swipe over her lower lip, and my cock goes straight back to the garden the other night.

But then she shakes her head and scowls at my face. “You’re leaving?”

Tell her to go away, a sinister little voice in the back of my head orders.

I ignore that too and step aside so she can come in. “Holidays suck. The beach doesn’t.”

“You weren’t going to say goodbye.”

“I’m not supposed to say anything to you.” Especially not I’m leaving because I can’t handle the temptation of you next door. Or if I don’t go, I’ll accept your family’s invitation to Christmas, and then I’ll start to get ideas that I cannot afford to have.

Or Yeah, I’m leaving, but I can’t wait to get back, since you aren’t at the beach.

Her gaze drops to my pecs again as she stops in the middle of my small kitchen. “You’re a dick, you know that? It’s all I want to kiss you one night and you’re a problem the next. Decide, Max. Pick one. We can be friends. We can screw around and have fun. Or you can be a dick. But you don’t get to waffle.”

“You’re—”

“I swear to Thorny Rock’s ghost, if you say Cooper’s sister, I’m going to beat you with that banana on your counter.”

I swallow the words Cooper’s sister, take in her flushed cheeks and flashing eyes and rigid posture, and remind myself that this is why I don’t do relationships.