Sunday evening, Claire pulled her long gray sweater tighter around her shoulders as she waited for someone to open the bright red lighthouse door. She thought she’d dressed appropriately for this time of the year, but the temperature had dipped lower than they’d reported as the sun disappeared over the trees west of town.

She’d spent most of her day working through a few events that were coming up: Cape Van Buren Halloween contest in October, another Just for Kids Paintbar in two weeks, and some finishing touches on the layout for her Coping through Art program that she was determined to implement at the Center.

All she had to do was get Mitch to sign off on it. She couldn’t begin to understand why he was hesitating even for a moment. Well, this was her chance to make sure he saw it her way. She was tired of wanting it so bad.

It was time to make it happen.

The door swung open, and Mitch ushered her in, looking as if he’d stepped out of the pages of an L.L. Bean advertisement for sexy Mainers. His distressed jeans encased his thighs in a way that made her want to dig her fingers in and see if they were as hard as they looked, and his navy cable-knit sweater made his broad shoulders even broader.

The women of Portland were going to love him.

She frowned.

“Did something happen?” he asked, a concerned look in his eyes.

“What?” Shit. “No, no...just thinking.”

He led her up the stairs to the main living space, teasing as they went. “If I recall correctly, that’s difficult for you, isn’t it, Adams?”

That snapped her out of it right quick. He was a wicked pain in the ass, but she chuckled anyway. “Oh, please, we all know thinking for you doesn’t venture beyond ‘shall I wear boxers or briefs.’”

He flashed her a grin, stopped, and pressed her up against the wall of the stairwell, just outside the living room. “We both know the answer to that.”

Oh yeah, they did.

Her heart sped up as the heat of him washed over her. Suddenly her gray sweater was all too warm, and she felt as though she’d have a heat stroke if she didn’t get it off.

Dipping his head, he slid his lips over hers.

Her toes curled in her socks, and she sighed into the kiss. As he pulled away, she blinked a few times, not realizing she’d closed her eyes, and cleared her throat. “What’d you do that for?”

With a soft caress of his fingers along her cheek, he said, “I realized I hadn't given you a proper hello, and that must be where all the vinegar was coming from.”

His words sunk in, and she gave him a playful slap.

“You’re ridiculous.”

They just stepped through the door. If she were ever susceptible to even humoring the idea of a happy ever after, the scene that lay before her would be the catalyst for such a crazy idea. The soft earth tones of the newly renovated lighthouse were set aglow with a myriad of tapered candles that flickered shadows around the room. Soft music played in the background, and as she recognized the familiar croon of Etta James, a feeling of returning home washed over her.

Her mother used to play Etta all the time when she was preparing the house for something special. She'd have to tell her mom of this night. It had been a while since they'd spoken, and she knew her mother worried about her baby girl. It was because of that worry that she often stayed away far too long.

The savory aroma of fresh-caught salmon made her mouth water. September meant salmon festivals all up and down the coast of Maine. There was no telling where Mitch scored this particular catch, but if it came from the coast of Maine, then it would be the best she'd ever eaten.

“You cooked?” She made her way into the living room, loving the feel of the thickly padded, plush carpet under her feet. So much that she removed her socks, leaving them by the door, her blue-tipped toes dotting the floor.

“Make yourself at home.” He chuckled.

“I couldn't resist, this carpet is amazing.”

He nodded. “I believe Jade Dawson did most of the designs for the Cape house and here.”

She nodded, having heard the same thing. Jade was one of three triplets, Coach Dawson's daughters. Each one more beautiful than the last and it didn't matter what order you saw them in. They were smart as a whip, bold as any businessman, and determined to make their mark on Cape Van Buren.

“Speaking of the Dawson triplets, have you heard anything about the Hide Away and Stay Inn not being around much longer?”

The place had special memories for everyone in town, especially her friends. The kids of Cape Van Buren had spent many amazing summers on that property, most adults as well.

“It would be such a shame,” she said.

The look on Mitch's face spoke volumes. With his background, especially in real estate, she was sure he knew more than he was saying, but she also knew there were some things he just wasn't able to share.

Thinking about that only made her worry about next week, but she decided that she needed one night of pure and utter unadulterated enjoyment devoid of any work-related stress. An evening with Mitch Brennan always promised just that.

Shrugging, he poured two glasses of white wine into stemless wine glasses that boasted the Cape’s logo, handed one to her, then lightly tapped her glass with his own. “There are a lot of rumors, so let’s focus on what we know. The festival is going to be amazing, thanks to you.”

She warmed at his praise, shoving away the censure of her own mind, telling her it shouldn’t matter.

“Here's to making a difference in Cape Van Buren.”

The Coast Week event warmed her heart but also left it grappling for more. Though she enjoyed her time with the children more than anything else, it came at a cost. It hurt to think that she’d never call any child her own, that the one she had was lost, never to be held or cherished and doted upon like her own mother always had with her.

She swallowed past the lump in her throat and repeated his words. “Here’s to helping those of Cape Van Buren.”

The wine was cool and crisp, relieving her dry, parched throat and relaxing her muscles from the tight hold of emotions that were pressing down on her. “How did you do all this?” she asked.

“Good friends.” The sarcasm was thick, but the smile on his face belied any hard feelings.

“I wanted to show you the kind of date you should be having. A date where you spend time with somebody you enjoy, you eat good food, you share some stories about when you were growing up or the first time you kissed a boy with braces.”

She laughed, trying to imagine him in braces. He was probably the one teenager who could pull it off and seem even cooler as a brace-face than without. “You never give up, do you?”

The expression on his face was one of determination, and it sent a shiver of awareness down her spine like the very first time just before he kissed her.

“Look, I feel like I’ve opened up more since you and I started a couple of weeks ago. You’ve helped me realize that in some ways I was avoiding pleasure when I didn't have to.”

His eyes grew dark, and she put her hand up to stop him from moving toward her. “I mean pleasure in the broadest sense of the term. Eating good food, listening to good music, enjoying my friends, heck, just in joining in on the fun of this wonderful town. I’d been missing out a little for fear of what...looking silly?” She stared into her glass. “Or needy? I don't know which is even worse in my mind. You've helped me figure out how to live more fully. And that is no small feat.”

“And I'm not done.” His voice was low and suggestive like she imagined he'd use with a jury when he needed to be his most persuasive. “Tonight is just about you. No agenda, I'm not trying to get anything out of you, and this will not end up with us naked, though it pains me to even say the words.”

She giggled, to hide the immediate deflated feeling she experienced herself.

“You need to be cherished, Claire.” His bright eyes bore into her own, demanding she hear him without any more words. The intensity of his gaze thickened the air between them, making it difficult for her to breathe. The ocean waves raged against the rocks, creating an echoed hum that sang through the foundation of the lighthouse.

“Why do you care so much?” she whispered, at that moment wanting him to hold her and at the same time feeling as though if she didn't move away, she might not make it out alive. “You might not even be here this time next year.”

His eyes darkened, and he rubbed his hand over his chest. He pulled out a stool for her at the small counter that made a peninsula between the kitchen and the living room. She’d always loved the way he moved. It was fluid and graceful even with his impressive size.

“Me possibly not be here next year is one of the main reasons for tonight.”

She slid onto the stool, wrapping her hands around her wine glass. “That's a bit dramatic, isn't it?” she teased. “As if I'll never see my friend Mitch again?”

He narrowed his eyes at her with a small shake of his head. “No, I'm pointing out that you save special things for a moment that you think is special enough, where I am trying to challenge you to look at every moment as uniquely special.”

He turned off the stove and pulled out a baking dish, setting it on top of the anchor trivet on the counter. The heat must have seeped through the dishtowel he used because he snatched his hand away, shaking it out with a soft curse.

“Hey, Mitch? Ovens are hot.”

“Drink your wine, smart ass, and just think about what I said.”

A yearning grew deep inside her as she watched him move around the kitchen. Accepting that every moment was special strengthened her fear. It allowed her to grow closer to those she loved, in turn, increasing the chances of pain when they were taken away.

“I get the whole live in the moment message, but there are some things that are more important than others. We can’t indulge all the time, it isn't healthy.”

Mitch looked at her out of the corner of his eye with a smirk that always transformed his face from handsome to sexy, and she took a swallow of her wine to prevent herself from asking to skip dinner and jump straight to dessert.

“Who says?” he asked.

She opened her mouth to toss back a retort but had nothing. His blatant refusal to accept the norm excited something deep within her. Life with this man would never be boring.

That was a promise.

He plated a dish of salmon and what looked to be herbed rice. Grabbing a lemon from a bowl, he sliced it into quarters as if he had done this a thousand times before. “Life can be terribly short. If we always wait for a special occasion, there’s a chance it might get missed altogether.”

He placed a plate in front of her and slid onto the stool, his knee resting against her thigh. A swift rush of awareness swept through her on contact, but she forced herself not to move away, and he didn't either. The heat of him reminded her of how it felt to be in his arms, the delicious weight of his body pressing into hers.

Making her yearn and dream and wish for things to be different as she followed the lines of his profile, the straight edge of his nose, and the strong angle of his jaw.

“Mitch.” She said his name softly, not sure what she wanted even as she asked.

He lifted a hand as if he were going to touch her face but let it drop back to the counter and picked up his fork. “You are the special occasion, Claire.”

She shook her head. Not because she didn’t believe him but because she believed he meant every word.

Silence filled the room as he studied her. “Cherished.” He slid his fork beneath a tender piece of salmon. His movements were always so gentle.

She’d never noticed that before.

“Cherished?” She whispered, her heart throbbing in her chest.

“It's what you need to be, Claire. Don't settle for anything less.”

She pulled in a shaky breath, wanting to reach out to him, but afraid if she did, she’d never let go.

Mitch watched in wonder as Claire’s struggle played across her face.

Her sweet smile dipped to a frown, then moved on to a tremble. Her eyes were both bright and wary. She lifted her hand for a moment, then fingers fluttering, set it back in her lap.

He meant every word he said. She needed, no deserved, to be cherished—held softly in love and with urgent passion. His own arms yearned to reach out and wrap around her familiar frame.

But he took another bite of salmon instead.

They ate in silence except for Claire’s moans of gustatory pleasure. The sounds set off all kinds of images in his head, and a very different kind of hunger filled his soul.

“You’re an amazing cook. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I always seem to be with you.” She spoke in a soft tone of awe.

“My mom...”

“Of course. Janice is a superwoman.” A giggle escaped her lips followed by a small burp, and she slipped her fingers over her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I just did that.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment. You did say I’m a good cook.”

She grinned, and his heart stuttered in his chest. Her beauty was never a question, but the look on her face in a moment of unguarded pleasure was nothing short of stunning.

“You’re good at a lot of things.”

“Really good.” He flashed a wicked grin.

“And you hide behind your excess,” she said, punctuating each word with a small stab of her fork in the air.

A restless, itchy sensation pushed him up from his stool. Grabbing his plate, he walked to the sink. “Not sure what you mean there.”

“Well, you are frustrated with the lens of your reputation the town views you through, but whenever something might get serious, you make a joke, make a move, do something to hide behind the cavalier persona you’ve created.”

He set his dish in the sink, wincing at the sound of ceramic hitting the stainless steel. “I don’t hide.”

She shook her head. “It used to drive me crazy, wondering how you got through life seemingly avoiding responsibility...or reality.” With a sip of her wine, she joined him at the sink, staring through the window that framed a beautiful view of the Atlantic Ocean stretching as far as the eye could see. “But really, you were hiding.”

A tight sensation strung his shoulder blades tight, and he busied himself with rinsing the dishes. He scoffed. “Please, what do I have to hide from?”

Besides the direction of his life, lonely and without purpose, the warmth in her smile, the promise of love.

“From the looks of your drawings...attachment. It’s as if you’re afraid of allowing yourself to get close.”

The image of his father walking away, getting in his car, and driving off floated in a blurry haze in his mind.

But instead of admitting it to her, instead of telling her how he really felt—that he’d fallen for her and it scared the shit out of him—he tossed the towel onto the counter, grabbed the bottle of wine, and wiggled it back and forth. “Apparently, someone has had a little too much to drink.”

The concerned glow in her eyes vanished, leaving something more akin to pain, but he resisted the urge to soothe the small wrinkle that formed between her brow.

“That was rude.”

“Or maybe you’re simply embarrassed that your psychoanalysis of some crayon scribbles is way off.”

Claire took a step back as if smacked, then with a determined set to her chin, grabbed her long gray sweater and headed for the door. “Psycho is right.”

A crumb of regret irritated the back of his throat. “Look, I get that you’re trying to help, but you can’t go saying this kind of thing to a kid taking a class at the Center. Parents would be calling in complaints non-stop.”

She hesitated a few stairs down, throwing daggers back up at him. “This kind of thing? Are you kidding me?”

With a wave of her hand, she continued down the stairs that spiraled the perimeter of the lighthouse, grumbling as she went. If they’d been talking about anyone else, he’d have loved her passion. But they were talking about him. And he’d panicked.

And he didn’t like it one bit.

Seeing her storm down the stairs scared him even more. He followed close behind, regretting every ignorant word he’d said.

Fuck.

An urgency to make it right pushed him forward. “Claire, wait.”

“I am credits away from my degree in psychology. The only thing between me and a license are a few classes and a test. Just because you can’t handle your own damn baggage does not mean that I’m wrong. And for the record...”

She burst through the archway into the main entrance by the front door, yanking on her Bean boots with sharp, jerky tugs. “...any kid I’ve ever worked with has handled the feedback with a hell of a lot more grace than you just did. The problem here isn’t me or my program. It’s you and your own issues.”

Pulling the heavy door open with a grunt, she swung back around.

He took the opportunity to drag her into his arms, slamming his mouth to hers. The feel of her lips, of her arms sliding up around his neck, and her melting into him, drove home the very real fact that he was done for.

Her taste would remain on his tongue a lifetime, and the feel of her in his arms an eternity. A small moan escaped from between her lips, and every nerve in his body responded with an immediate surge of interest.

But as quickly as she’d melted, she stiffened and pulled back with her lips in a thin line of resignation.

“There’s something here between us. You feel it. I know you do,” he rasped out around the emotion lodged in his throat.

“It’s not what we agreed on,” she whispered.

“But it’s there, isn’t it?”

She nodded in agreement, then snapped her chin up as if catching herself. “I have to go.”

“No, you don’t.”

“You know I do.”

“Now who’s hiding?”

Ignoring him, she backed through the door. “I hope you get your issues figured out before you make your final decision about my program. It would be a shame for the kids of our town to miss out on strong coping skills because you’re too afraid to face your own problems.”

Denial sprung to his lips, but she shut the door in his face. And it reverberated in his chest just as it had when his dad slammed the car door closed so many years ago.

This was the very reason he’d known all along he needed to keep his distance from her. He was made for the lust and attraction of relationships, but attachment? One single commitment where he was responsible for the happiness of another?

This was a prime example of how truly bad he was at something like that.