Waking up at the Pamlico House Bed & Breakfast for the third morning in a row, Laire stretched her arms over her head and opened her eyes to take a peek at Ava Grace in the bed beside hers. Nestled under a cozy down duvet, her little bug slept soundly, and Laire grinned as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and sighed.

According to Mr. McGillicutty, the contractor retained by her new homeowners’ association, it would take about a week to pump the water out of the basement of the condo and address the damage to the boiler and electric panel. Once both had been repaired or replaced, she’d be contacted so that she could move back in. Well, not “back” in, since she’d never actually taken possession of the condo. The storm had gotten progressively worse as she drove out to the Banks on the twenty-seventh. Instead of going to the condo, she and Ava Grace had detoured to the Pamlico House and checked in. It was a good decision. Even with the whipping wind and high waves, they’d been safe and sound, and when the electricity finally went dead, the generator had kicked on to keep them warm.

Yesterday they’d picked their way through waterlogged roads covered with debris to see the condo Judith had left to them. Located on a beach road, it was part of a modest structure—tan terra-cotta with two levels and twenty-two units. Theirs was on the second floor and had two bedrooms and a living room balcony with Atlantic views. As Ava Grace explored Nana’s dark, quiet, fully furnished condo, Laire stepped out on the balcony and breathed deeply. She could smell the brackishness of the water, and her eyes pricked with requited longing. It had been a long time since she’d smelled the sea. She had no idea if her father and sisters would welcome her back, but it was still good to be home.

Last night, she’d been up until well after one o’clock sketching new ideas for Madame Scalzo, realizing the time only when she heard the guest in the room above hers arrive and unpack. Judging from the heavy sound of his footfalls, he wasn’t a small man, though, after she heard his bed squeak with the weight of his body, she hadn’t heard another peep. When she finally lay down in her own bed, she imagined him, just for a moment, asleep above her, separated only by a ceiling and floor. She wondered what had brought him to the inn—if he’d been stranded by the storm or if he’d planned to visit Buxton for New Year’s. Was he young or old, and why was he alone? Her mind enjoyed the wondering. It brought her a strange, but welcome, sense of intimacy that felt warm and comforting as she fell asleep.

Now, as morning light filtered into the room, she glanced up at the ceiling, imagining him nestled under his comforter, asleep like Ava Grace.

Yesterday the little girl had again asked Laire about her father, and Laire had again used her fairy-tale Prince Charming story, which appeared to satisfy her daughter. But she worried, more and more, about what she would tell Ava Grace someday, when fairy tales and half-truths weren’t enough.

Certainly the Rexfords would have no use for her. It hurt Laire’s heart to admit it, but she knew it was true. If Ava Grace ever went searching for her father, she’d end up sorely disappointed by people with no character or integrity, no sense of honor or truthfulness or even mercy. Still, she didn’t know if she had the right to keep Ava Grace from the man who was, biologically at least, her father.

Though marriage held zero interest for Laire, and plenty of terror, she did sometimes wonder if she owed it to Ava Grace to find someone sweet and stable and get married. Ava Grace so desperately wanted a father figure in her life. But then, consigning herself to a loveless marriage wouldn’t help her daughter in the long run, would it? If she were ever to offer the example of marriage to her daughter, she’d want Ava Grace to see her mother well loved and happy. She’d want to model the sort of relationship she hoped her daughter would seek for herself one day.

And if Patrick—sweet, lovely, gentle man that he was—couldn’t touch Laire’s heart, it was unlikely that anyone else could. Which meant that Erik Rexford had, more or less, spoiled Laire for marriage. She may have moved on from Erik, but she couldn’t imagine trusting another man enough to ever fall in love again, or allow her heart to be hurt again.

She sighed, tenderly caressing her child’s face with loving eyes. A driven career-woman mother would have to be enough for Ava Grace.

Laire stood up and walked over to the window, pushing away the sheer curtains and looking out at the Sound. She’d thought about paying a little extra for a third-floor room with a balcony, especially since the Pamlico House would be their home for the next week, but she couldn’t justify the expense. If she wanted to smell the ocean, all she needed to do was open a window or, better yet, walk outside, which is exactly what she and Ava Grace would do later today.

“Mama?”

She turned around to see her baby sitting up in bed, her favorite stuffed animal—a penguin named Mr. Mopples, a gift from Uncle Patrick—tucked securely under her arm.

“Morning, baby.”

Ava Grace’s grin segued into a yawn. “What’s for breakfast?”

Laire shrugged as she crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. She pushed a lock of wavy auburn hair from her forehead and leaned forward to kiss her. “I don’t know. What do you think Kelsey’s making today?”

“Pancakes!” cried Ava Grace, throwing her hands into the air and waggling Mr. Mopples like a flag.

“Pancakes!” said Laire, cupping her daughter’s face. She was so beautiful, this perfect little person, with her deep brown eyes and coppery hair. Laire was floored, on a daily basis, that such a perfect little person belonged to her. “Didn’t she just make pancakes yesterday?”

“She said she’d make ’em every day for me!”

“I bet that’s because you’re the best little girl in the world.”

“Mr. Mopples doesn’t think so,” said Ava Grace, giving Laire a very stern look.

“Oh, no?”

She shook her head and sighed. “No. She thinks I’m fourth best.”

How Mr. Mopples was a she had been beyond Laire’s comprehension for years, but when asked, Ava Grace simply answered, “Because that’s the way it is.”

“Impossible!” cried Laire, pursing her lips in mock annoyance at the battered penguin. “I demand to know who are first, second, and third.”

“Katie, Leslie, and Hannah,” said Ava Grace, referring to the three little girls in her kindergarten class who had had bigger parts in the Christmas pageant than Ava Grace. “They’re the best.”

“Is that right?”

Ava Grace nodded somberly.

“Well, Mr. Mopples is wrong,” she said.

“How do you know?”

Laire turned to the penguin. “Because even if you don’t, Mr. Mopples, I see the person sitting here in front of me, and she is amazing. She’s smart and funny, and she has a huge heart. She’s kind and thoughtful. She is loving and brave. Do you know how brave she is, Mr. Mopples?”

“No, Mama,” said Ava Grace in Mr. Mopples’s voice. “How brave is Ava?”

Laire leaned down on her elbow to look the penguin in the eyes. “Between you and me? She’s the bravest kid I ever saw. Katie, Leslie, and Hannah? They still live in their comfy houses in Boone, where they know everybody. But Ava Grace Cornish is having an adventure! She’s moved to a whole new world. She’s going to start a new school. And you know what?”

“What?” asked Ava Grace in Ava Grace’s voice.

“Everyone at that new school is going to love her just as much as I do.”

“Are you sure, Mama?”

“One hundred percent positive,” said Laire, lifting her eyes to her daughter’s. “Don’t be afraid, Ava Grace.”

Ava Grace took a deep breath. “But I am, a little.”

“You don’t need to be, baby.” Laire tilted her head. “Especially because I found out something yesterday . . . School’s not starting until the third. Because of the storm.”

Ava Grace’s mouth dropped open. “You mean I get an extra day of vacation? At a hotel? With you?”

Laire nodded, grinning at her smart girl. “That is exactly what I mean!”

Leaping up from the bed, she jumped up and down with Mr. Mopples, saying, “More vacation! More vacation!”

Laire jumped up beside her, taking one of Mr. Mopples’s flippers and one of Ava Grace’s hands and joined them in a happy dance, wishing that every sad day of her daughter’s life could be so quickly turned around.

***

More vacation! More vacation!

He heard the squeaky little voice of a child through the floorboards and groaned as his eyes fluttered open. Erik had purposely pulled the blinds down so he could sleep until eight, and here it was, six thirty, and he was awakened by the people downstairs having a dance party.

“Fuckin’ obnoxious,” he growled, flipping back over and covering his head with a pillow.

He heard the voice of a woman, likely the kid’s mother, shushing her child, and the commotion ceased, though now he was on his guard for more noise, which meant that he was awake. Only five hours of sleep. Fantastic.

Since when did the Pamlico House admit kids anyway?

Picking up his bedside phone, he called down to reception.

“Front Desk.”

“Yes. This is Mr. Rexford in room—”

“Three-o-eight,” said Mr. Leatham. “What can I do you for?”

“The people in, well, I guess 208—they’re pretty loud for six a.m.”

“Hum. Yep. That’s the young mama with the li’l’un. Remember? I mentioned them? They come over from Hatteras?”

“Right. Well, do you think you could have a word with them about keepin’ it down before eight?”

A pause. “You want that I yell at a young lady with a li’l’un?”

“No. I don’t want you to yell at anyone. Just . . .” The line was quiet as Mr. Leatham waited for instruction or forced Erik to feel petty and withdraw his complaint. Hmm. No, screw that! He’d paid for a room the same as her. He had every right to a quiet night’s sleep. “But if you have a chance to remind her of quiet hours between ten and eight, please do.”

“Remind her? I guess I could, but—”

“Wonderful. Then do.”

He hung up the phone before Mr. Leatham could work more of his passive-aggressive objections, and whipped the covers from his body. He’d unpacked last night, but now he grumbled as he stood naked in front of the sheer curtains of the balcony doors. Parting the flimsy fabric, he noted the large icicles hanging from the railing and sighed. The sun was out, but the hill from the inn porch to the sidewalk that led to the dock, was white with snow and ice. And around the dock, where the water was brackish from the Atlantic inlets, he could see a fairly thick coating of ice. When seawater froze, it was cold out. Icy cold.

Christ, but winter in the Banks was depressing.

Pulling the curtains closed again, he crossed to the bathroom, took a piss, and turned on the hot water. Stepping into the Victorian bathtub, he let the hot water soothe his still-weary bones, leaning his forehead against the tile wall under the nozzle and sighing deeply.

You want that I yell at a young lady with a li’l’un?

He pursed his lips and shook his head in annoyance.

“Yes.” Then he paused. “No.”

He turned around in the shower, letting the water pelt his back.

Is that who I am? Who I’ve become? Someone who yells at women and children for waking up on the right side of the bed while I perpetually wake up on the wrong one?

He shook his head again and grabbed the tiny tube of shampoo from the soap dish, squeezing a glob into his palm and working it into his hair.

I wasn’t always this way, he thought sadly, backing up to rinse out the lather.

He soaped his body, running his hands over the well-defined muscles of his chest and arms. Over the years, especially after he’d been kicked off the Devils in his senior year at Duke, he’d found solace in working out. At home in Raleigh, he had an excellent gym on the roof of his apartment building, complete with an Olympic-size pool, and when he’d moved in, he’d made arrangements for his keycard to work at the health club twenty-four hours a day. Many nights, when he couldn’t sleep, he’d make his way to the elevator and up to the thirtieth floor, where he could work out his disappointment and aggression and find the peace to let him go back to sleep.

On autopilot the year after he’d graduated from Duke by the skin of his teeth, he’d allowed his parents to pressure him into law school. He concentrated his studies in public policy as they’d suggested, instead of entertainment law, which had always held his fascination. Locked into a course of study, he graduated three years later and took a job at his father’s law firm, as planned. The following year, he launched an unsuccessful campaign for state senator. Though his parents did most of the work and hoped for the best, his icy demeanor and sour expression lost him the vote.

He still had little interest in politics or public policy. He’d allowed his parents to railroad him into a life he didn’t truly love. Why? Because most of the time, he simply didn’t care.

He had an overwhelming sense of apathy. Work was work. Work made money. Money made life comfortable. But none of it really mattered.

What matters? he asked himself.

He paused as the water whooshed the suds from his skin and down the drain.

“What matters?” he whispered, his voice a little desperate when his mind remained a blank.

Hillary mattered, of course. And Pete. His parents annoyed him, but he cared about them. But he had no great loves. No sports team he played for. No issues he’d die for. No woman he loved.

And in that instant, Hillary’s words revisited him: You need to face your past, or you’ll never be able to move forward. I mean, wouldn’t you like to love someone? Be loved by them? Maybe get married and have a baby?

Did he want those things?

He reached for the shower lever and twisted it to Off, reaching for a towel and drying his hair first and then his body.

Do I want those things?

He used his forearm to clear a circle of steam from the mirror and looked at his face. Here you are, back on the Banks, in the place where your dreams began and died. So it’s time to answer the question, Erik: do you want more than you have?

“Yes,” he whispered. I want to move forward. I want to love someone. I want more than I have.

Face your past, or you’ll never be able to move forward.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, watching as the steam covered the mirror again, blurring his reflection.

To face his past, he’d need to remember the precious days he spent with Laire. He’d need to look at them and examine them and let them hurt him one last time before letting them go. Without answers. Without explanations. Without anything except the sheer force of his will to have a different life than the cold, lonely, angry, meaningless existence he’d been carving out for himself since her loss.

And he may as well start today.

Pulling on jeans and a sweatshirt, he sat down at the desk in his room and reviewed some e-mails and business correspondence, then closed his laptop, grabbed his coat and keys, and headed downstairs. He’d start at Utopia Manor, where his love affair with Laire had started and ended, and when he was done, maybe he would finally—finally—be free.

***

Laire finished the last of her coffee, grinning across the bistro table at Ava Grace, who had just asked for a second helping of pancakes.

“Mama, don’t be mad, but Kelsey makes the best pancakes ever.”

Laire chuckled at her daughter as Ava Grace dug into another helping.

Looking out the window at the cold expanse of snow covering the lawn, she couldn’t help but remember Erik. They’d spent so many nights curled up in those Adirondack chairs together, talking, touching, kissing, sharing their dreams and their hopes and their love.

The ghost of Erik was everywhere she turned at the Pamlico House, where they’d loved each other so desperately. She’d grown so much that summer, changed so much, learned so much. She’d loved so deeply, it hurt. And even though she considered herself over Erik now, being here made it ache again, which she resented.

Not to mention, it had been many years since she’d separated her Erik from the Governor’s Son, but here? In this place where she and Erik had been so happy? It was hard to convince herself that the man she’d loved was dead and gone. Somewhere in the world—at an office desk in Raleigh, most likely—Erik Rexford was very much alive.

And her daughter, who had her father’s beautiful eyes, was a constant reminder that someday she’d need to tell Ava Grace who he was and how to find him. It scared her breathless to even turn her mind to it.

Her cell phone buzzed on the table, and she flipped it over to find several e-mails delivering at the same time. There was no cell reception, and the Wi-Fi at the inn was coming in fits and spurts. She scrolled through message after message from Madame Scalzo and her assistant and other designers in the New York office. They didn’t love the designs she sent last night, which meant a day or two of revising the sketches.

She sighed. “Ava, I have to do some work today. Do you think you could watch a movie on your iPad when we get back up to the room?”

Ava Grace squished up her face and shrugged. “I did that already. It’s borin’, Mama.”

Not only had Ava Grace watched movies and TV shows in the car all the way from Boone to Buxton, but she’d been watching them for two days in their hotel room. She was probably going stir-crazy by now, but that didn’t change the fact that Laire needed to do several hours of work and the iPad was the perfect babysitter, unless . . .

Kelsey popped back into the dining room with a heaping platter of pancakes in one hand and a coffee carafe in the other.

“Who wants more pancakes?” she asked.

“Me! Me! Me!” cried Ava Grace.

“Kelsey,” asked Laire, “do you do any babysitting?”

Kelsey placed three large pancakes on Ava Grace’s plate, then turned to Laire. “Sure. Lots. You need a sitter?”

“Desperately. How about today?”

“Definitely. I can make time. When were you thinkin’? Tonight?”

Laire cringed. “Um, now?”

“Now now? Like, right now?”

Laire held up her phone. “I just got a dozen messages that’re going to keep me busy until late afternoon. I pay well.”

“But I still have an hour of breakfast left, and then—”

“Ava wouldn’t mind sitting here and eating pancakes, would you, Ava?”

Ava Grace shoved another mouthful between her lips and shook her head.

“And I, well, it’s almost seven thirty. Even if you gave me until one. One o’clock,” she said, trying to bargain. “Five and a half hours. I could get a ton done.”

Kelsey looked at Ava Grace, who grinned up at her. “Well, I guess I could watch her until one. But she’ll have to stay here in the dinin’ room until nine, and if she’s good, she can help me make cookies, and then we’ll go outside and make a snowman, and then—”

Laire’s phone buzzed again, and she jumped up before Kelsey could reconsider. “That’s perfect! Thank you so much!”

Kelsey winked at Ava Grace before refreshing Laire’s coffee and heading back into the kitchen.

Laire picked up her cup and turned to Ava Grace. “Promise you’ll be good for Kelsey? Mind her? And use your manners?”

“Yes, Mama. Kelsey’s my new best friend . . . after you and Mr. Mopples.”

Laire chuckled as she stood up, leaning down to press a kiss to her daughter’s head. “And you’re my beautiful girl.”

“Your beautiful princess, Mama,” said Ava Grace, a drop of maple syrup making a slow descent down her chin.

“Wait a minute.” Laire paused, grinning down at her as she wiped the syrup with a napkin. “Are you a princess now?”

“Yes,” said Ava Grace nodding, her eyes dead serious. “Daughters of princes are always princesses, Mama.”

“Oh.” Laire’s heart stuttered for a moment, but she kept her smile pasted on her face. You’re going to have to tell her the truth whether you like it or not. Someday she’ll need to know. “Yes. Of course, baby. You’re my princess. Always.”

Damn you, Erik Rexford.

As unexpected tears burned her eyes, she turned quickly away and hurried back up the stairs to their room.

***

As Erik headed down the stairs with his keys in his hand, the smell of pancakes reminded him that breakfast was served from seven to nine, and lucky for him, it was just after seven thirty. As he reached the reception area, Mr. Leatham, who stood at the reception desk, cleared his throat meaningfully.

Erik stopped on his way to the dining room, looking at the innkeeper with eyebrows raised.

“You just missed her,” he said, his expression dour. “The li’l’un’s mama.”

“Sorry?”

“You could’ve had words with her, but you just missed her. She just went back upstairs.”

Erik sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Look. I don’t want to have words with anyone. You know what? Forget it. I’ll just . . . buy earplugs.”

“Whatever you say,” said Mr. Leatham with a sniff of disapproval.

It occurred to him that perhaps Mr. Leatham needed to be reminded that Erik was a paying customer, but since he still had a stay of several days ahead, he figured it was better to just let it go and keep the peace. He grimaced at the salty innkeeper and headed into the dining room where he’d had his first date with the girl of his dreams.

As he entered the room, time went backward for a split second, and he paused just inside the doorway. He remembered the soft candlelight on the tables, the way her green eyes had sparkled after the kiss they’d shared at the top of the dock, and the awkward conversation it had started. She was so innocent, so beautiful, so—

“Table for one?”

Erik looked up from his reverie to see Kelsey Leatham standing with her hand on her hip, breasts pushed out. He kept his eyes up.

“Yes, please.”

Though there were many unoccupied tables in the room, she walked him over to a table by the windows beside the only other diner—a little girl, sitting alone with a stuffed penguin on the table, shoveling pancakes into her mouth like there was about to be a world shortage.

The li’l’un. Hmm.

She leaned over her breakfast, a tiny thing with dark red hair, made brilliant by the sunlight streaming in from the window to her right. Not that he was ever around kids, but if he had to guess, he’d put her age right around four years old.

“How about here?” asked Kelsey, and damn if he didn’t see a challenge in her pretty blue eyes. Her grandfather must have told her about his objections to the noise, and so she was seating Erik beside his nemesis on purpose.

“Perfect,” he said, accepting her challenge by choosing the chair that faced the child.

The little girl looked up at him and waved, her huge, dark brown eyes seizing his. And damn if his breath didn’t hitch for a moment, because the only other place he’d ever seen eyes quite that dark and wide was, well, in the mirror or the face of his mother. He always thought of kids, especially little girls, as having blue eyes like Hillary’s or Vanessa’s—vulnerable and light—not almost black. It was extraordinary. And a little unsettling.

After a moment, she stopped waving, fixing him with a glare and saying, “Mr. Mopples says it’s rude not to wave back.”

Before he could say anything, Kelsey was standing beside his table with a carafe of coffee, and he was gratefully nodding to her to fill his cup.

“Pancakes?” she asked.

“Thanks. Great,” said Erik, his eyes flicking back to the little girl, who seemed to be in deep conversation with her penguin.

“Not everyone has good manners, but we still do our best, don’t we? Yes, we do.”

Kelsey’s lips turned up in a grin, and she shifted to face the little girl. “All good, Ava Grace? Want more pancakes?”

Ava Grace.

All the air was suddenly sucked out of the room as Erik’s head jerked up to look at Kelsey before dropping his eyes to the dark-eyed little girl—to Ava Grace.

Ava! Ava Grace, you need to hold my hand!

Ava Grace. That’s a real pretty name.

You’re pretty like a princess.

The Elizabethan Gardens.

Six years ago.

With Laire.

The little girl who tripped on the path. Her name was also—

“Mr. Rexford? Um, Mr. Rexford?”

Erik exhaled the breath he’d been holding and glanced up at Kelsey, who was looking at him a little funny.

“Wh—yes?”

“Maple syrup or powdered sugar?”

“Syrup,” he murmured, immediately looking back at the little girl who had the same name as the girl who’d tripped on the path, whom Laire had cradled in her arms, who—

“Mr. Mopples says it’s very rude to stare.”

“W-what?”

“Mr. Mopples said so.”

“Sorry. Who?”

“You’re starin’,” the little girl said, her sugar-dusted lips pursed in annoyance.

“Am I?”

She nodded.

“Sorry. Your name is Ava Grace?” he asked.

She nodded again. “Yes.”

“My name . . . my name is Erik,” he said, trying to regain his composure. Damn, but he’d been thrown by the mention of that name. There were only a couples of names in the world that could have shaken him that badly, and Ava Grace was, apparently, one of them.

His little nemesis speared a sausage, looked at the beat-up penguin sitting on the tabletop across from her, then offered, through a mouthful of half-eaten food, “Oscar is your name.”

“Huh? No. Not Oscar,” he said, then enunciated: “Erik.”

She chewed a little more, swallowed, then leveled him with her intense eyes. “Oscar.”

Well, this is annoying. Did the little thing have a hearing problem? He tried again, raising his voice a little. “My name is Erik, not Oscar.”

“You’re yellin’.”

“I’m not . . .” He lowered his voice. “. . . yellin’.”

“Yes, you did,” she said. “Mr. Mopples says your name is Oscar because you are a grouch. Mr. Mopples is always right.”

“I’m a . . . grouch?”

She nodded matter-of-factly as she reached for her orange juice. “You don’t wave, you stare, and you yell. And when Kelsey asked if you wanted syrup or sugar, you a’nored her.”

“Ignored, not a’nored. I ignored her.”

“Yes, you did,” agreed Ava Grace, replacing her glass after a satisfied slurp. “And Mr. Mopples does not approve.”

“Who the hell is Mr. Mopples?”

“See? Now you sweared. Your name is definitely Oscar.”

He counted to three in his head, then asked as politely as possible, “Who is Mr. Mopples?”

With her palm open, she gestured delicately to the worn penguin sitting across from her on the table. “Her.”

“Him,” said Erik.

“No,” said Ava Grace. “Her.”

“But you said ‘Mr. Mopples.’”

She nodded at him.

“Mr. Mopples is a girl?”

She nodded again. “Do you know why?”

Suddenly, out of nowhere, he was reminded of something Hillary had always said when she was little and people asked why her stuffed elephant, Ella, was a boy.

“Because that’s the way it is,” he said matter-of-factly, surprised to feel his lips twitch just a touch, remembering his little sister’s sass and grateful that it remained intact.

But what happened next was the most surprising thing of all. The little redhead blinked at him, then gasped with delight, her face exploding into the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen, on any child, on any person, in all his living life, and she exclaimed, “Yes! You got it right!”

“Did I?” he asked, chuckling in spite of himself.

“Yes! And no one ever gets it right! Not even Uncle Patrick! Not even Mama!” She nodded at him, her grin still huge as she turned the penguin around to face Erik. “She is Mr. Mopples because that’s the way it is.”

“Well, Ava Grace,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee and feeling more satisfied with this little victory than he’d felt in a long, long time, “it was about time someone got it right.”