Dawson backed off over the next couple of weeks. Wes and Nicole invited him for Thanksgiving Day dinner, and Wes’s text said, Bring your girlfriend. We’re starting to think you’re hiding her from us on purpose.

Dawson had almost thrown his phone into the ocean that day. If Wes only knew that the reason Dawson hadn’t brought Charlotte around was because Charlotte didn’t want to claim him, he wouldn’t be sending texts like that.

Thanksgiving was in four days, and he still hadn’t mentioned anything to Charlotte. He hadn’t noticed her planning a big meal or anything, though he knew she liked to cook. She’d finished the transformation on the ground floor of the house, and the yard was ready for the colder, rainier season.

She’d been working on the second floor, but she no longer asked him to help on projects or lend his muscles to her.

He knew when she got approval from the city council for her electricity to be closer to the water than two hundred feet. He knew when she had a great meeting at work with one of her brides. He knew when her boss complimented her.

She shared things with him, but only things from her time on the island. Most of her life before coming to Getaway Bay she kept close to the vest.

Finally, when Nicole texted, demanding to know how many guests she should prepare for, he had to talk to Charlotte about it. He stopped by the fruit stand and bought a big bag of the sugared mango she liked so much—and claimed had added another five pounds to her frame.

Dawson didn’t care. She was beautiful and lovely just the way she was, but no matter how many times he told her, she didn’t seem to believe him. As he made the drive down Cinder Road, he wondered if he was wasting his time. Putting his heart on the chopping block willingly and practically begging her to raise the knife.

He pulled behind her Mini Cooper and grabbed the bag of mango from the passenger seat. “Just ask her,” he muttered to himself as he went toward the front door. He knocked but went right in, just like he’d been doing for weeks now.

“Charlotte?” he called, glancing up the stairs as if he’d see her standing at the top. He didn’t, and he took the mango into the kitchen. She stood on the deck, her phone held to her ear. Dawson moved through the dining room and opened the door to the back deck.

He lifted the mango, but Charlotte obviously didn’t hear him and didn’t turn toward him. The breeze carried her voice back to him, though, and he heard, “Of course not, Wilma.”

Dawson did not want to hear this. He turned and went back inside quickly, hearing Charlotte say something else, but he was unable to make out the words. With the door sealed, he went down the hall and into the living room, holding up the mango when she caught sight of him through the huge windows.

She didn’t even smile. In fact, it looked like she was about to cry. Dawson’s heart couldn’t handle the pain he saw on her face. He wanted to make everything better for her. In fact, he’d do anything to help her.

Charlotte’s mouth moved and she held up one finger in a silent way of telling him she’d be another minute. He wanted to leap through the glass and swat the phone over the railing. Whatever her sister was saying, Charlotte didn’t need to hear it.

She finished several minutes later and came into the living room, her fingers white as they clutched the phone in fury. “My sister is a piece of work.” She tossed the phone on the coffee table with a clatter and sat down beside him on the couch.

She didn’t lean back into him, didn’t take his comfort, but perched right on the edge and ran both hands through her hair. A sniffle followed, and Dawson hastened to wrap her up tight so she wouldn’t fall apart.

Crying, she gripped his shirt and he held her against his chest, whispering, “It’s okay, babe. It’s okay.”

But he didn’t even know what it was, and he had no idea how to make it okay. Charlotte didn’t cry for long, and she wiped her face and let her little bit of hair fall between them.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Wilma says I’m being selfish for not coming home for Thanksgiving or Christmas.” Charlotte lifted her chin, and Dawson thought her watery eyes were the most beautiful things he’d ever seen.

“I came to ask about Thanksgiving dinner too,” he admitted, grabbing the sugared mango from the floor and handing it to her. “But I brought treats.”

She took the mango and smiled at it like it was the most wonderful gift in the world. “What about Thanksgiving?” She took a piece of dried fruit from the bag and bit into it.

“Wes and Nicole really want us to come to their place for dinner. I was supposed to ask you a while ago, but….” He let his voice trail off, not quite sure how to finish anyway.

She finished the mango, a classic Charlotte move, as she needed time to think through things, even small things. Threading her fingers through his, she said, “Okay. I can go to Thanksgiving dinner with your friends.”

“Yeah?” Dawson put his fingers gently under her chin and nudged her to look at him. “I honestly don’t care if we just sit in the hammock all day and then go eat sushi.”

“I don’t like sushi.”

Dawson smiled at her, realizing that it was love that stretched his lips and said, “Whatever you want, babe. Honest.”

“Let’s go to dinner with your friends. It will be fun to see how things are done here on the island for a traditional holiday.”

“Well, Nicole’s from Texas, so you’ll probably be getting something more Southern than Hawaiian.”

“As long as I don’t have to make it, I don’t care.” Charlotte tucked herself into his side again, her bag rustling as she fished for another piece of mango. “What did you like about my sister in high school?”

Dawson’s muscles seized and released, and he pushed out his breath. “She was pretty, and she flirted with me. That was about all I needed in high school to go out with someone.” He didn’t tell Charlotte that her sister was cruel, that she’d had quite the reputation. What good would it do?

Might make her feel better actually, he thought. But he still kept his mouth shut.

“And now?” she asked, playing with a button in his shirt. It sat in the middle of his chest, and he could barely think with the way her fingers swirled around and around it.

“Now?” he echoed. “What does it take for me to ask a woman out?”

“Yeah.”

“Apparently I like sassy strawberry blondes with commitment issues.” He wasn’t sure if he should’ve said that, but Charlotte laughed in the next moment, a sound which quickly turned choked as she started to weep again.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered into her hair. “Sometimes siblings suck.” And while he’d been putting off his mother and brother about the holidays, he knew he wouldn’t be going home for Christmas.

“Yeah, they do,” she agreed, her voice only a little pinched now. “Mine just told me I should be in South Carolina, fighting for my ex-husband who’s already remarried. I mean, honestly. Wilma lives in Denver. What does she know?”

“Your husband is already remarried?” Dawson knew she’d run from something, but it just kept getting worse and worse.

“He married her ten days after our divorce was final.”

“And you came here.”

“Took me a few months,” she said. “Because I had a couple of jobs to finish, and a house to sell, and a life to leave behind.”

Dawson stared through the window, his mind churning. No wonder she wasn’t ready to commit to anything. No wonder she questioned her ability to make decisions about them. No wonder she wasn’t sure if she believed in love.

But Dawson did, and he was pretty sure he was on the slippery slope toward falling in love with her, and one wrong step could cost him everything.

“What can I bring to Thanksgiving dinner?” she asked, composed now.

“I’ll text Nicole.”

Charlotte had obviously spent some time socializing in the past. When Dawson showed up to get her for Thanksgiving dinner, she wore a fun, flirty sundress that had clearly come from one of the boutique racks on the island. Her hair had been braided back into a knot at the nape of her neck, with a couple of pieces hanging down on either side of her face. She’d curled those, added mascara, blush, and lip gloss, and Dawson could only stare at her as she stepped into a pair of yellow heels.

“Holy cow,” he said when she finally looked at him. “I think I’m at the wrong house.” He glanced over his shoulder as if there would be another one just down the street. He grinned at her when their eyes met again.

“Stop it.”

“You look fantastic.” He stepped into her, glad the heels brought her closer to his height. He kissed her, a slow passionate kiss right there in her open doorway. There wasn’t anyone out here to see, he supposed, because she kissed him back in the same, sensual way.

“I made oatmeal carmelitas.”

“I think you just spoke another language,” he teased.

“They’re kind of like oatmeal cookies, but about a thousand times better. They’re a big hit at parties.”

He followed her into the kitchen, where she collected a square plastic container with a lid. “Can I try one?” Now that he thought about it, he detected a bit of cinnamon on his lips already. “Did you eat one?”

“I’ve eaten about five.” The look she gave him screamed of her nerves.

“Wes and Nicole are great,” he said. He’d already told her all about them, and how they’d met in college, got married, finished pastry school together, and moved to Getaway Bay to open their doughnut shop. According to Wes, they’d been on the island for eight years, but Nicole insisted it was only seven.

Dawson didn’t really care how long they’d been here. He’d found them soon after he’d made the move across the ocean, and as long as they stayed open, he was happy.

She popped the lid on the container and he found neat rows of crumbly oatmeal squares inside. “Oh, I was expecting a cookie.”

“They’re better than cookies.” She shook the container, and he took one out of the corner. It looked like a cookie base, with an ooey layer of caramel, and the crumbly oatmeal topping. One bite, and he was sold.

He finished the bar in another two bites and said, “You’re right. These are way better than cookies.”

“They’re sort of autumnal,” she said. “I mean, not pumpkin or anything.”

“Nicole dislikes pumpkin anyway.” Dawson wiped his lips. “Should we go?”

“Yes.” She headed for the front door, and he liked the way her skirt swayed in time with her hips. He pulled back on the reins of his fantasies, because Charlotte was a nervous mess just going to meet his friends.

He got in and buckled his seat belt, started the SUV, and said, “So you used to take these to a lot of parties back in South Carolina?”

“Yeah, a few.”

Dawson thought more than a few, and he cut a look at her out of the side of his eye. He wanted everything from her, and a sting of annoyance sang through him that she still wasn’t sharing.

“How many parties would you say?”

She turned toward him, the oatmeal carmelitas dormant in her lap and a sexy pair of sunglasses concealing her eyes. “We used to go to something every weekend it seemed.”

“What about your friends there?” he asked. “Do they know you’re in Hawaii?”

“No.”

“Tell me about that,” he said as he turned around and aimed the vehicle down Cinder Road. He hoped his request wouldn’t push her away, but his craving to learn about her life didn’t allow him to let things slide.

Not anymore.