I push the cake toward the restaurant at the end, focused on every single crack in the sidewalk. Down the slight slope and up it again, past recently planted decorative flower pots. Spring always happens suddenly in Portage, and today feels like the transition. The sun warms my back as I stare at the sidewalk. I’m mostly around the display outside the hardware store when someone catches up—strolling next to me.

“Need a hero?” Dean asks. “I’m an excellent cart pusher.”

There’s a little drop in pressure at the sound of his voice. My shoulders tense and relax at the same time.

“This isn’t my first time pushing the cart.” I keep my focus on the cake, and the only part of him I can see are his feet—or some sort of black canvas dock shoes that walk easily next to me. I keep my eyes down not just because of the cake, but also the itchy embarrassment that’s threatening to make me push the cart too fast.

I slow my steps, staring at the peak of the tent covering the cake. “I’m s-s-sorry about yesterday.”

His feet continue their easy stroll next to me. “Launching yourself in the water to save Matty?”

“No, after.” I swerve to avoid a deep chip. “The part where I ran.”

Tension runs down my arms with my admission, and I shove the cart forward.

It tips—the front wheels must be caught on a sidewalk crack. The tent slides forward, and my heart goes with it.

Dean grabs the far end and pulls it up, evening out the cart and setting it smoothly on the sidewalk after we’re over the uneven crack.

Crap, he just rescued me again, didn’t he?

“Thank you.” I take a breath and resume my careful pushing.

“Any time.” It’s a few more paces before he speaks again. “Why did you run?”

I let out a breath and open my throat. Letting myself hum a few bars of the lullaby while I guide the cart up to the door of the restaurant.

“I don’t like the name Elly,” I say after a short pause. It’s part of the truth, at least. “I’d prefer if you call me Ella. And could you get the door?”

“I can do both of those things.” He pulls open the door. “I called you that name because I remembered it.”

The cart is halfway over the threshold, but I stop, gripping it hard. I don’t know whether to look at him or not.

“What do you remember?” I try to ask it casually, and start to push the cart again.

“Flying kites together. I remember you running ahead of me,” he says, and even though I don’t turn toward him, I can hear the smile in his voice. “Your hair bouncing as you ran.”

“My hair.” I bite my lip. “Do you… remember anything else?”

He frowns. “No, I don’t think so. Should I?”

My heart leaps up into my throat. “No. I just…” Relief floods me. A kite memory. That’s all. But relief is immediately followed by regret. And the thoughts I’ve had about him. So many wrong things.

What if I just told him? Renee made it sound so simple. Would he be able to look past it?

I jump a little when his hand falls on the cart, but he helps me guide it up the ramp toward the host stand and around the tight corner. Once I get it situated on level ground, I step back and take a breath.

And I finally glance up—past those dock shoes. Up to blue board shorts that fall to just above his knees. A white tank top that’s speckled with something intensely green. Paint, maybe? It smudges over the curve of his right shoulder and speckles the complex crossroad of muscles that make up his shoulder. I wish I had the names for all those overlapping muscles. The sharp cut of his deltoid and weight of his bicep. Like a carefully constructed bridge from his neck down to his forearm.

And the left shoulder…

A rope winds over his left shoulder—not a real rope, a tattooed one. It loops his shoulder and then disappears under cotton. My heart thumps so loud that I’m sure he can hear it. He’s got an actual rope tattooed on him.

And I’m staring at him. Probably drooling.

This man is so stupidly attractive. But I can’t look past our history. He wouldn’t be able to either. My mother tortured his father. And I… I hid in that closet and did nothing. And then when his father asked me to help, I just... left him in a field.

I’m staring at Dean, and I’m torn right down the middle. Half of me wants to run again—to put as much distance between us as I can. And the other half wants to leap toward him, discover where that rope ends. Tell him the truth.

What would he say if I told him? He’d look at me the way Ms. Joanna does—with distrust. Maybe even disgust. Like the stares I’ve gotten from people before. And it’d be even worse since it involves his father.

Benny is right. Sometimes people off are better not knowing the truth. Sometimes I wish I didn’t know the truth.

But Dean’s going to be part of Portage and the Harborwalk Festival and this town, so I need to find a middle ground. One where I don’t run, but I just push this cart down the street and have a polite conversation. I can do that. And hopefully avoid ogling him too.

“Okay, I have to ask.” Dean points at the cart. “What the hell is under the tent?”

“A wedding cake.”

He laughs. “I feel like I should have guessed that. Can I see it?”

“You want to see the wedding cake?” I’m not sure why I’m surprised. Maybe because there aren’t a lot of twenty-something guys who stop into the bakery asking after wedding cakes.

“Did you make it?” he asks.

I shrug. “With my sister’s help. She does the decorating, and I do the baking.”

“Then, hell yes, I want to see it.” He slides his hands into his pockets, stretching the front of his board shorts and putting pressure on the drawstring.

I pause with my hand over the top of the tent. What if he doesn’t like it? Such a silly thought. It’s just a cake—not even mine. Not that I’ll ever have a wedding cake.

I swallow and lift off the tent, double checking it as I do. The anchor cake topper still sits perfectly with Renee’s careful lettering of Finally Tied the Knot around it.

He grins. “I like the anchor.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” I circle the cake, checking it from all angles. Our fondant mishap is carefully covered by the blue buttercream swirls. The color looks lovely in the soft light of the restaurant. Perfect.

He leans forward, looking at the detail. And that necklace slips from his shirt. There’s a coin attached to the end—the leather winding through a hole in the middle of the coin. I wonder what it means to him.

He nods toward the lettering. “Why ‘finally’?”

“They lived next door to each other. Saying hi when the other passed. To hear the groom talk about it, they were always looking at each other, but it took twenty years before they both realized the other was looking back.”

“That’s a long time.” There’s a kind of serious look on his face, his eyes narrowed slightly, his lips parted. Like his thoughts are deeper than his words. The little inch-long scar on his jaw moves as he talks. How did he get it?

But that isn’t a middle ground kind of question. I look down at my shoes, still slightly damp from yesterday. Even though I’d dried them with a hairdryer for as long as I could, burning the tips of my fingers.

“I should get back to the bakery.” Renee probably has to get to her shift at Salt’s. I set the tent back over the cake and gesture toward the manager. She nods and waves. There aren’t many places in Portage large enough for a wedding, so it’s not the first time I’ve dropped off a cake here. They’ll push the cart back tomorrow. It’s all part of the ritual.

“Can you stop by the ticket hut on the way?” Dean asks as we step onto the street.

“I, um…” I glance toward the little building just down from us.

“Question for the festival,” he says quickly, like he can see my indecision. “Something I’d like to show you.”

I blow out a breath of relief. Festival questions are exactly middle ground.

“Everyone likes the kite idea,” I say as we walk toward the ticket huts. I tell him about how I went down the line of businesses this morning while Renee was performing her cake-decorating magic, and the idea was met with eagerness all around. Mr. Henderson—from the hardware store—told me his son and a few of his friends fly those dual-line kites. He could probably get them to do a demonstration. And I used Renee’s phone to look into scheduling the pavilions at the park. Families could bring their own kites.

“I’m not surprised.” He turns to face me when we reach the window of the ticket hut. “You had a good idea.”

I shake my head. “You’re the one who said we needed something. And when I saw all those tangled ropes on the Heroine, it made me think of kites.” And Dean, I realize. I’d thought of kites the first time I saw him. Just like his kite memory of me.

His lips twitch as he cuts off a laugh.

I raise an eyebrow. “Why the laugh? Something about the kites?”

“No, nothing with the kites. Just the ropes.”

“What about the ropes?”

“That’s usually not what they’re called.” He runs a hand over the back of his neck, which flexes and releases that tattooed shoulder. “It’s cute, that’s all.”

“Cute,” I repeat. Does he mean in an attractive way? Or in a she’s silly way? But that amused look he’s giving me really doesn’t answer anything.

“Then what are they called?” I ask.

“Depends. Every line has a different use, so it’s got a different name. Halyard. Downhaul. Mainsheet. Forestay. Backstay.” He shrugs. “You get the idea.”

“But they’re all ropes.”

He bypasses the lip twitch and lets out a laugh this time. “Yeah, they are.”

“Why do sailors have to make everything so complex?”

“In our blood, I guess.”

We walk around the corner of the ticket hut—toward the door, and I stop.

“What is that?” I point at the side of the ticket hut. “That’s…”

He tilts his head, studying me. “Yes?”

“That’s…” I step back, like I need to get away from it. Get away from that awful color of green. It’s the same color that’s splattered across his shoulder, but it looks wildly different on skin. On the side of the ticket hut, it looks… I’ve never seen green that’s somehow both fluorescent and swamp-colored at the same time. It’s terrible. I can’t help but sneak a glance at him.

“I sense you have an opinion about something,” he says.

I shake my head. “I shouldn’t have an opinion.”

“Come on.” He nods toward the ticket hut. “I want to hear it.” His lips curve into a smile that’s half challenge. But it’s the half flirt that makes me bite my lip.

I focus on ugly things. “The green’s awful.”

Dean turns to stare at the hut. “It’s called Selkie Green. How can anything with that name be awful?” He runs a hand through his hair. “Is it really that bad?”

“Yes,” I admit. “What’s wrong with blue?” I step forward and let my hand press against the faded, unpainted part. “It’s pretty.”

“My mother’s favorite color was green.” He lets out a breath. “She passed away a while ago.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. I hate that I’m pretending like I don’t already know.

“She always painted the ticket huts green, so I wanted to do the same.” He laughs a little. “I’m color-blind, so I can’t actually see it.”

“You can’t see green?”

“Or yellow. Green looks gray-ish.”

It’s my turn to hide a smile. “Your sheets are green.”

“No, they aren’t.” His eyes narrow on me. “They are a very manly gray.”

I shake my head, laughter bubbling out at his expression. “A pretty, light green.”

He shakes his head. “Fucking Dev.”

“Who?”

“Just a friend. No one I want to talk about right now.” Then his gaze flicks down to my lips. “So, are you teasing me about my bedsheets?”

“I…” Yes, I am. And remembering him sitting across from me in that small room. The way his eyes had flicked down to the sheets.

This is so not middle ground. My fingers rattle against my thigh. All of me rattles, actually. His presence fills me, and I want so desperately to sink into it. Find out what that tattooed rope would feel like under my fingers. Where it winds. Across his chest?

No. I close my eyes. The past calls.

Loudly.

Insistently.

“Ella.”

I look up to find him watching me, his forehead wrinkled. He takes half a step forward.

I shake out my hands. “What did you want to show me?”

He reaches around me to push open the door. “I’ve got those little sailboats that we could do for the kids, but I thought of something else too. The kids could use the same idea to make little kites.”

The ticket hut is one small room. If I stretched out my arms, I could almost touch each side with my fingertips. The window shutter is only open a few inches, so the little room is dim. A few things clutter the far wall. A red folding chair, a bucket full of fasteners, more paint cans.

I’m drawn forward into the small space. Like the closets I used to hide in. Small spaces have always made me feel safe. A tray of the ugly green paint sits on the ledge by the slightly open shutter. It doesn’t look so awful in the tray either. It must be something with the light and the backdrop of the ocean that changes it so much.

The smells of paint and wood light up something familiar. A memory that flits through my mind. Being protected. Arms wrapped around me. But I don’t know what it could be. I’ve never felt that way before. Ever. I’ve never been safe.

“It’s over here.” Dean’s voice is low in the small room.

I press against the wall so that he can step around me. His hand falls on my shoulder, so warm and solid.

He’s touching me.

Such a silly thought. But I can’t seem to ignore the connection. The sensation lights up my shoulder and darts across my chest, settling in the sudden pounding of my heart. He surrounds me. Lemons and dry cedar and that feeling of being rescued. Like I’m finally safe.

Before I can think—before I let myself register the risk—I grab his wrist, stopping him from moving past me.

He stops, turning toward me. His gaze flicks to my hand around his wrist and then up to my face. We stand there for a moment. Nothing but the sound of far-off seagulls and the lap of the water. The sounds are so constant that I usually don’t notice them, but right now they echo all around us. Maybe it’s just because he’s there. Waking me up. Pulling me out of the past and pushing me into the present.

I let go of him to touch those speckles of green that cover his shoulder. The paint is still slightly wet, and it smears as my fingers brush down those crests and valleys of his shoulder and over his bicep. My fingers spread the paint into green tracks down his tanned skin. Like a claim. Down to his wrist, where the track of paint disappears, leaving nothing but his skin under my fingertips.

His hand wraps mine, and his thumb smooths over my knuckles. A fluid movement like water flowing over me.

“I can’t figure you out.” He shifts his weight backward, rocking onto his heels. And then he tips forward again. It’s as if the slow lap of the ocean is pulling him away and back in, but his hand doesn’t leave mine. His thumb makes another arc—across my knuckles and back again.

I know what’s coming next. I want it.

Even if it’s wrong for me to want it. I want it so deeply that every cell of my body is aching for it. This warm, sure feeling like I want to push up to my toes and take him.

My heart beats an uneven rhythm that threatens to drown out everything. I move slowly—taking my hand from his and pressing my palm over his heart. His chest rises and falls. I match the rhythm of his breath. It’s quicker than mine. He’s tense—a tightly wound network of muscles.

With a track of paint down his arm. So familiar. Color on skin.

The wooden box. The numbers my mother would draw on skin. The nicks of her knife on a man’s arm.

Oh…

I marked him. Just like my mother used to mark men.

I stumble away, and my back hits the wall. I can’t let myself do this. Where it goes. Where it leads. Not when my mother could make a man cower with a glance. A glance that would inevitably turn into something more. Something the Maine court system says is wrong, wrong, wrong.

I can’t let myself hear the echo that keeps trying to repeat in my brain. The fantasies I imagine—my lips devouring his, his back to the wall, that mark on his arm that says he’s mine.

I have to get away from this. I’m detaching and ripping into two. The girl who has control over herself. And the girl who wants it over him. They can’t be the same girl.

Can they?

“Hey.” His hand covers mine. He’s so still and steady. So present. And focused on me. As though he’s not thinking of anything else. Just his hand laying over mine and how close we’re standing.

I pull away from him. “I should get back to my—”

—self.

“My job,” I conclude.

Dean’s nod is barely noticeable. I can’t contemplate what’s going on in his head. His surface seems placid, but he can’t be that way underneath.

“I-I’m sorry.” I step away from him—toward the door. Still he doesn’t move.

Then he tilts his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Ella.”