As I pulled up behind the shop and parked my car, I recalled his last summer up here, after he’d graduated high school. He’d been moody and distant toward the end, not like himself at all. When I’d asked, he’d just said he had a lot on his mind, what with leaving for college in only a few weeks.

On his last night in town, he came over to say goodbye, and the memory of that hot, humid night returned to me with startling clarity. For several seconds, I held my breath, remembering how he’d come to my window in the middle of the night, how the wet heat blanketed my skin when I went outside to talk to him, how the air crackled with the electricity of an approaching summer storm. Nine years had passed, but I remembered every single word he’d uttered there in the dark, could still hear the low, raw sound of his voice, the thunder rolling softly in the distance. I’d never told anyone about that night, nor had Miles and I ever talked about it again. Not that anything had happened…

But we almost.

We almost.

I walked around the block to the front of the store, and stopped short at the sight of someone leaning against the door. My heart immediately pounded harder in fear—the street was still dark at this time of morning, and I wasn’t used to seeing anyone but the occasional jogger. This was a guy in a hoodie and jeans.

“It’s about time,” he said.

I knew that voice.

“Miles? What the hell?” Hand over my heart, I resumed walking toward him. “You scared me half to death. I thought you were going to strangle me or something.”

He came off the door and stood tall, feet apart, hands in his pockets. “Hey, I’m willing. If you’re into that sort of thing.”

I rolled my eyes. “Um, no.” But for a crazy second, I pictured him with his hands around some girl’s neck as he fucked her. I bet he’s done it. He’s probably into that stuff. It didn’t repulse me or anything—in fact, it sort of turned me on—but Dan and I were pretty vanilla, and I was OK with that. He knew how to make me come, at least. Orgasms were orgasms, weren’t they?

Not that I’d had one in a while. One that wasn’t self-induced, anyway.

Stop thinking about orgasms.

When I reached Miles, I stood in front of him. He was tall and trim, with brown hair that was short on the back and sides, a little longer and messy on top. Still boyishly handsome, he wore black eyeglasses with thick frames and a satisfied smirk. “You’re late.”

“Yeah, somebody called me at four this morning and kept me on the phone for ten minutes.”

“What an asshole.”

“Totally.” I smiled, reaching for him. “C’mere, asshole.”

It was just a hug, and I’d meant it to be one of those friend hugs where just your shoulders touch, but as soon as his arms came around me, he pulled me close so my breasts pressed against his chest, and our torsos touched. Something fluttered again inside me, setting off a warning bell in my head.

Back off—it’s dark and he’s cute, and if someone sees you embracing out here like this, word could get around. Plus it feels kind of good, and how would you feel knowing Dan hugged women like this and got turned on by it?

I released him and took a step back, fumbling with my keys. For some reason I couldn’t recognize the right one, even though I’d opened this shop practically every morning for the last three years. Finally I managed to get it in my fingers, and I unlocked the door. “Come on in. I’ll get some coffee going.”

After locking the door again behind us, I turned on all the lights. Normally I didn’t do that until closer to opening time, but the prospect of being alone with Miles in the dark or even the dim made me feel a little edgy. We hadn’t been alone in the dark since—

What the hell? Knock it off. He’s your friend. Yes, he’s a flirt, but he flirts with everybody.

No, he has sex with everybody! And writes about it!

Right. Miles Haas was not for me.

Dan was for me. Good old familiar Dan, the boat salesman. Maybe he wasn’t perfect, but he was mine. Our lives were in sync. Our goals for the future aligned.

Wow, that sounds really unsexy.

Frowning, I put the coffee on, preheated the ovens and started mixing up a batch of strawberry muffins in the kitchen while Miles wandered around the shop. It wasn’t very big—I could seat eight at the counter and sixteen at small tables lining the opposite wall. Long and narrow, the shop was the right side of a century old storefront that had been split in two. I’d kept the old wood floors and high tin ceiling, and lucky for me the place had been a cafe before I’d purchased the business, remodeled and revitalized it. The woodwork and wainscoting were painted a soft gray-green, the walls above it were a creamy white, and the counter top—my big splurge—was a gorgeous silver-veined marble.

“Congratulations, Natalie.” Miles appeared in the open archway to the kitchen and leaned against it. “This is a beautiful place.”

“Thanks. I’m proud of it.” I poured batter into two muffin tins. I forgot how blue his eyes are.

“You should be.”

“Make yourself useful and pour us some coffee, huh? Then you can come sit back here while I put together the lunch menu.”

“You change it every day?”

“Not every day. It varies.” I stuck the muffin tin in one oven and pulled two trays of unbaked cinnamon rolls out of the fridge. Normally I had a pastry chef/assistant manager here in the mornings, but he’d asked for a long weekend and would be gone today and tomorrow, so I’d stayed late last night to make up the dough and get the rolls ready to bake. “I use a lot of local produce and ingredients, so I change up the menu based on what’s in season and available. Right now it’s strawberry season. And rhubarb! I’m making a rhubarb pie later today. You like rhubarb?”

“I don’t know.” Miles set a cup of coffee near me and leaned back against the counter, lifting his to his lips. “But I love to eat pie. Can I taste yours?”

I stopped unwrapping the plastic sheet from the trays and glared at him. Over the rim of his cup, his eyes danced with glee. “You better be talking about rhubarb or I’m kicking you out.”

“Sheesh. So sensitive.” He sipped again. “I like the photos on the wall in there. The ones with the text overlaid? Is that Skylar?”

“Yeah. I took those.”

He paused with his coffee halfway to his mouth. “Shut the fuck up. You did those?”

Pride made me smile. “I did. I was shopping with Skylar at this old antiques barn last fall and I found this old magazine from nineteen thirty-eight that had all these dating tips for girls, like ‘Please and flatter your date by talking about his favorite subjects’ or ‘Never sit awkwardly or look bored on a date, even if you are.’ We were cracking up.” I stuck the two trays of rolls in the second oven and set a timer. “I’d always loved taking pictures, and I had the idea that it would be funny to create a series of modern photos with a quote from the advice on top.”

“That’s right. I’d forgotten how you liked to take pictures. You used to make those slide shows of us.” He took another sip of coffee. “Those are great in there. Do you sell them?”

“Sell them?” I made a face. “Nah. It’s just for fun. But I found this other article from eighteen ninety-four on advice for brides, and I want to do another series. It’s unbelievable what people told women, like ‘Clever wives are ever on the alert for new and better methods of denying their amorous husbands.’”

Miles chuckled. “Amorous. Great word.”

“I wish I had a husband for that photo series but I doubt I could get Sebastian to do it.”

“Who’s Sebastian?”

“Skylar’s fiancée. They’re getting married this fall.”

He nodded. “So why haven’t you and the overly amorous Dan tied the knot yet?”

“Dan’s not overly amorous,” I said defensively. It was supposed to be a compliment to Dan, but it didn’t come out right. And it reminded me again about the lack of sexual heat in our relationship—in fact, we hadn’t had sex in two months. But this was not a fact I wanted to share with Miles.