Laire stood at the wheel of her father’s boat with the wind in her hair and six coolers of blue crab on ice behind her. Her father had been lean on details, but she gathered that the folks up in Buxton were having a fancy party and had requested fresh catch delivered same-day.

Blue crabs.

For as long as she could remember, blue crabs had been her family’s livelihood.

Both of her grandfathers had crabbed the Pamlico Sound.

Her father and his brother, Laire’s uncle Franklin, called Fox by friends and family, had been crabbing since they were old enough to walk.

But Uncle Fox had also been blessed with business savvy, and about ten years ago, he and Laire’s father had opened King Triton Seafood, a commercial fish house on Corey Island that sold fresh catch to restaurants, caterers, hotels, and locals. Because they were commercial fishermen themselves, they were trusted by local fishermen and outside buyers, and had built up a reputable business in short order. Most of their stock came directly from fishing boats every afternoon, and they were picky about what they sold, making them a favorite purveyor for posh hotels and inns in the mid Banks and even a few folks who came out from the mainland.

The Pamlico Sound, the largest lagoon in the Eastern United States, was the name of the body of water between the Outer Banks and the mainland of North Carolina. Three inlets, at Bodie Island, Hatteras, and Ocracoke, fed the Sound salt water from the Atlantic Ocean, and two rivers from the west, the Neuse and Pamlico, fed it fresh water, which meant that the Sound was a mix of both: water from the sea and water from the land.

Dotted along the eastern shoreline of the Sound were the towns of the Outer Banks: in the south, Ocracoke and Corey, which were close-set islands; then, moving north, Hatteras, Buxton, and Avon; the cluster of Salvo, Waves, and Rodanthe; and finally, up on the northern Banks, Nags Head, a crummy name for the crowning jewel of the Outer Banks.

From Hatteras north, tourism had been prevalent since the Civil War, though Millionaire’s Row in Nags Head had seen a vacation-home-building boom between the 1920s and 1950s. That boom had never really included the southern islands of Ocracoke and Corey, where commercial fishing was still a way of life and tourism had only started in earnest about twenty years ago. It was a growing industry still dwarfed by the northern towns’, and Ocracoke, five times the size of Corey, with a regular ferry from Hatteras, saw about ten times the business as small and hard-to-reach Corey.

Laire zipped past the bustling town of Hatteras, spying a pair of dolphins playing in her wake off the portside and giggling at their antics. From Hatteras, she zoomed past Frisco, then slowed down as she neared Buxton, anxious that she not miss the house expecting her father’s delivery. Checking her watch, she was gratified to see she’d made good time. It was almost four o’clock, which meant she didn’t need to rush.

She cleared Brooks Point, hugging the Buxton shoreline at Brigand Bay, careful that her arrival so close to shore was wakeless. The first house she saw had the four-story rectangular tower she recognized from her father’s instructions. Beside it was another large house, then another. Then, sitting slightly apart from the other three mansions and bigger than them combined, she recognized her destination: Utopia Manor.

Three stories high, with five pronounced gables on the roofline, a green lawn, a pool, and a long boardwalk that led directly from the house to the Sound, she couldn’t have missed it if she tried. It was the most beautiful house she’d ever seen.

On the lawn between the house and the pool, she could see hired help setting up tables in the late-afternoon sunshine, unfolding chairs and scurrying about with linens and china. Her father hadn’t filled her in on what festivities were taking place at Utopia Manor tonight, but one look at the preparations told her that whatever it was, it must be a big deal.

Throwing the buoys over the side, she slowed to a crawl, cutting the engine to drift in alongside the pristine dock made of new lumber. Leaping from the bow with a line in her hand, she knotted it to a shiny chrome cleat, then jumped back on board to shimmy aft and do the same for the stern. Once she was securely tethered to the dock, she reached for the paperwork in her hip pocket, unfolding the invoices as she hopped back onto the dock. She ran a quick hand through her windblown hair and straightened her shirt before heading up to the house.

It wasn’t a short walk on the winding boardwalk, over the shallows and sand dunes, and included several sets of stairs up from the water’s edge to the house. Suddenly Laire wondered how smart it had been to insist she could carry the six packed coolers on her own.

Good thing she was early. She could take her time if she needed to.

She sighed with pleasure as she walked past the perfectly manicured rolling lawn and around the beautifully landscaped pool area, heading around the house as her father had instructed.

“Hey!”

She heard his voice before she saw him.

Had she known the ultimate cost of that simple glance heavenward, maybe she wouldn’t have stopped. Maybe she would have just kept on walking with her head down. But fate held no warnings for Laire Maiden Cornish.

Shielding her eyes, she looked up at a deck wrapped around the second floor of the mansion, waiting a moment for her eyes to adjust as he came into view.

There, in the glittering sunlight . . . a boy.

No, a man.

A young man, a little older than she, tall and muscular, with jet-black hair and a square jaw, dark brown eyes, and a deep tan. He wore a robin’s-egg blue bathing suit with Kelly green palm fronds in a small repeat and a pair of sunglasses buried in his thick hair. In one hand, he held a phone up to his ear, and in the other, he slowly swirled a glass filled with ice and clear liquid. He stared out at the sound, concentrating on his call.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Can you hear me now?” He huffed with annoyance, pulling the phone away from his ear and squinting at it before trying again. “Pete? It’s Erik. Can you hear me?” He set the glass down on the balcony’s wooden railing and gave his phone his full attention. Staring down at it, he muttered, “Shit. No reception.”

It’s Erik.

Erik.

His name is Erik.

Feeling a sharp burn in her lungs, Laire realized she’d been holding her breath and sucked in a huge gulp of air as she stared up at him, frozen in the moment, utterly mesmerized.

She had never seen a more perfect, more handsome person in her entire life.

The sun glinted off his dark hair and wrapped his body in gold, making him appear godlike so very far above her. Were she the type to swoon, Laire imagined she would have been a puddle of goopy longing on the ground below him, content to sacrifice her pride for a glimpse at his beauty.

“Erik, honey? Can you come down here please?”

The voice was loud near her ear and startled Laire, who whipped her head around to find a woman standing directly behind her, looking up at Erik. She was tall and elegant, with very dark brown hair in a tidy chignon. Wearing a chic black bathing suit and a patterned sarong, she could have walked out of a magazine.

“Mom, there’s no reception here!”

“We’re in the wilds,” she said, taking off her sunglasses to reveal deep brown eyes fringed with dark lashes. “I need to know where you want me to put you, Hillary, Peter, and Vanessa tonight. Please come down for a moment, won’t you?”

Erik’s mother turned back toward the lawn, the shiny gold bracelets on her wrist clinking as she walked away.

Looking down at her dull black boots, which had a sheen of dried salt on them from the trip over, Laire realized how incredibly out of place she was, and her cheeks flushed. She had no business mooning over Prince Erik. Keeping her head down, she started walking toward the side of the house, but his voice stopped her once again.

“Hey!”

She leaned her head back, shielding her eyes, her feet unwilling to keep walking away if there was the slightest chance he was speaking to her.

And the miracle of it all?

He was.

“Hey,” he said again, resting his elbows on the deck railing and grinning down at her.

“M-me?”

“Yeah. You,” he said, nodding at her. “Hey.”

“H-hey,” she squeaked, shocked she was able to respond at all.

“You workin’ the party?”

“Um . . .” He’s talking to me. He’s talking to me. “N-no. I’ve got crabs.”

I’ve got crabs.

Oh my God.

I did not just say that.

His eyebrows shot up, and his grin widened into a full-blown smile, accompanied by a soft chuckle. “You do, huh? Well, that’s too bad.”

Please, earth, open up and swallow me whole.

Sadly, it didn’t.

“N-no! I mean . . . I mean, I’m delivering crabs. I don’t have them! I don’t have crabs!”

He laughed again, this time a rich, warm belly laugh that made her insides turn to goo.

“Glad to hear it, Freckles,” he said, picking up his glass and taking a sip.

Said freckles burned so hot, she was certain her cheeks were maroon. “I have to go.”

“Where to?” he asked.

She pointed to the corner of the house. “Kitchen.”

“Wait, where?” He cocked his head to the side as though he was having trouble hearing her.

. . . or understanding her.

Her accent. It was strong because she was so nervous.

“The kitchen,” she articulated carefully.

“Ahhhhh. Right. To give them crabs?” He was barely able to finish his question because he started laughing again.

She took a deep breath and shook her head, willing this entire situation to be somehow banished from the fabric of time. Except . . .

Except no.

She wouldn’t trade it. Not a second of it, crabs and all.

Glancing back up at him, she allowed herself—just for a moment—to trace the perfect lines of his face, to memorize it, to keep it safe inside her heart so she could pull out the memory and gaze at it like a picture whenever she wanted to: beautiful Erik, the black-haired prince of Utopia Manor, smiling down at her.

“Bye,” she murmured, forcing her feet to start moving again.

Flustered by a combination of humiliation, bewilderment, and lust, once she rounded the corner of the house, she stopped and leaned her head against the clapboard, closing her eyes and pressing her hands to her cheeks. She sighed, immediately conjuring the memory of Erik’s smile again and savoring it before tucking it safely away.

And then, a proud realist, she opened her eyes and reminded herself who she was: Laire Cornish from Corey Island, delivering crabs to a mansion for a posh party. A delivery girl. A fisherman’s daughter. Nothing less. But certainly nothing more to someone as rich and beautiful as the young man on the balcony.

They had shared a moment, sure. But that’s all it was: a moment that was already gone.

Thus grounded, she stepped away from the house and walked purposefully through the open door of the kitchen to find the catering manager and make her father’s delivery.

***

Erik Rexford chuckled as he watched the cute redhead disappear from sight, headed to the “keet-chin.” He’d noticed her when his mother had called up to him—her trim little body angled away from him and strawberry blonde ponytail long and straight against her black shirt. She didn’t fit in, wearing a long-sleeved, dark-colored shirt, jeans, and high, rubber boots on a hot and sunny day. But it made him feel curious about her. Very curious. In fact, he’d felt a fierce and sudden compulsion to see her face.

And when she’d turned around? It had almost knocked the wind out of him.

She was pretty.

Man, she was pretty, with her red lips open in surprise and a sprinkle of angel kisses across her nose. He’d always been partial to the clean-scrubbed-girl-next-door look, and this chick had it going on in spades. Except she didn’t live next door. He doubted she even lived in Buxton. Guessing by her accent, she probably came from one of the islands down south, where they still fished for a living. Maybe even a fisherman’s daughter. A little mermaid, he thought with a chuckle, from a totally different world than mine.

Turning away from the balcony, he stepped back into his bedroom, throwing his useless phone on the bed and picking up a green polo shirt from the floor. As he slipped it over his head, he remembered the appalled look on her pretty face when she’d yelled, “I don’t have crabs!” and started laughing again.

“I read that laughin’ at nothin’ is the first sign of insanity.”

Erik turned around to see his little sister, Hillary, standing in his doorway. At almost seventeen years old, she was four years younger than Erik, but one of his closest friends.

“I guess you’d know, psycho.” He reached for his phone, holding it up. “You getting’ any reception out here?”

“Why, yes, I am,” she said, pulling her own phone, the latest iPhone model, from her hip pocket.

“Send a message to Pete, would you? Ask him what time he and Van are gettin’ here?”

Hillary dropped his eyes quickly. Her voice was soft when she answered. “No. Just . . . walk around the house. You’ll get service somewhere.”

Erik’s shoulders slumped. “Come on, Hills. Just send him a message.”

She glanced up at him, her blue eyes wary. “It’s awkward.”

“Only because you make it awkward, which is ree-dick-you-lus!”

Erik’s little sister had had a crush on his best friend, Pete. Didn’t matter that Pete was four years older and uninterested. Hillary had always liked him, regardless of the fact that her affection was unrequited and likely to remain that way.

In fairness, it probably didn’t help her unrealistic expectations that she and Pete had shared a quick New Year’s Eve kiss six months ago. It seemed to encourage her false hopes. But then again, Pete hadn’t promised her anything, and it was only a peck on the lips, after all. He had also given Vanessa a peck. So had Erik, in fact, and it hadn’t changed their friendship at all. It was just New Year’s fun. Nothing more. And Hillary was foolish to try to make more out of it.

Hillary raised her chin and gave him a sour look, then started typing out a message on her phone. “‘Erik wants to know when you and Van are gettin’ here.’” The phone whooshed as she sent the message, and she looked up at her brother. “Happy now, birthday boy?”

“Ecstatic,” he said, leaving his room.

Hillary followed behind him. “Who’s comin’ to this thing tonight?”

“You know Fancy,” said Erik, calling their mother by her first name, as he always did when he and Hillary talked about her. “Won’t be anybody there under the age of forty ’cept you, me, Pete, and Van.”

“A twenty-first birthday for the crown prince of North Carolina isn’t an occasion for the young’uns,” added Hillary, with a thick dose of sarcasm.

“Or the riffraff.”

“Or anyone remotely . . . fun.”

Erik stopped at the foot of the stairs and turned to his sister, slapping a palm over his chest. “Fun? Did you say fun? Perish the thought, Hillary Anne Rexford! There will be no fun at this party, daughter! There will be ample opportunity for networkin’, but under no circumstances are you to have any fun!”

“Right.” Hillary nodded, unable to hold back a small grin, which she quickly straightened. “Everythin’ will be perfect . . .”

“. . . and delicious . . .,” he said.

“The most expensive wines . . .”

“. . . the most succulent crabs,” he said, grinning to himself.

“Simply,” she said, “the best of everything.”

“No room for second best,” said Erik. “Losers need not apply.”

Suddenly they were out of banter, and they regarded each other for a long moment: their father’s blue eyes staring into their mother’s dark brown.

“We joke, but it’s true,” said Hillary with a sigh. “Thank God for Pete and Van.”

“Donaldsons and Osborns are always acceptable guests at Rexford events,” said Erik, referring to Pete and Vanessa’s old-money, highly influential families. Their parents would also be in attendance, of course.

Hillary glanced at her watch. “I have a hair appointment in town with Mama. I best get goin’.” She turned to go back upstairs, then stopped. “Hey, Erik.”

He was headed for the kitchen, but he looked at her over his shoulder. “Huh?”

“You ever wish things were different?”

“What? That we weren’t the children of Governor Brady Rexford and former debutante Ursula “Fancy” Rexford, the de facto king and queen of North Carolina?” He shrugged. “What’s the point of wishin’? Things are what they are.”

Hillary ran a hand through her almost-black hair. “I don’t know. But wouldn’t you just like to go to a bar in jeans and a T-shirt and get drunk on your twenty-first birthday? Like every other normal person in the world?”

He turned to face her, his voice gentle. “We’re not normal, Hills. Never have been. We’re Rexfords.”

“Yeah,” she said, forcing a smile, though her eyes remained troubled. “I know.”

He reached for arm and squeezed it. “It’s a party, sis. Buck up.”

“Sure.”

“Catch you later?”

“Yeah,” she said, giving him a thoughtful look before climbing the stairs.

He watched her for a moment before sailing through the mansion’s entry hall, continuing through the west sitting room, to the dining room, then through the swinging doors and into the kitchen. Inside, it was a flurry of activity: twelve vases were lined up on the table as a florist created a dozen matching arrangements; caterers arranged baskets of rolls and manned the twin ovens. When Erik’s mother had inherited this house from her parents, it had been half the size, and equipped for the needs of a single family on vacation. But after his father had been elected to the state legislature, Fancy had renovated it into a showplace, complete with an industrial kitchen that could handle catering for huge events.

Good thing too, Erik thought dryly. Since his father’s ascension to governor, last November, Fancy’s entertaining efforts had gone on steroids. Seemed like she was hosting some sort of celebration or fund-raiser every other week. His birthday party tonight, for instance, had nothing to do with him. It was just a vehicle for his parents to schmooze and network. With a possibility of two terms in office before he was ineligible for reelection, Erik knew, his father was casting his eye at the White House eight years from now, and that would take a lot of support. President of the United States. Brady Rexford’s lifelong dream.

Erik scanned the heads of the catering staff for a strawberry blonde ponytail. Finding none, he was about to leave, when he was distracted by a loud voice, exclaiming over the hum of activity, “Honey, those look heavy! Let me get one of these fellas to help you!”

Whipping back around, he caught sight of the freckled fisherman’s daughter just inside the kitchen door, holding a white Styrofoam cooler that was wider than she was.

“Oh, no, ma’am,” she said, her voice breathless as she set down her burden. “Only four left. No big deal.” Though she was red-cheeked and sweating, she smiled. “It’s good exercise.”

“You islanders sure are hearty,” noted the woman, who wore a white chef’s jacket. “You ever need a job, you come find me.”

The girl grinned, her green eyes sparkling. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll go get the rest now.”

She disappeared back through the door, and Erik surged blindly across the kitchen to catch up with her, running outside and rounding the house.

“Hey! Wait up!”

She stopped in her tracks and turned, her eyes widening as she looked at him. “You.”

“Me,” he said. “From the balcony scene, remember?”

She nodded slowly, then turned away from him, gesturing to the boardwalk. “I have to . . .”

“Deliver crabs. I know.”

Glancing back at him, she scanned his face, and he got his first really good look at her . . . and quickly realized that his little mermaid wasn’t just pretty. She was a knockout.

Her pale, peachy skin was dusted with freckles, and her sea-green eyes were even greener up close: the color of the Sound in the sun. Her hair, pulled back in a neat ponytail, was reddish-blonde, and soft, straight wisps escaped from behind her ears to frame her face. She was small—maybe five foot four—but he could tell she was athletic and strong, which he liked. His gaze dropped her to chest, which rose and fell under her black shirt. The white button between her tits pulled just a little, and Erik’s mouth watered as he tugged his bottom lip between his teeth, unable to look away.

“I . . .,” she said, her voice breathy. “I have to . . .”

He looked up, and his eyes slammed into hers.

For a second, he had a wild notion that he should kiss her.

It came on him like a freight train, and he couldn’t ever remember having to fight so hard against an impulse. His gaze flicked madly from her eyes to her lips and back to her eyes, which seemed as mesmerized with him as his were with her.

“I’ll help you,” he murmured.

She shook her head. “Nope.”

“Sure. If we each carry one, it’ll only be two more trips.”

“Nope,” she said again, turning away from him to speed-walk around the pool, back toward the boardwalk.

Erik stood frozen, confounded by her reaction.

Unaccustomed to being refused anything by anyone, this situation was especially puzzling because he was just trying to give her a hand. Did she think he had ulterior motives? He tilted his head to the side, checking out her perky ass in too-tight jeans that somehow managed to stay on the safe side of trashy because they were paired with clunky rubber boots. He shook his head and grinned. Damn, but she was the cutest fucking thing he’d seen in a long, long time.

So, sure, maybe he did have ulterior motives, but he was young. She was, too . . . Was that so wrong?

This was his last summer of freedom: the summer between his junior and senior years at college, his last hurrah. Next summer, he’d be a gainful member of the Raleigh workforce, clerking for a law firm of his father’s choice while he worked his ass off in law school at Chapel Hill. But this summer? This summer, he was still free.

And that girl walking so purposefully toward a shabby old fishing boat? With her windblown hair, big green eyes, and freckles? Somehow she felt like freedom.

“Erik!” called his mother, from a cluster of tables in the center of the lawn. “Please don’t keep me waiting!”

Duty called.

And Erik Rexford, who knew his place, turned away from his sweet little redheaded mermaid, and answered it.