Chapter Nineteen

“Remind me again why I swore off men?”

Bree groaned at Maggie’s opening question. “Oh no. Who is it this time?”

Maggie sank down at the kitchen table, still staring out the window at the rainy driveway long after Ian’s truck had disappeared from view. “No one. I just…” Cecil leapt onto her lap and she cuddled him close, his tiny tongue licking the underside of her chin. She’d called Bree as soon as Ian left, needing someone to remind her of all the reasons why she couldn’t fall for her neighbor, but now that she had her on the phone, something else entirely came out of her mouth. “I think I like him.”

“Okay. Who do we like?”

“My neighbor.” Maggie heaved a sigh, groaning. “It’s not the way he makes me feel—because I always feel sort of like a useless idiot around him. And it’s not about the way I think I will feel if he wants me—like with Demarco, how I thought if he wanted me it had to mean I had finally arrived. I just…like him. He’s nice, Bree. He’s an amazing dad and he cares about his mom and his whole job is helping his community. He’s kind. I can’t remember the last time I said that about a guy.”

“Nice is good.”

“Yeah. Nice is very good.” But she was still scared.

“Are you seeing him?”

“He invited me to his place for dinner tonight. But I think it was a pity invite. I don’t think he’s actually interested—which of course only makes me crazier about him.”

Bree snorted. “Sweetie, you’re Maggie Tate. I’m pretty sure he’s interested.”

“No, you don’t know him. He doesn’t care about that stuff.”

“That ‘stuff’ being your insane hotness, excess of charm, and general awesomeness?”

Maggie huffed a soft laugh. “I was thinking more about my fame and fortune.”

“Ah. That.”

She smiled, but the smile faded quickly, eaten away by her nerves. “What if I’m just conditioned to like him because he was the first boy I ever kissed?”

“He was what now?” Bree demanded. “How have I not heard this story?”

“It was a long time ago. The summer I turned thirteen. I used to come up here and visit my aunt and Ian and I had always played together, but that summer I had such a huge crush on him. My first crush. It was this fierce, consuming, obsessive thing. God, I was wild about him. He’d only come down to Long Shores on the weekends with his parents, but I think that just made it worse. All week felt like it was building up to seeing him again. I would pray for rain—because on the rainy days sometimes we would stay inside and listen to music and he’d play his guitar. I waited for him to make his move all summer. I was so sure he was going to kiss me. But he never did and then it was August and I was leaving—I remember Aunt Lolly was actually loading my stuff into the car and I just knew I would regret it forever if I didn’t kiss him. I ran all the way to his house, but no one was there—it was a sunny day and his family did stuff on the beach on sunny days. So I ran to the beach. I got to the top of the last dune and I saw him—just coming out of the water, wearing a wet suit because he’d been windsurfing and the water was cold. I ran right up to him and I kissed him—and then I ran away. He didn’t say anything, I didn’t say anything—my heart was beating so hard I don’t think I could have spoken if I tried. But I smiled all the way to the airport. I couldn’t come back the next summer—I don’t remember why—but when I did see him again, we were sixteen and it was different. That summer, he kissed me, but I will never forget how brave I felt—or how scared I was—when I kissed him.”

Bree sighed. “Okay, you guys obviously need to get married.”

Maggie laughed. “Because of one kiss when I was thirteen?”

“Okay, maybe not married. But that is the cutest story. So you guys are having dinner tonight?”

“With his daughter. It’s not a date. They invited me to dinner over the weekend too and it was platonic. We’re platonic,” she repeated, reminding herself.

“Uh huh. So why did you swear off men again?”

“Because I’m self-destructive in relationships,” she reminded Bree—and herself. “Because I need to figure out how not to look to men for validation and self-worth. Because when I get desperate for everyone to love me I do stupid things like hook up with my exes even though I’m engaged to a perfectly lovely man who has never been anything but wonderful to me.”

“Okay, those are pretty good reasons,” Bree acknowledged.

“Exactly. So no crush on Ian. No matter how great he is. I’m working on myself.”

“Absolutely,” Bree agreed, though her enthusiasm sounded exaggerated.

Maggie said the words again, just to convince herself they were true. “I am immune to Ian Summer.”

* * * * *

She was not immune to Ian Summer.

And she was starting to think it wasn’t some residual crush left over from those summers. For one thing, he hadn’t had the beard back then—and she was developing a definite thing for his beard.

He was in the kitchen when Sadie let her in, and the man looked good. He glanced up at her from the pot he was stirring, slanting her a smile, all confident and comfortable in his space—which was really sexier than a man should be allowed to be.

“Hey,” he rumbled, as Sadie fell to gushing over Cecil. “Good timing. Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Great,” Maggie said breathlessly, all fluttery and girly—Christ, at this rate she was going to start simpering like a Victorian maiden. She cleared her throat, joining him in the kitchen. “Anything I can help with?”

“You wanna pour yourself a glass?” He jerked his chin toward an open bottle of red wine on the counter with an empty glass beside it. He picked up his own half-full glass from beside the stove as he stirred with the other hand. “We’re very casual here.”

Maggie took the suggestion, giving herself a small pour, but taking a large sip. She was always careful with alcohol. With her mother’s history, she didn’t believe in taking chances—and she’d never liked the feeling of being out of control anyway, but tonight she wanted that little hint of looseness wine could provide. Not too much, just enough to take the edge off her nerves.

She inhaled, the scent of the wine mixing with the heavenly richness of the gumbo. “That smells amazing.”

“Emeril. I only steal recipes from the best.”

She leaned a hip against the counter, watching him. “When did you learn to cook?” She’d never seen him in the kitchen when they were kids.

“When Sadie was little I got super into those cooking shows. She loves them too.”

“Masterchef Junior is the best,” Sadie piped up from the floor behind the breakfast bar where she was lavishing attention on Cecil. “Though Chopped is pretty good. And Top Chef is cool.”

Ian grinned. “We decided we wanted to know what some of these dishes tasted like and started trying more things and the rest is history.”

Maggie raised her wine glass in a toast. “To benefitting from history.”

Ian reached across the space to clink his glass against hers, meeting her eyes as he took a sip—and her knees actually went weak. “Tonight, we’re on a mission,” he told her, turning back to the stove.

“Does this mission involve eating gumbo?”

“As a matter of fact, it does.” He shut off the stove and turned back to her with his glass raised. “Tonight, Maggie Tate, Sadie and I are going to teach you how to enjoy the simple things. Gumbo.” He nodded to the stove. “Fire in the fireplace.” He gestured with his wine glass to the fireplace where logs had been laid. “S’mores.” He indicated the counter, where packages of marshmallows, graham crackers and Hershey’s chocolate bars sat. “That’s it. Tonight there’s no performance. Tonight, you, Maggie Tate, get to just be.”

Oh wow. How was she supposed to resist this man?

She smiled, lightness filling her chest like champagne bubbles. “I think I can do that.”