Neil awoke to the patter of rain and a crick in his neck. The muscles in his legs and back objected when he attempted to move, a groan shimmying up his throat.

Why did his bed seem so small this morning? And why was it . . . swaying?

He opened his eyes, realization forming in fragments—raindrops tapping against aluminum instead of shingles, the small couch in place of his bed. Muted voices outside and the thump of boots on the deck.

Wilder’s houseboat.

Only the smell of coffee was enough to make him unfold his limbs despite the soreness from a night crimped like a pretzel. Why had he thought staying at Wilder’s last night was a good idea? What time was it, anyway? The chores—he needed to get home.

“Ah, he rises.” Wilder ducked into the cramped living area of his boat and shook his head, the hood of his raincoat falling and sending droplets scattering into the air. “I hope you appreciate my hosting abilities. My coffeepot’s broken so I ventured into the rain to bring you this.” He dropped a white paper bag on the couch next to Neil and held out a covered Styrofoam cup with the logo of Trinna’s Teatime on the side.

“Please tell me this is coffee and not one of the loose-leaf blends Trinna’s always trying to pawn off.”

Wilder shrugged out of his coat, then flopped onto the small chair across from the sofa. “You think I’d do that to you?”

Sleepiness clinging to his eyes, he stifled a yawn and lifted the drink. Sputtered two seconds later. “Oh, man, what’d you do to this, Wild? Dump a pound of sugar in? I mean, thanks for going out in the rain but—”

Wilder’s laugh cut him off. “Whoops, gave you mine.”

They swapped cups, and Neil let out a satisfied sigh after his first drink. A thousand times better. “I don’t know how you can drink it the way you do.”

Wilder leaned back in his chair, propped one foot over the opposite knee. “And I don’t know how you can drink it so black and bitter it can give a person an ulcer, but oh well.” He tapped his thumb against his thigh, the grin on his face giving way to a scrutiny Neil knew a little too well.

He’d dealt with it for hours last night, from the moment he’d shown up at the houseboat around suppertime until he’d begged off watching a third Mission: Impossible movie and willed himself to sleep.

“So.”

“So, what?” As if he didn’t know. As if he didn’t realize just how much restraint Wilder had displayed last night in not demanding to know why he was at the houseboat.

Or, worse, why he’d come up from the pantry yesterday afternoon probably looking more embarrassed than he had the day he and Wilder had decided to ask the Ellis sisters to prom. Turned down flat, the both of them.

Except I don’t think Sydney was going to turn me down.

He felt his neck heat all over again at the thought and then the memory that accompanied it. Had he seriously almost kissed her? Had she seriously almost let him?

Was he seriously insane?

Wilder’s propped foot thumped to the floor and he reached across the space for the bakery bag, pulled out a donut. “Look, I know I’ve got the Columbo thing going on, but I really prefer to save sussing out mysteries for work hours. So if you could spare me the brainpower and just come out with it, I’d be obliged.”

“I just needed to get away, okay?” It’s why he’d pretty much fled from the house two seconds after greeting Wilder. Found every excuse under the sun not to return until nearly five-thirty, though he’d checked in with Lil periodically to make sure Maggie was doing okay.

And when he finally had returned, he’d avoided the voices he’d heard coming from the kitchen, jogged upstairs to shower and change, and then had been out the front door once more—likely before anyone had even realized he’d come and gone. “Sometimes the house is just a little too crowded.”

“More crowded than a houseboat?” Wilder tossed the bakery bag at Neil.

It landed in his lap. “You try being the only man in a house of three—currently, four—women.”

“Gonna make the educated guess it’s that fourth woman who sent you running away to the comfort of The Marilyn.” Wilder wiped the powdered sugar from his mouth. “You know, the one who was down in the pantry with you when I got to the house yesterday.”

“I didn’t run away.”

“But about what happened in the pantry—”

He yanked a donut from the bag. “Nothing happened.”

“Good grief, you are the most thick-headed . . .” Wilder rolled his eyes. “Fine, you don’t want to tell your best friend what happened—” Neil opened his mouth, but Wilder barreled on before he could get a word in. “And don’t say nothing happened. A man and a woman don’t come tottering red-faced and guilty out of a cellar without something having transpired.”

“Tottering? We weren’t tottering.”

“If that’s the only part of that sentence you can find to argue with, then my point’s made.” Wilder downed the last of his donut. “But go ahead and be stubborn about it. We can talk about Maggie instead.”

“What about Maggie?”

For the first time since Wilder had blown into the boat’s small living quarters, a look of seriousness entered his friend’s eyes. Or, no, maybe something weightier. Regret. “I don’t know how much longer to keep this up, Neil. This investigation. I’ve gone crazy in the past week and a half, tracking down every tiny lead I can imagine. I thought locating the stepbrother might finally get us somewhere—at least help me know if I was on the right track. But anymore, I’ve got this feeling in my gut.”

Neil’s donut went stale in his throat. He knew about Wilder’s gut instincts. Knew how strangely dependable they were. There were times he could’ve sworn the man had some kind of second sight.

“What’d your gut tell you when you first came up with your theory about CarleeAnn Picknell?” He swallowed. “When Maggie sent you to Chicago?”

“That trip wasn’t about my gut. That was all heart—wanting to please Maggie too much to say no.”

Of course. He could see the tenderness in Wilder’s eyes even now. “And your theory?”

“Probably not my gut, either. More, I don’t know . . . desperation to finally solve this thing. So Maggie can move on with her life.” He looked down to his folded hands. “So I can.”

Neil set his half-eaten donut on the crinkled bag. “Wild, this case isn’t some destiny you have to fulfill. Just like you didn’t have to take over your dad’s agency. Maggie would understand. Your dad . . .”

Wilder looked away.

But Neil pressed on. “He’d understand too.”

Rainfall clattering on the metal deck above filled the silence between them. Neil took another drink of his coffee, wishing he had the right words for his friend. Wishing he understood just what it was pushing Wilder into a life Neil wasn’t sure he’d ever wanted for himself. The P.I. work, the boat, Maggie’s case . . .

Underneath his constant informality, his carefree manner, something drove Wilder. But for all his joking about Neil being tight-lipped, his exterior was just as solidified.

“I almost kissed her.”

Wilder’s focus lurched back to Neil. “Come again?”

“Before you came barging into the house, I almost kissed Sydney. Now you know.”

A slow, ribbing grin spread over his friend’s face. Neil might not know how to ease whatever unknown burden Wilder carried, but he at least knew how to tow him back to easier waters. Well, easier for Wilder, anyhow.

“Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Neil chugged down the last of his coffee. “And it’s as far as we’re going.” He stood. He really did have to get back to the farm. Wasn’t a day when there weren’t chores waiting. He grabbed the hoodie he’d been wearing last night from the back of the couch, looked around for his shoes.

“That’s really all you’re going to tell me?”

“That’s really all I’m going to tell you.” He tugged on his shoes. “But as for Maggie . . . if the trail has gone dry, you need to tell her.” Though he didn’t want to let himself think what that might mean for Sydney. What it might do to Maggie.

“You ever think Maggie knows more than she’s telling us?”

He paused halfway to the door. “What do you mean? Telling us about what?”

“Think about it, Neil. She was the first one on the scene of the accident all those years ago. And before it happened, she’d spent a weekend with her daughter after not seeing her in over two years. And yet, when she was questioned, she couldn’t fill in any of the blanks of where Diana had been or who her granddaughter’s father was or, really, just about anything.”

“Because Diana didn’t tell her. Because they’d had a rough patch when Diana was a teenager and—”

“I don’t know, I just wonder sometimes. Maybe there’s more she knows and she doesn’t even realize it.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Hadn’t ever considered it. Was this another of Wilder’s gut feelings or was he only grasping at straws? “I don’t know. All I do know is, you need to be honest with her.”

Like you’ve been honest with her?

A strangled sigh slipped out. He might’ve finally admitted to Maggie yesterday that he hadn’t yet figured out how to replace their broken equipment or stock up on soil nutrients and fertilizers for next year. But he still hadn’t told her about the treehouse, his hopes for building the business in a new direction.

Soon. When the treehouse is ready.

He’d do it right. Take her out to the treehouse on a sunny day, have it all decorated, maybe even have something warm to drink waiting for her. The plan swirled in his head as he said goodbye to Wilder and drove the short distance home. While they were at the treehouse, he’d pull up Sydney’s website, explain how the addition to their business would work. Make it clear that it wouldn’t have to change anything for her; he’d handle all of it.

They could make this work. He could make it work.

Maggie would say yes. He’d almost convinced himself of it by the time he pulled into the farmhouse driveway.

Where he saw Tatum Carter’s truck parked behind Lilian’s car. She hadn’t left for the day yet? And where was Tatum?

Not inside, surely. Not bothering Lilian. Not talking to Maggie . . .

The front door opened, and Tatum stepped onto the porch, followed by Maggie.

He fought the urge to hit his steering wheel. Settled instead for jumping from his truck and striding to the porch, never mind the rain slicking over him. “Mr. Carter.”

If Tatum had heard Neil’s call—how couldn’t he have?—he didn’t acknowledge it. “Very nice chatting with you, Maggie. Like I said, if you have any questions, I’m just a phone call away. Or a quick drive, of course.”

“Of course. Thanks for stopping by.”

The man shook her hand, then clambered down the steps, sparing Neil only a brief nod before jogging through the rain to his truck.

Neil hurried up the porch. “Maggie—”

“I guess you were never going to mention the offer from Carter Farms, either, were you?”

Maggie’s words gutted him. Truthfully, he hadn’t even thought of it when they were talking yesterday. Hadn’t a single inkling that she’d take such an offer seriously. “You aren’t actually considering—”

“I will consider whatever I think I need to in order to do what’s best for this family, Neil.” She turned and walked inside.

Sydney had waited long enough.

All day she’d waited for Neil to return to the house after the brief five minutes he’d spent inside this morning once he’d finally returned from Wilder’s houseboat. All day she’d waited for Maggie’s pensive silence to lift like the rain finally had, or if nothing else, for Lilian or Indi to come home and provide a distraction from the tension hovering over the whole house.

But Lil was working late and Indi was still in Augusta and Sydney had simply had enough.

She knelt in the damp grass out back, patting Captain’s fur. “Gonna need you to be my guide tonight, boy.” She had to look ridiculous—yoga pants and farm boots, hair tucked up under a pink knit stocking cap she’d found in the entryway closet. Neil’s coat again. The man was probably wondering when he’d ever get it back.

She scratched between Captain’s ears. “Take me to Neil, will you?” She might be able to find the treehouse on her own, but having only been there once—and at night—she wasn’t entirely confident with her own tracking skills.

Wasn’t entirely confident she should be setting out to find the man at all.

But Maggie had said she was turning in for the night ten minutes ago, never mind that they’d only finished dinner just an hour ago, just the two of them. So it was either sit in the silent house, wrestling with the frustrating truth that everything that had gone wrong in the past two days was of her own making, or try to set at least one thing right.

So she’d find Neil.

She straightened and set off after Captain’s loping form. Yes, she’d find Neil and give him a good talking-to. Insist that if she was the reason he was staying away from the house—sleeping on a houseboat, not showing up for dinner—then she’d leave. Or at the very least, stay out of his way for the rest of the week until she left on Sunday.

“Don’t go, Sydney.”

No, that was the one thing she wouldn’t do—let herself replay those hushed, potent seconds in the pantry when he’d almost . . .

She stomped over a trail of gnarled leaves, the light of a full moon filtering through the trees. No, no, no. Wasn’t it enough that she’d already spent half the previous night lying awake in bed, wondering how in the world they’d found themselves in that moment? Wondering what Neil had been thinking?

Or maybe he hadn’t been thinking at all. Maybe, like her, he’d been completely caught off guard by his own desire, lured by a pull that had snuck up on him so quickly there’d have been no resisting even if he wanted to.

She hadn’t wanted to resist. She’d known it in the moment when his lips had been only a breath away. She’d known it last night when, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t keep herself from imagining what might’ve happened if Wilder hadn’t burst in.

Well, she knew what would’ve happened. But how it would’ve felt, that was the mystery.

One that probably wouldn’t ever be solved. Because Wilder had burst in and Neil had disappeared and she wasn’t going to let herself think of it again. She absolutely wouldn’t.

The wind howled through the trees, the ground beneath her feet still soft from the morning rain. Just a few degrees cooler, Lilian had remarked before leaving for work, and it would’ve been snowfall coloring the landscape. She might’ve liked to see that—snow blanketing the lawn and covering tree branches like ribbons. Maybe by Thanksgiving . . .

She’d be home by Thanksgiving. Then life could get back to normal for Maggie and Neil and everyone she’d come to care about here.

“Don’t go, Sydney.”

She huffed, her steps landing heavier as Captain led her through the grove and into the open field and down the curve of the land. Not far now. She could see specks of light peeking through the trees up ahead.

He might not be happy to see her.

Well, she wasn’t happy that he was avoiding her. They were grown adults. They could talk this out like the sane, logical people they were.

She followed Captain into the cluster of trees, knowing her steps would alert Neil to her approach. Not that he needed the warning, what with Captain’s yipping as he reached the treehouse first.

The sound of hammering rose over Captain’s barks, piercing the air. When she came into the clearing, she saw why, a light gasp joining the noise. In the week and two days since she’d last been out here, he’d made incredible progress. Now a winding, wide staircase led up to the structure, the landing at the top large enough for a couple of patio chairs, maybe even a small table. There was no door at the top yet, but the frame was in place, rendering the ladder and former entry useless.

The hammering stopped as she neared and Neil appeared from behind the staircase. No coat, flannel shirt sleeves rolled past his wrists, a toolbelt around his waist.

His expression, entirely unreadable.

“Aren’t you cold?” Not the question she’d meant to ask. She’d meant to ask how long he planned to avoid her. Or whether he’d eaten anything for lunch or supper or . . . “I could give you your coat.”

He stuck his hammer through a loop in his toolbelt. “I’m fine, Syd.”

She reached into one gaping pocket. “I brought you an apple. You didn’t come in for supper.” That earned her a first inkling of a grin. Only an inkling. But it was something.

“There’s a mini-fridge in the machine shed. I was able to scrounge around for something.”

Oh. “You’ve been working all day. Unless you were able to scrounge up something with plenty of protein, it couldn’t have been good enough.”

He crossed the few yards between them. Still no smile, but he hadn’t sent her away. He held his hand open for the apple. She placed it in his palm.

“Thanks.”

She swallowed. “The treehouse looks amazing. That staircase is . . . amazing.”

“Well, the ladder wouldn’t do long-term. Plus, I’m going to build a little bathroom down at the base—just something simple, but I can’t very well expect people to stay here overnight if there’s not at least some touch of modern appeal.”

It was the most he’d said to her since yesterday in the pantry.

Don’t think about the pantry.

But how was she supposed to do that now? With him finally, actually speaking to her and looking at her, and even without a smile, his dimples enough to make her wish for the hundredth or maybe thousandth time that Wilder Monroe had just stayed out on his stupid boat yesterday afternoon instead of—

Good night, she needed someone to shake some sense into her.

“Listen, Sydney—”

“I have to confess something to you.” Also not what she’d intended to say when she’d trekked out here. But dang it, with the moonlight and the rustling of the trees and this man standing in front of her, she just couldn’t get ahold of reason and rational thinking. Or speaking.

He bit into the apple, chewed. “Okay.”

In for a penny . . . “I’m not actually scared of Melba.”

He swallowed. “What?”

“I’ve totally milked a cow before, and I wasn’t even a tiny bit nervous about it.”

“What?”

She stuffed her hands into the warm pockets of his coat. “During my one year in college, my roommate invited me home to her family’s farm at mid-term. Her dad wanted to give me the full dairy farm experience, so he had me try milking one of their cows—even though they have big machinery that takes care of it. And it was weird but fine. So Melba doesn’t bother me at all.” She let out a breath.

“Then why the heck—”

“Because I thought maybe it’d make you like me more. That first morning, you clearly didn’t want me here. You didn’t want to be giving me a tour. And I don’t know, I guess my brain malfunctioned for a second and convinced me that if I convinced you I was some green city girl who went wide-eyed at the sight of a cow, you’d think it was endearing or something. Find a hidden soft spot in your heart.”

He swallowed another bite. “But then yesterday . . .”

“Well, I had to keep up the act.” She shrugged. “Although, if you’ll recall, I did tell you that first night when I followed you here that I wasn’t scared of the cow.” Although she’d looked even more ridiculous then than she did now—that fluffy robe, those oversized boots—so of course he hadn’t taken her seriously.

“You’re a nutcase, Sydney Rose.”

There it was—the smile she’d been waiting on. Hoping for. The whole reason she’d come out here, no matter what she’d told herself as she’d left the house and tromped through the fields.

And she was about to ruin it. “Neil, I am truly, truly sorry for spilling information to Maggie that wasn’t mine to give.”

“You don’t have to say this. You already apologized.”

“But then I turned things around and made them about me and dissolved into tears.”

And oh, maybe she wasn’t the only one who’d spent more time than she was willing to admit thinking about what had come next. Almost come next. Because Neil shifted his weight, took another bite, then tossed the apple core into the trees, fiddled with his rolled sleeves.

A nice feeling—him being the embarrassed one, for once.

But no, she wouldn’t get off track with this second apology. “You trusted me and I let you down and I’m sorry. I know it doesn’t change the weirdness it’s caused between you and Maggie, but if there’s anything I can do to help smooth things back out . . . or maybe you’d rather me just stay out of things from here on out, which I completely understand—”

He stopped her rambling with one hand on her arm. “It’s okay. I mean that every bit as much as you mean your apology.” He squeezed her arm and dropped his hand. “Want to try out the staircase?”

He nudged her toward the stairs, then followed her up and into the light of the treehouse. Was that it? She apologized and he just . . . accepted it?

“Hey, it’s warm in here.”

Neil nodded toward the space heater in the corner and she pulled off her cap and shrugged out of her coat. His coat. Then stood in the center of the room—awkwardly, unsure what to do next. He passed the next minutes showing her the windows he’d put in last week, pointing out the new glass in the skylight. And then he moved to one wall and sat, legs stretched out in front of him.

She lowered next to him. The quiet, the evening air, their aloneness—reminded her of Saturday night on the boat. “Too bad we don’t have pie.”

His low laugh lifted over the hum of the space heater. But then he stilled. “You know the guy who stopped out to see Maggie today?”

Yes. Lilian had filled Sydney in, none too excitedly. She nodded.

“I think Maggie might actually sell to him.”

Sydney gasped. “No. She . . . she wouldn’t.”

“She told me she’s considering it. Now that she knows how precarious things are financially, I think she might feel like it’s her only choice.” She opened her mouth, but he placed his hand on her knee before she could speak. “Don’t apologize again. The fact is, I should’ve told Maggie how things stood long ago. I should’ve told her about Tatum’s offer when he first made it. I just . . . I didn’t want . . . and apparently there’s history there I don’t even know about—between the two of them.”

He leaned his head against the wall, gaze tipping upward. The clouds from earlier today had rolled on with the wind, leaving behind a sky so clear, the stars awaited admiration.

But after only a moment’s gazing, she returned her attention to Neil’s face, wondered what it would feel like to run her fingers over the bristles that shadowed his cheeks and jaw, trace a fingertip over one dimple and then the other.

No, Syd. You’ve been over this.

That was the problem. She’d played another moment like this out in her mind too many times last night. Chasing fairy tales again.

“The other night you asked me why my last name isn’t Muir.”

She blinked at the change in the subject. “Yes.”

“Maggie never actually adopted me, not like the girls. I was fourteen when my aunt brought me here. It took them over a year to work things out legally for Maggie to be my guardian. I guess with it being international it was extra complicated. They had to get a visa and, I don’t know, I suppose it just wasn’t feasible to push through an adoption, too. Especially when I’d be eighteen in only a few years.”

Understandable. Still. The way he said it now, the way he’d avoided her question the other night made it clear the situation had bothered him more than he let on—still did.

“I was sixteen when Lilian’s adoption was finalized. She’d been living with Maggie for years by that point, but there were a whole host of complications. Her story to tell.” He rubbed his palms over his jeans. “But we all went to the courthouse together on the day the judge was set to finalize things. And I remember thinking maybe I’d find out I was being adopted too. That maybe Maggie had decided to keep it a surprise for some reason. We’d get there and she’d finally tell me and it’d be this big celebration. And I’d be Neil Ian Muir.”

Only someone with a heart of stone could’ve heard him tell that story and not reached for his hand. She closed it behind both of her own. “You wanted to be a Muir. Legally.”

“It’s just a piece of paper with legalese. Just a name.”

But it’d left him feeling on the outside, she could see it now. As a young man, he’d hurt in that moment.

And he hurt now at the thought that after everything he’d poured of himself into this farm, he might once again find himself on the outside. It made so very much sense. He was tied to this land—but not legally.

He was bound to his family—but not in name.

“Neil, I . . .” She didn’t know what to say. She could remind him that Maggie and his sisters loved him. They adored him, she saw it every day. But he already knew that. Hurt was still hurt and longing was still longing.

She knew about longing. Possibly more than ever before. “Well, you might not have the name or court document to show it, but I don’t think anyone could deny you belong to this land. I knew that my first morning here—when you lectured me on the difference between cultivated and lowbush blueberries.”

Her tease lightened the moment.

“I didn’t lecture you.”

“You did. You lectured a complete stranger. One, I might add, you’d staunchly decided to dislike.”

“Lucky for you, I’m a man who’s willing to change his mind.”

Was it her imagination or had the inches between them disappeared? The warmth of the space heater was nothing compared to the touch of Neil’s shoulder next to her or his fingers laced through hers. Any lightness she’d injected into the conversation a moment ago waned now—no, dissolved entirely—as he leaned closer.

“And for the record, it worked.”

“What worked?”

“Your little charade with Melba. It was endearing.”

“Well . . . good.” Her tone had gone breathless, and in an instant, every wondering, wonderful what-if that had played in her mind since yesterday in the pantry set her heart galloping as he shifted just enough to angle his head toward hers.

This is insane. You’ve only known him ten days.

But he paused a moment later, so close she could feel his breath.

“What . . . why are you . . . pretty sure Wilder’s not going to come bursting in.” Honestly, how was her whispered voice even functioning with the way her pulse sped?

“I’m being appropriately cautious about an unfamiliar experience, that’s all.”

She didn’t even have a chance to laugh at his echoing of her own words from Tuesday. Because he kissed her then—finally—softly enough, at first, that she might’ve imagined it. But then his hand, callused and rough in a way that bespoke his years of laboring in love, found her cheek and he tilted his head and deepened the kiss.

And she knew Nikola was right. This was an adventure. Neil was an adventure—someone with endless depth to be explored and constant goodness—and she didn’t want it to end. Not this kiss, not this time in Maine . . .

She broke away with a gasp, gulping for air, for reason. “I’m going home on Sunday.”

Neil’s fingers brushed her cheek. “I know but . . .”

“But what?” She pulled away, not because she wanted to, but because she couldn’t think with his lips still so close and her heart still pounding. And darn it, she didn’t want to think. She pulled herself to her feet. “Please finish the sentence, Neil, because I don’t know how to.”

He rose slowly, keeping a few feet between them. Then, apparently, thinking better of it and moving close enough she could feel his warmth radiating even though he didn’t touch her. “Look, I . . . I won’t kiss you again if you don’t want me to.”

“I definitely did not say that.”

He only gave his grin a moment’s freedom before going on. “But the way I see it, despite the fact that I was born in Scotland and you were born . . . somewhere else, despite the impossible odds that our paths should ever cross, God got us both here. He brought me across an ocean at fourteen and you across half a country. And this—” He waved one hand between them. “It doesn’t come around every day.”

“And what exactly is ‘this’?”

This time he let his smile stretch as he reached for her. “We’ve got at least four days to find out.”

“I can’t argue with that logic.” She tucked into his embrace readily and lifted her head.

But before he could kiss her again, his sister’s distant voice cut into the night. “Neil, are you . . .” And then a little louder, “What in the world?”

Neil groaned. “Guess Lil knows about the treehouse now.”