Claire eyed the stage in abject horror.

“You want me to do what again?” Her voice was a furious whisper, gaining them more than a few looks from around the comedy club. Tucked back behind Bellamy’s grocers on the south side of town was The Cape Comedy and Nightclub. Entering was like stepping back in time, but the entertainment was the latest and greatest, and the place was packed almost every night of the week.

On Friday afternoons just at the start of happy hour, they held a speak-easy hour. Anything from poetry and music to readings from literary and genre fiction. It was an opportunity to hear and be heard, see and be seen, and Claire wanted no part in hell of it.

“Read this.” Mitch handed her a sheet of paper.

Snatching it from his hand, she scanned the two short paragraphs.

“No freaking way.”

He had to be kidding. How in the hell was this supposed to help her navigate her way in the dating world?

“Yes, you are. I go through your program. You go through mine.”

“There’s no point to this but complete humiliation for me,” she gritted out.

“Yeah?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “How do you figure?”

Waving the paper under his nose, she said, “Every word on this page is about sex.”

“And it’s something you’d like to do again someday with someone other than yourself.” His lips quirked. “Or...am I wrong on that front?”

“Don’t be an ass.” Heat washed over her chest. “What I may... or may not do in the privacy of my own home is none of your business.”

“Well, I’m just glad you didn’t try to tell me you don’t masturbate, and considering your prickly nature, you could use more of that.”

Sputtering like Judge Carter when he caught Maxine selling her moonshine, she argued. “You’re a pig, you know that?”

“Aww, come on. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, sweetheart.” He leaned in, whispered conspiratorially. “Newsflash...we all do it.”

What was with him tonight? She couldn’t believe he was needling her like this. Scratch that. He was the one man in town who would most certainly get off on getting a rise out of her.

Rolling her eyes, she said, “Back to this. What’s this about?”

“It’s called poetry, but more, it’s a chance to challenge yourself, to banish your fear of judgment, of being noticed.”

“I am not afraid of being noticed. Just look at this dress.”

His eyes skimmed over her black, clingy sweater dress with a v-neckline deep enough to show off half the swell of her breasts. Afraid. What a crock.

The appreciation in his heated gaze was unmistakable, and her flush depended.

“I never said anything about your looks. You don’t hide yourself under clothing or by minimizing your beauty. You don’t need help in that department at all.” He followed his words with a low, admiring whistle.

She slapped at his arm. “Knock it off.”

“But as soon as you start up a conversation, you fly into defense mode or, if your ditching of that poor guy the other day is any indication, you just run.”

“I do not.”

“How long are you going to keep lying to yourself?” he asked in a slightly patronizing voice that made her want to smack him for real.

She wanted to argue, to tell him he was full of shit, but as she thought back over the past few months alone, she couldn’t come up with one example where he was wrong.

Crap.

She glanced over the paper again. “And how is reading this going to help?”

Gentling his stance, he tucked one side of her hair behind her ear, lingering with the ends between his fingers. “You know how when we were kids learning how to ride a bike, the idea of our parents letting go was way scarier than when they actually did?”

She studied his face, lost in his surprisingly soft gaze, and nodded.

“This is that. I think you’re out of practice voicing who you are, talking about yourself, your wants, your needs. This is like ripping a Band-Aid off or letting go of your bike. I’m throwing you up there, Claire. If you can read through that poem in front of this crowd and survive, you’ll lose your fear of putting yourself out there.”

Her heart pounded in her chest, leaving her dizzy and nauseated. Looking over the crowd, she counted a few people she knew. Shelly Anne, the owner of Flat Iron Coffeehouse with her waist-length bohemian braid, Dr. Stanton and his artist son Max, and Evette’s niece, Alora, who was running Blayne’s store, Eclectic Finds, now that she and Jay would be going back and forth from the U.S. to Ireland. The rest was a blur of familiar but unknown faces.

Sucking in a breath, she cracked her neck from side to side. She could do this.

“Relax. You’re not going into a boxing ring.” Mitch chuckled.

She made a face. Says you.

It wasn’t that she was afraid to be noticed or judged, but after Jimmy died, she couldn’t think of another man. Her heart had gone with him and their baby. Over time, as the heavy blanket of sadness lifted slightly, she couldn’t help the feeling of being disloyal, then that turned into a fear of being...

Crap.

Judged.

But also nervous, uncomfortable, unsure of what to say or how to say it.

Ugh, she was a mess. She could just imagine how pathetic she seemed to this handsome, confident man. Especially now that he could so easily see through her.

Wrapping her arms around her waist, she glanced at Mitch and took in his sleek, black button-up that stretched across his broad chest. The dark color was a great contrast for the intensity of his blue eyes. His hair was short and styled with a hint of product, and his cheeks had the shadow of a groomed five o’clock shadow. He looked every part of the player he was known to be, so how in the hell had he been so insightful?

“Next up at the mic, let’s give a Cape Comedy Club welcome to Claire Adams!” The audience broke into their signature two-fingered clap as she froze at the sound of her name.

Butterflies swarmed, and her palms turned sweaty. She grabbed at Mitch’s arm.

“You can do this, Claire. It’s time.”

It’s time?

Yes, it really was time. But she’d waited too long. Almost four years had passed since her life had changed so unequivocally. Four years of not being a wife, not being a mother, not fulfilling her dreams. And now the town looked at her with that sad, pitying look that said she must be lonely but just can’t seem to move on.

Why did everything have to change? She’d been so happy once upon a time, planning her life. Then all she could do was try and find happiness in planning everyone else’s.

She dug her nails into her palms and sucked in a breath as she took the stairs up the stage. Her hand shook as she glanced at the page, then out over the heads that made up the audience. They were just words, just people. Her people really.

Jimmy’s teasing grin popped into her head, the way he used to kiss her neck just under her ear. She’d been a pseudo-widow for so long; she didn’t know how to be anything else.

She stepped up to the mic, then past it and down the stairs on the other side.

A murmur rose in the crowd, but she kept her head down and made her way out the front door.

As if being chased by a serial killer, she burst out onto the sidewalk of Cape Van Buren Blvd and gulped in a huge breath of air.

Mitch strolled out behind her. “You ran.”

The disappointment in his voice pulled her shoulder blades together, and she shook off the regret. She had nothing to feel bad about. “No.” She shook her head. “No, I decided not to play your silly game.”

Sticking his hands in his front pockets, he nodded. “Okay, so helping you fight a fear is silly but scribbling on paper isn’t?”

“There is a whole collection of studies that support the work I’m doing with you.” She poked his chest, amazed at how it could seem so solid. Snatching her hand away, she made her way to the crosswalk and toward the South Cove Gardens.

“Jimmy would want you to move on, Claire.”

She swung around, fire flashing through her veins. “You don’t know anything about him.”

“You’re right. I don’t,” he said softly. “But I know you. And any man who loved you would not want you to fold inward. If your fiancé was as amazing as you make him sound, he wouldn’t either.”

And just like that, her anger dissipated. Now all she felt was that all too familiar wave of helplessness. “I don’t know who I am anymore.” Her hoarse whisper carried on the night breeze, and she wished she’d brought a coat. A nighttime stroll in the gardens hadn’t been on her original agenda.

Mitch pulled her close, his heat providing an immediate buffer to the cold, his clean, masculine scent settling around her, making her want to breathe him in.

“Maybe you don’t. But don’t you want to find out?” he asked.

Did she?

Would she like what she learned? Because right now, what she did know was that she didn’t want Mitch to let go. She wanted to sink in, and just for one night, allow herself to feel, really feel, without worrying about the consequences. And that thought alone was proof she was losing her mind. To even risk it was ludicrous.

The first time had robbed her of a love and a life.

She didn’t have anything else to lose but herself.

Mitch stared into troubled blue eyes that warred with invisible demons behind the scenes. He wanted to make Claire see that they were of her own making.

No man who loved Claire would ever want her to suffer. He’d want her to go after life with all the spit and vinegar she had in her until it turned into something sweet.

“I don’t know if I want to find out.”

Her body burrowed into his side as they followed the lamp-lit brick path that weaved through the gardens and around the pond. She fit against him just right, falling into step with him at an easy pace. A small shiver shook her frame, so he pulled her in closer. “Yes, you do.”

“You don’t know that.” Her voice was hard...and tired. The second part was what he focused on. It helped to ease his growing awareness to the heat of her body seeping into his, her fresh scent filling his head, and the damn urgent need to kiss the uncertainty from her lips

“But I do.” He glanced around the garden, the nautical ropes and aging, splintered wood posts, old ship anchors used as art pieces in the middle of flower beds and seagull sculptures that pointed the way from one area to the next.

The South Cove Madams made sure the park was an experience visitors would want to revisit again and again.

He swore he could literally hear Shelly Anne’s voice in his head, he’d heard the favored description so many times. Though beautiful, the set-up was also methodical, pushing people from one area to the next, and before they knew it, they had a solid history of the town through its foliage without realizing they were being taught.

Claire was like that. Making experiences, teaching, sharing. With every event she’d planned, she gave her friends moments they’d remember, offering her own generosity and follow-through without even trying. He’d been watching her since she and Larkin Van Buren had forged their tentative friendship over a year ago.

And he worried that she would give so much of herself she’d eventually end up feeling empty instead of full.

“You’re a doer, Claire. A giver. You give without thinking about what you want in return. That’ll only last so long before you resent those you love.”

Would she slap him if she knew what he wanted to give her?

He blinked back to focus, gritting his teeth against his need.

“I’d never.” Her snort was adorable, but he could tell she worried about it, too.

He led them to a line of food carts that stood under heat lamps at an apex in the path, purchasing four hot cocoas, two fried cinnamon pastries, and a powdered funnel cake.

“What are you doing?” She grabbed two of the cups with a bewildered look on her face. “We cannot eat all of this.”

Fuck. Her look of judgment was so damn cute. She was so restrained he wanted to make her lose her mind in pleasure until she let go.

“Why?” He led her to an iron bench that had the Cape Van Buren logo pressed into the back with the silhouette of the seagulls flying in the sky around the lighthouse. Sliding to one side, he gestured for her to join him.

“It isn’t healthy, for one. Everyone knows you get one pastry, not three. And there’s only two of us, why would you get four drinks?”

He shook his head. “You’re missing the point. Setting up an experience for someone else makes sense to you, but to take part in it yourself knocks you on your ass.”

“It does not.”

He raised a brow.

She pointed at the drinks. “This is nonsense.”

Picking one up, he lifted the lid and breathed it in. “Dark chocolate chipotle. Have you ever tried it?”

She peeked over the rim with interest. “No.”

“How about the Peanut Butter Cocoa Dream, or the Bacon and Maple Madcap?”

“No and no.”

“Why?” He took a sip of the chipotle hot cocoa. “Do you not like hot cocoa?” He wanted her to try, to taste, enjoy a little pleasure.

“I do, but...”

He pushed the fourth flavor into her hand. “Try this one.”

She sniffed it. “Smells good. Like the red hots, we used to eat when we were kids. What’s this one called?”

“Better Than Sex.” He winked.

“Of course, it is.” She rolled her eyes, but tested the temperature, then took a sip. “Oooooh, that is good. Spicy but without the burn.”

“Dip this in it.” He handed her a cinnamon twist pastry.

She threw him a little side-eye but did as she was told.

He set each cup along the seat between them, removing all the lids. “Dip the twist in each one, then tell me which combo you like best.”

Dunking the pastry into another cup, she sighed. “This is decadent.”

“But that’s just it. Is it, really? Decadence implies an out of reach luxury. This whole experience that cost under twenty bucks is simply hot cocoa and pastries and is easily accessible to anyone. Yet, I bet you’ve never tried it.” He followed suit, taking a bit of his pastry and dipping it in the Peanut Butter Cocoa Dream. The flavors hit him all at once, filling his mouth, warming his body—or it could be the way she wrapped her lips around her damn pastry stick.

He shifted on the bench, trying to focus on what was in his mouth, not what he wanted in hers.

The combination he’d chosen reminded him of the cinnamon and peanut butter toast his mom used to make him as a kid. Hell, last week. Janice was always spoiling him and Mae. She was the one who’d started him on his path of experimentation. Foods, drinks, art, travel. She always pushed him and his sister to live life and not count on anyone else to do it for them.

He wanted to do the same for Claire. The problem was, he didn’t know why. Maybe she was part of his journey to becoming an essential member of the town.

“No, you’re right.” She grinned. “But not all of us just take what we want when we want it.”

Sliding his gaze along the curve of her hip to her breasts to her lips, he nodded in agreement. “Neither do I.” His tone huskier than he’d meant it to be.

Her eyes flew to his, but he composed his face into a neutral look of interest. “So, which is your favorite?” He pulled apart the funnel cake, handing her one half.

She took it without reservation this time, dipping it into the Bacon Maple. “Let me see.”

With her cheeks flushed under the glow of the lamplight, her eyes had a twinkle he hadn’t seen before. His heart thumped hard in his chest, and he took the warning in stride. She was enjoying herself...with him. Who’d have thunk it?

“I like the funnel cake best with the Maple Bacon and the cinnamon pastry with the peanut butter. Reminds me of your mom’s toast.” She laughed. “I swear, she treats us all like we’re teenagers instead of almost thirty.”

“What about your parents?”

“What about them?” she asked.

“Where do they live? What are they like?”

She studied him as if she were waiting for the punchline of a joke. “Are you serious?”

He held her gaze and finished off the chipotle cocoa.

Settling back against the bench, she let out a sigh. “Not much to tell. We’re an average family. My dad’s in sales; my mom’s a teacher. They had me early on, then had an oops named Katie later in their thirties.” She dismissed the question with a wave of her hand. “I don’t know what you want to hear. My parents are great. My sisters a character. No deep dark secrets to uncover.”

“I’d hope not. You have enough to deal with on your own.”

With a soft grunt, she finished her pastry. “I’ve already dealt with it. This dating thing is simply an issue of being out of practice.”

“You ran off the stage.”

She shrugged with a smirky twist of her lips, and he had to stop himself from kissing her right then and there.

“That wasn’t dating. That was simply me refusing to embarrass myself in front of the whole town.”

He gathered their trash, depositing it in the Keep CVB Clean receptacle at the base of the lamplight. “The whole town?” His laugh echoed about the empty park. “Fasbender’d be able to retire early if that were the case. He's working harder to entice people into the comedy club than Larkin does the Conservation Park.”

He brushed off his hands and took a slow step in invitation for her to join him. “Regardless, you getting over what people are thinking about you is first on the agenda to putting yourself back out there.”

The immediate twist in his gut took him by surprise. Just the idea of another man giving her his cinnamon stick made him want to punch the phantom asshole in the throat.

The moon was high in the sky, casting an impressive glow around the quiet garden. The low rumble of the ocean’s waves drifted with the breeze from the marina, reminding him of when he and Ryker used to play hide-and-seek around the parks when they were young. They were good at hiding. Ryker’s dad had been good motivation.

Claire rolled her eyes. “Good Lord. Sometimes you’re so annoying. Fine!” She snatched the paper he’d given her earlier from her bag, then jumped up on the bench, her skirt fluttering, then settling around her knees.

With a rattle of the paper, she cleared her throat.

“No valley promised a rise with such grace...wait a second.” She studied the paper harder. “This is not what you gave me to read at the club.” Her eyes pinned him with accusation but kept drifting back to the page in her hand.

“A more beautiful landscape would never be faced.

Silken mounds of heaven-sent pleasure.

A touch, a taste, forever to treasure.

Her curves, each dip, a heady drug found.

Her needs, her wants, he found himself bound.”

With a dreamy look, the lips he tried so hard to ignore curved up at the corners.

“No prison but home in her embrace.

Each cry of passion, racing the pace.

She peaks, he soars, no earthly tether ties.

Their love transcends divinity skies.”

She swayed back and forth with the rhythm of the words, her voice softening as she went.

“Two hearts made one through healing and laughter.

A journey of passion turned happy...ever...after.”

Tilting her head, she looked at him, letting the hand holding the paper fall to her side. “Who wrote this?”

The inquisitive look in her eyes shouldn’t have made his collar feel too tight, or the cool September night feel quite so warm, but the longer she stared, the more restless he grew.

Clearing his throat, he stepped in front of her and snatched the paper. “I did. Of course, I wasn’t going to have you read the other one. It was word-for-word from a sex scene from one of the erotic novels the North Cove Mavens left lying around at my mom’s house.”

Her lips trembled then split with a grin as she burst out laughing. “Erotic novels?”

She hopped to the ground, falling in step next to him as they headed back to his car. “Yeah, they have a book club meeting each month.” He shuddered. “You do not want to be within earshot of that one. Every time they read something dirty, they share notes on what worked and what didn’t...in real life.” He mimicked Maxine’s voice.

Nodding, she said, “I’ve been to one or two. I love the books, but not necessarily hearing Evette tell us how flexible she is.”

Mitch dropped his jaw in horror. “I do not want to know anymore.”

“That’s what you get for tricking me.” They reached his vehicle, but she shook her head. “I think I’m going to call it a night.”

He paused, using all his control to hide his disappointment, then turned toward her. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”

They couldn’t be together, but he was on fire every moment they were—and he didn’t want it to end.

God damn it.

She gave him a sassy grin, then snatched the poem back from his hand. “I’m keeping this. It’s the least you can do for teasing me. And don’t be surprised. Be proud. I’m cutting the night short, comfortable enough with myself to do so.”

“Give it back.” It was ridiculous, but a sliver of panic needled its way between his ribs.

“No.” She walked backward. “You said I deserve beautiful things.”

That stopped him in his tracks. She thought his poem was beautiful? He shouldn’t feel quite so stunned or good about that fact, but there it was. He’d just been messing around...

Thinking of her.

With a wink, she headed south on Van Buren Blvd toward her apartment in South Cove Place. “Quit watching me.”

“I’d never leave a lady before she was safely home. Besides, your South Cove has such a great view. I like decadence, remember?”

Her giggle floated back to him as she opened the door to her apartment stairs and paused. “Sheesh. Do you ever stop?”

He took in the sight of her under the glow of the moon and lamplight. Her eyes sparkled, and the smile on her face was genuine. That was a start at least. It would be one lucky son-of-a-bitch who got to follow her on up those stairs.

“Never,” he replied. And where she was concerned, he never would. She had too much to give to hide it behind fear.

“Goodnight,” she whispered.

He returned the sentiment, caressing his thumb along her cheek, lost in the feel of her soft skin.

They stood staring for an eternal moment that was not nearly enough time.

He wanted nothing as badly as he wanted to carry her up the stairs to her apartment and show her how good the night could really be.

Pulling in a shaky breath, she disappeared through the door, and the evening suddenly felt too cool, too quiet, like the sun had set without warning.

Rubbing his chest, he headed toward his car. She didn’t have anything to be afraid of by opening up, but he couldn’t quite say the same for himself.