I frowned at her. “It doesn’t need that much renovating, not really.”

Skylar’s eyes bugged out. “Natalie. You have a sponge painted dining room. No.”

“And that wallpaper in the guest bedroom is horrible,” Jillian added. “Sorry if I’m meddling.”

“And that ivy stencil in the kitchen.” Skylar shuddered.

“That doesn’t bother me so much. The master bedroom and bathroom are perfect. And I don’t have money to redo everything at once anyway.”

“What about Dan? Shouldn’t he be helping you with these costs? Assuming he ever moves in,” she muttered under her breath.

“He’ll move in, eventually.” I shrugged. “But he has to sell his condo first, and he’d remortgaged it to buy into the marina. Money is tight for him right now. Plus, I kind of like having the place to myself for a while. And I can afford it. I feel good about that.”

Skylar splayed her hand over her chest. “OK, but please let me help you in that kitchen. We’ll strip that paper and paint it. I cannot handle the ivy.”

Jillian laughed. “I’ll help too, when I can. My hours will be so much better than before. Almost human, I think.”

“Good. Then you can sign up for that online dating thing I told you about.” Skylar gave Jillian a smug look before polishing off her burger.

Jillian sighed, picked up her water glass, and put it back down. “Anyone ready for another drink?”

“Yes,” Skylar and I said together. We ordered glasses of wine from Abelard Vineyards, where Skylar worked and was planning to be married, and toasted our successes once more.

“To Skylar, may your wedding be the most beautiful event this town has ever seen,” Jillian said, glass raised.

“To Jilly Bean, may your future patients appreciate how lucky they are to have the best doctor in the world,” I said, clinking my glass to hers.

“To Natalie, may she always open the door of her new house to handsome strangers.” Skylar’s eyes glinted mischievously as she touched her glass to ours. “Sometimes a little chaos is a good thing.”

• • •

A few days later, I was getting ready for work when my phone vibrated on the bathroom vanity. Surprised, I glanced down at it as I finished winding the elastic around my ponytail. It was four in the morning. Who did I know that would even be up at this hour?

Miles Haas calling, read the screen

I blinked.

Miles Haas was awake right now? He’s probably hammered, on his way home from a bar or a party or the bedroom of some girl who thinks he’ll call her tomorrow. I bet he drunk-dialed me by mistake. He’d done that the last time we’d talked, about a year ago, but he hadn’t admitted it until we’d been on the phone for almost an hour. Plus I was running late already, I was short-staffed today, and I had to make muffins for the coffee crowd and get the salads going for lunch. Tourist season was in full swing, and diners had cleaned me out yesterday. I did not have time for an early morning chat with Miles Haas.

Still, I took his call. I always did.

“Hello?”

“You married yet?” The gritty yet playful sound of his voice unlocked twenty years’ worth of memories. Treehouse, mud puddle, sticky cotton candy memories of summers he’d spent at his family’s summer house on Old Mission peninsula, where I grew up.

I smiled. “No.”

“Good. That guy was a douche. He didn’t deserve you.”

“We’re still together, Miles.”

“Still? Jesus. That’s even worse.” Miles and Dan shared an intense mutual dislike for each other, which I’d never fully understood, since there had never been anything romantic between Miles and me.

Well, except for that one night.

The almost night.

“So what’s up? Did you drunk dial me again?” In the mirror, I noticed my cheeks had gone pink.

“I’m perfectly sober, thank you.”

“Then why are you calling me at four in the morning?”

“I’m bored with the girl blowing me.”

“Oh my God.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “Please tell me there is not actually a girl blowing you right now.” It wasn’t totally out of the question—Miles wrote an insanely popular blog called Sex and the Single Guy as well as articles for men’s magazines, pieces with titles like “Should You Bang the Boss’s Daughter? A Flowchart” and “Butt Stuff for Beginners: A Field Guide.” Occasionally he wrote about topics other than sex, but his brand was built on his devil-may-care, hipster playboy approach to life. And that approach included a lot of banging, butt stuff, and blowjobs.

“No, I’m just teasing you.”

“Good.”

“She’s tied up in the basement now.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“You heading to work?”

I sighed. “Yes. I should be there already.”

“I’m in town.”

“You are?” I turned around and leaned against the vanity. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen Miles in person—maybe two years ago? He’d gone to college and grad school out East somewhere and then moved around a bunch, but he hadn’t come back up here very often. Last time we’d spoken, he was living in Detroit. “To your family’s place?”

“Yeah. You busy later?”

I had to think for a second—today was Thursday, which meant Dan had his tennis league after work and I swam at the gym, but after that we always met up for dinner. We hadn’t really seen much of each other this week. Could I break a standing date—for Miles—without causing tension? “I’m not sure,” I hedged. “What time?”

“Whenever.”

“Let me check on something. I’ll text you this afternoon.”

“Good. I’ll have another round with Svetlana here, and I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Svetlana?”

“Yeah, she’s Ukrainian, some kind of acrobat. I don’t know what the fuck she’s saying half the time, but goddamn she’s flexible. Maybe I’ll send you a pic.”

“NO.” He’d done that before, and I’d had to quickly delete the pic before Dan discovered it. “Don’t you dare. I’m hanging up.”

I ended the call and quickly finished getting ready for work. On the ten-minute drive to Coffee Darling, the small shop I’d opened downtown three years ago, I reminisced about those us-against-the-world summers when Miles and I had been close. His family’s property bordered my family’s cherry farm, and for as long as I can remember I’d looked forward to those eight weeks we’d have together while his family visited from their home outside Chicago. An only child, he was a year older than me, but about five years less mature, and growing up in a house with only sisters, I’d liked the idea of hanging out with a boy.

And unlike my bookworm sister Jillian or pageant queen Skylar, I’d loved nothing more as a kid than running around outside and getting dirty, climbing trees, swimming in his family’s pool or the bay. As grade schoolers, we’d played pirates or spies or zombies. As pre-teens, we’d had swimming races and fishing contests and went to the county fair together, gorging on sticky carnival food and riding the Zipper or Round Up until we were sick and dizzy. And the weird thing was, as close as we were all those summers, we never talked during the school year. But when he arrived in late June for vacation, it was like we’d never been apart.

Things changed a little the summer after he turned sixteen, when he was suddenly tall and deep-voiced, and his body had acquired the muscular curves and lines of a grown man’s. His face had changed too—it was more angular, stronger in the jaw and cheekbone, fuller at the mouth. Miles is so handsome, isn’t he? my mother would remark. I’d rolled my eyes, because she wasn’t the only female who’d noticed. Miles was suddenly every girl’s crush, a role he relished, hooking up with every pretty girl with a pulse, including a bunch of my friends.

Secretly I agreed with my mother—Miles was handsome, but his ego didn’t need any boosting from me. When we hung out as teenagers, I endured his dirty, juvenile sense of humor and turned up my nose at his flirting, letting him know I was not impressed. Then I fell in love with Dan, which Miles did not understand at all—not only did he think Dan was an ass, but he thought relationships in general were stupid and told me repeatedly that I was missing out on all the fun.