“You told me you’d own a BMW someday,” I said, my admiring gaze wandering over the plush leather bucket seats and sleek dashboard of his car while he drove along the river. “And I didn’t believe you. You don’t see many luxury vehicles in Eastport.”

Mitch grinned. “It was my first indulgence after my company’s product launch made it to mass market.”

“What kind of company?”

“Medical software. We created a program that allows 3D simulations so surgeons can prepare for difficult surgeries in a virtual environment.”

“Impressive. You’re a software engineer? I should’ve known, with all the hours you spent holed up in the computer lab.”

“Yeah, that was me, Eastport Public School’s premier gawky tech geek.” His smile tilted as he threw me a glance. “I didn’t think you took much notice of me back then.”

“Of course I did. We knew each other since kindergarten.” I studied the man beside me from under my lashes, my thoughts spinning through the thirty years that had passed since I’d met him as a little boy. His father had worked at the post office and his mother taught grade five at our school. But girls didn’t mix with boys in elementary school, and Mitch and I had barely interacted. By grade seven, when the opposite sex began to pique my interest, I’d grown tall and skinny, too shy and self-conscious behind my glasses and mouth full of braces to speak to boys. “Not that you noticed me.”

“Are you kidding? You, Faith and Brooke had your own little clique. The three of you were always in the courtyard with your noses in those Goosebumps books. Sitting together but ignoring each other, the way kids do today with their cell phones.”

“I wouldn’t call it a clique exactly. It was really Brooke and Faith who were besties. But you know how it is with girls. B-F-Fs one minute and frenemies the next.”

“Obviously you’ve kept in touch with Brooke.”

“More like reconnected. After I moved away in grade eight, I came back to Eastport every few weekends to visit my mother and friends, but over time, Brooke and Faith and I drifted apart. Now that I live near Faith, we’re closer than ever.”

“Funny that you and I never crossed paths when you came to town,” Mitch remarked. “Not until we both worked at the orchard. I barely recognized you.”

“Same here,” I said, and smiled to myself, remembering the moment we’d first spotted each other at Richardson Orchards. In those four years, my feminine curves had blossomed, the braces had come off and I’d ditched my glasses in favour of contacts. Maturity had transformed the gawky tech geek I’d known in equally remarkable ways.

A kaleidoscope of moments from that summer paraded through my memory. Sunbathing at the beach on our days off; evening walks in McKitrick Park; the day we both called in sick from work and drove to Toronto to hang out at the Centreville amusement park. Always on our own, without his friends or mine. An intense courtship that burned hot and consumed both of us before it went down in flames before summer ended.

I dragged my thoughts back to the here and now as Mitch turned into the parking lot at the Eastport Mill Tavern. He pulled into a spot facing the river and cut the engine. The fading sunlight stained the sky a muted pink above the trees lining the opposite riverbank.

We climbed out of the car and walked toward the old mill poised at the edge of the river. The new owners had left the original limestone exterior of the four-story building intact, adding green awnings and a front garden and walkway. The ivy that clung to one wall had turned a bright crimson that offset the gray stone, and the sash windows on each floor glowed with welcoming light.

“Wow, they’ve really fixed it up,” I remarked as we followed the flagstone walkway to the door. A bronze plaque affixed to the wall explained that the tavern was one of the oldest buildings in the area, constructed as a gristmill in the 1860s. An extensive restoration this year had transformed it into a restaurant and inn. “I didn’t realize there were guest rooms on the top floors. I wonder what they’re like.”

“Small and a little drafty, but not bad,” Mitch said. “I’m sleeping here for the weekend. My grandmother’s house is filled to the rafters with relatives and I decided I’d sleep a little better here than on the basement sofa-bed.”

I looked at him in surprise as he held the door open for me. “Why aren’t you staying at your mom and dad’s?”

“They moved away two years ago. Retired to Stratford, and Grandma moved into the house where I grew up. She insisted on hosting Thanksgiving this year, so we all came to her. My parents, my brother Mike and his wife Cheryl and their three kids, plus Cheryl’s mother—that makes for quite the full house.”

I walked inside ahead of him, a smile pulling at my lips. “Then I don’t blame you for sneaking away to the Red Lion.”

“I was looking forward to some alone time.” His smile reflected mine. “But now I’m glad to have some company.”

I let my gaze linger on him, still unsure what I was doing there. Satisfying my curiosity? Or was I just a glutton for punishment?

I tore my focus away and glanced around the dining room that incorporated the mill’s original stonework and chamfered posts, adding a massive stone fireplace along one wall. The cozy décor featured Windsor chairs around square tables draped in white linen, and bronze chandeliers suspended from the ceiling.

A young hostess with frosted blond hair approached us. “Table for two?”

“Yes, please,” Mitch said.

She beamed and grabbed a couple of menus. “I’ve got a perfect little secluded table near the dance floor.”

I glanced at Mitch and lifted my brows in question. “Dance floor?” I mouthed as we followed the hostess.

He raised his shoulders, his smile enigmatic.

Our table by the back window overlooked the river. A half-wall separated us from a square of bare hardwood floor where an electronic jukebox played a soulful Jon Legend song. The hostess placed the menus on the table and sauntered back to her station.

Settling into my chair, I glanced down at the rippling water below. “This spot is gorgeous, Mitch. To think that when I used to play around here with Faith and Brooke when we were kids, the building was closed up and crumbling. We’d make up stories involving murders and headless ghosts wandering the mill, and we’d dare each other to peek in the windows. I never saw anything but dusty old equipment, but I spooked myself more than once. You might want to sleep with the light on, just in case.”

“I’ll remember that.”

I wasn’t able to stop my imagination from conjuring an image of him slipping between the sheets later in the evening, perhaps wearing only his boxers—a line of thought that was thankfully interrupted when a waiter appeared at our table and introduced himself as Kevin.

“Can I bring you a drink to start?” he asked.

I scanned the drinks menu, considering the selection of virgin cocktails, but decided at the last moment that a glass of wine sounded too good to pass up.

“The Pinot noir, please,” I said, “and I’m ready to order. I’d like the grilled salmon with a garden salad.”

Mitch ordered a beer and a steak dinner, and we handed our menus to the waiter.

Once Kevin was gone, quiet fell between Mitch and me, and as it lingered, I began to wonder if we had much to talk about. I picked up a bread stick and nibbled at it, occupying my other hand by smoothing my napkin on the table and fiddling with my fork.

His gaze settled on mine, and the warm look he gave me sent a funny frisson of anticipation through me. I couldn’t quite get over the strangeness of looking across the table into those same tawny eyes that had entranced me when I first caught sight of him at the orchard so many years ago. When he’d looked at me from beneath that drape of dark hair, I’d nearly dropped the basket of peaches I’d just gathered. I could still picture him that day—bronzed skin and broad shoulders, temples damp with perspiration and a suggestive little tilt to his lips.

I jolted out of the memory when Mitch finally spoke.

“Tell me about your flower shop.”

Folding my arms on the table, I scrambled for words. “My shop is the one thing I’m most proud of. I got my floral design certificate and started the business out of my dad’s garage with not much more than a cooler and an old van. Within a few years I opened a storefront downtown, started a website and hired a couple of employees.” I smiled, focusing on the pride and sense of accomplishment I’d felt during the height of my shop’s success.

None of it was a lie. I’d only omitted the last part of the story.

He slanted me a narrow look. “Are you really single? Nobody special in your life?”

Fingering my fork again, I lifted my shoulders. “There was someone. It ended.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Wasn’t meant to be. Since you asked me that, am I allowed to ask you about your marriage?”

Mitch linked his hands on the table. “What do you want to know?”

I hesitated, uncertain what I wanted to know. Everything and nothing. I started with, “How long were you together?”

“Eight years. Our divorce became final almost a year ago.”

“Sorry it didn’t work out.”

“Tanya and I didn’t turn out to be a good fit.” Mitch scratched the side of his neck absently, his expression darkening. “A relationship needs to be rock solid to survive the strain of several rounds of fertility treatments, and then a failed attempt at adoption. I guess the stress of it all drove a wedge into the cracks in our marriage that had been there all along.”

“Sorry,” I said again. His candour and the wounded look that flickered across his eyes elicited a surge of compassion in me. Regardless of what he’d done to hurt me, I couldn’t wish that level of heartache on him.

A sidelong smile creased his cheek. “It’s all right. It’s been over long enough that I can be philosophical about it. Wasn’t meant to be, right?”

I gave a vague nod, thinking the idea of meant to be was just an empty cliché we’d both pulled out to console ourselves. “Been dating again?”

“Not yet. I haven’t—”

He went quiet when our waiter returned with our drinks. I lifted my wine glass to my lips and sipped, curious to know what Mitch had been about to say but not quite brave enough to ask.

It was then that I noticed the jukebox had fallen silent, and turned in my chair to glance at it. “Should we select a new song?”

“What would you like to hear?”

“You choose.”

“All right.” Mitch stood from the table and approached the jukebox. He scrolled through the songs for a minute before tapping his selection, then strode back to the table with a grin spread over his face.

“I think you used to like this one,” he said over the opening guitar notes of a song I knew immediately—Jewel’s melancholy “You Were Meant for Me.”

The familiar melody stirred a fresh flood of memories. “We listened to this CD in your dad’s car over and over the day you drove me to the lake. You were going to teach me to fish, but it rained, so we just stayed in the car and made out. Do you remember?”

“Of course I remember. Best day of fishing I never had,” he said with a wicked grin as he slid into his chair.

Two couples sharing a nearby table stood and walked to the dance floor.

“Seems your song was a good choice,” I said.

“Would you like to dance?” Mitch asked.

I stared at him in surprise. “I…don’t know.”

“Never mind.” He gave a dismissive wave. “It’s okay.”

“Well, why not?” I said, rising to my feet. “Let’s dance.”

Mitch stood and followed me around the half-wall to find a spot on the small dance floor. Turning to face him, I hesitated with my arms dangling at my sides, feeling so ungainly that I let out a quick giggle, like a teenager at her first high-school dance.

When his hands wrapped around my waist, I scooted closer to him and looped my arms over his shoulders. His warmth enveloped me, triggering an explosive battering in my chest—the moment turning from awkward to surreal and unexpectedly exhilarating.

I drew a breath and blew it out gradually, closing my eyes, willing my pulse to slow as we swayed together. Molded to his broad shoulders, my palms recognized the shape and slope of his muscles, although they were firmer and more defined than I remembered. All over, he felt more substantial than the boy I’d known, yet our bodies fit together in a familiar way. The scent of spicy cologne mingled with citrus shampoo, but beneath it I caught his indefinable masculine scent.

His assault on my senses vaulted me back to 1999 and that fiery attraction between us that stole my breath the first time he touched my hand. Kisses followed, and not long after, that rainy afternoon in his dad’s car by the lake, when a heated make-out session and fumbled caresses had ended in frustration. I’d held him at bay until a muggy August evening when we canoed to McCleary Island at the south end of the river, and ducked into in a little hideaway among the alders and pines. As the sun set, piece by piece articles of clothing were shed, until finally we made love on a sleeping bag spread over a bed of pine needles.

I couldn’t help thinking about it now, with our bodies pressed so close. I hadn’t forgotten the warm, solid, exciting sensation of him moving against me that night on the island. I remembered the gentle slap of water against the canoe tethered to a nearby tree, matching the rhythm we created, and the pale moonlight that filtered through the boughs overhead and glowed against Mitch’s smooth arms and shoulders above me.

But I couldn’t think of that night without remembering the lies he’d told me. I’d given myself to him trusting that we were both virgins shedding our innocence together. And I couldn’t forget how those tender feelings of intimacy and connection had splintered into shame and misery two days later at Hal’s Chip Wagon with an enraged Jodi McCain screaming at me, I know what you’ve been up to, you slut! Stay away from my boyfriend!

I’d run home and phoned Mitch, relating what had happened in short, shaky bursts while my lungs burned and my heart pounded out of my chest, hoping Jodi was either a vicious liar or a lunatic. But he hadn’t denied that she was his girlfriend. He’d barely said anything.

My shoulders bunched at the memory. I closed my eyes and forced myself to relax. The Mitch holding me now wasn’t that thoughtless boy anymore. And I wasn’t that fragile young girl.

Besides, I’d done plenty in my life that I wasn’t proud of. I’d broken promises and wounded someone I loved out of cowardice. If I could forgive myself, couldn’t I forgive Mitch?