I stop counting days and start counting cupcakes. I didn’t think anything could top a bacon cupcake. But then two days later Ella brings pumpkin cream cheese. Pumpkin better than bacon? I wouldn’t have guessed it either. Day three is something sweet—cinnamon and sugar.

That’s the point where Sebastian and Dev start wanting to make flavor requests. But I’ve got no desire to put in a request. Partly because I want to see what she comes up with.

There are always three cupcakes. One for each of us. And in the fourth bag—the one that’s salted caramel—there’s a carefully wrapped doggie treat.

A doggie treat that she baked. Matty devours it in one happy bite.

If I wasn’t ready to draw a heart around our names before, I’m sure-as-shit ready now.

It’s not until later in the week that we’re back early enough that she still might be at the bakery. I won’t say I push the group of photographers out of the boat, but it probably comes pretty damn close. Luckily, Dev takes over, laughing with them loudly as they slowly—painfully fucking slowly—pack up their equipment.

“Get me one of those bacon ones,” Dev whispers to me before turning back to chat lazily with the group. I wave him off and cross from wood dock to cement sidewalk. A line that I’ve hardly crossed all week. Much to my annoyance, considering the half-painted ticket hut. I hadn’t even thought about what I’m going to do about the paint.

The easiest solution would be to stick with the blue. Easier to re-paint. Easier to pick out. But with every step forward, my mom gets farther away. It’s just a paint color to anyone else. But it’s more to me.

I cross by the hut, shoving my hands into my pockets and nodding at Georgina, who owns the coffee hut shaped like a lighthouse next door. And then at the guy who owns the little lobster shack. Shane? He asks me about the little kites the kids are going to make for the festival.

They’ve all been more welcoming once they learned the Heroine is taking part in the festival.

A few more steps, and I’m at the glass windows painted with the Laura’s Bakery swirl. Between the letters, a man wipes down some of the tables. Other than him, the place looks empty. I stand for a bit, hoping to see Ella. But it looks like she might already be gone for the day.

I push open the door, the little silver bell announcing my presence.

“Be right there.” He wipes another table, and then he turns, and whatever smile he was wearing is gone in an instant. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah.” I step farther into the room. It smells so damn good in here—warm and sweet. Strawberries. And very much like Ella. Or, I suppose, Ella smells like the bakery. There’s a new board filled with a list of sandwiches and sides. “I’m looking for Ella. Do you know if she’s around?”

“Ella?” He pauses, looking me up and down. “Why are you looking for her?”

How do I answer that question?

Because I can’t stop thinking about her.

Because I just want to know if she’s okay.

Because she looked so damn perfect in my bed, and ever since she was there, I want her there again.

Although with that hard look he’s giving me, I should probably come up with something else.

“We’re friends.” I lean over the table and extend a hand. “I’m Dean. I run the sailboat charter.”

“I know who you are, Dean.” He shakes my hand. “I was friends with your father.”

I cut the handshake and step back. I really don’t want to be around someone who claims to be friends with him.

“But that was a long time ago,” he says. “Back when you and your brother used to play with my daughter. You boys must have been five years old. My name’s Benny.”

“Your daughter,” I repeat. Does that mean… “Ella’s your daughter?” I eye the man standing across from me. A few inches shorter than me and mostly covered in flour. I don’t see a whole lot of family resemblance between them. Ella must take after her mother.

Behind me, the bell tinkles and a woman steps in, black hair pulled back tight and her lips pursed. She peers at me, as if trying to come to some kind of decision.

“I’ll be right with you, Joanna.” Benny balls the cloth and walks around the case. Behind him, Laura’s Bakery is painted across the back wall.

I step closer to the counter. “Laura is Ella’s mother?” I ask Benny as he stops to wash his hands.

I’ve never really wanted to meet a woman’s parents before. But with Ella, I want to sit this man down and ask him a million questions. Even though he turns and gives me another hard look. Maybe I can soften it a bit.

“No,” he says sharply. “Laura is my wife and Ella’s stepmother.”

“Okay.” I shrug, trying to look at ease. But the way he’s talking makes me tense as hell. My stance has already widened. I don’t trust this man.

Benny eyes me over the counter. “Charles never told you.”

“Told me what?” I let a breath slide out between my teeth.

Joanna clears her throat, and Benny turns toward her, not even bothering to answer the question. Tension runs down my shoulders into my hands. I take a steady breath. I hate that I have my father’s anger. It always comes out in the most unexpected moments.

I take a step back from the counter and then turn, heading for the door.

I stop just outside. Why did he react that way when I asked about Ella’s mother?

“Excuse me,” a woman says.

I turn to see that I’m standing in front of the door. Joanna glares at me over a baguette. I step aside and pull the door open for her.

“Thank you, Mr. Archer.” She looks me up and down.

“Dean,” I correct.

She nods stiffly, and the door falls shut behind her. But she keeps standing there, looking at me. Then her lips purse like she’s finally made up her mind about me.

“Mira,” she says.

I shake my head. That name again. But I’m not sure what she’s telling me.

“Mira is Ella’s mother.” She turns and marches down the street, chin high, not a glance back.

I stare after her for a long moment.

Ella lied to me? She said Mira was a kidnapper. Convicted of attempted murder. And her daughter…

That was Ella?

She hid the truth from me. Something made her feel uncomfortable. Like she couldn’t tell me. Couldn’t trust me.

But it’s not like I’ve told her everything either.

I stand on the sidewalk for long minutes, staring out at the water. There’s a sea breeze coming in from the northeast, covering the smell of the bakery. Off to my right, the group of photographers is still lingering around the Heroine. They’re on the dock now, taking pictures of her. Dev stands with them, shoulders back with his usual swagger. I don’t see my brother, but I bet he’s on deck, tying everything off. Or maybe below deck, cleaning up from the lunch we served. Crappy sandwiches. We should get them from the bakery.

Ella’s mother is in prison.

She never really talked about it. That’s what Ella said—about herself. What if I got it wrong? What if instead of hiding the truth from me, she was thinking about telling me?

Fuck, what she must have gone through.

Was it just her and her mother? With Sebastian and me, whatever we went through, we were always in it together. Right next to each other. Dealing with the same shit.

I’ve never fully appreciated what that means.

I blink and look around. Waking up, maybe. Snapping out of the little blissful world where Ella holding my hand means there’s a next step. Maybe it’s not that simple.

I need to sort this out in my head somehow. I force myself to turn and keep walking, rolling my shoulders, kicking myself awake. I’m glad I’m not sailing right now because I’d probably be running the Heroine into the shoreline.

The hardware store is a few doors down. I pull open the door and cross to the display of paint samples. I shove my hands in my pockets and stare at the light blues. It’s what I should pick.

But it’s not like my understanding of blue is exactly what everyone else sees. Sure, I can see blue, but colors all temper each other. So I can’t always see the green in blue. It’s like however I see the world is just a fraction off from everyone else.

Except for Sebastian, who is just as colorblind as I am. Although he admits it less. Maybe he sees it as a fault. But I’m not sure that’s the case. It’s a perception. And who’s to say that mine is the wrong one?

I glare at the column of gray. Maybe it is wrong. I wish I could see what my mom saw. That I could talk to her. Ask her about Ella and Mira. Ask her why she stayed with my father for so long. Why she didn’t leave the Heroine to Sebastian and me.

And tell her that I loved her.

“Dean?”

I jump at my name and turn to see Hal standing a few feet behind me.

He holds out an envelope. “Ella asked me to give you this if you stopped by.”

“Ella?” I take it from him and flip it over, this sudden expansion puffing out my chest. She gave Hal something to give to me?

As soon as he goes back behind the counter, I tear it open and empty the contents into my hand. Three different paint samples, all gray. But she’s written on them.

A pretty light green.

A wistful sage green.

A somber dark green.

Ella picked out greens for me. I close my eyes, picturing her exactly where I’m standing in front of the display, picking out greens for me. And my heart damn near breaks out of my chest. When did she do this?

There’s something else in the envelope, and I eagerly fish it out. This sample is blue, but the only thing written on it is a number.

A phone number. I’m pretty sure there’s nothing in the world I want more. I don’t even step up to the counter before I pull out my phone.

Thought you lost your phone. I fire off the text and grin like an idiot. Her response dings quickly. I’ve got to get her a ringtone.

Her: Got a new one.

Me: Want to know what color I picked?

I walk over to the counter while I wait for her reply. I scan the three color swatches she wrote on and hand Hal one.

Her: Not exactly news of the year. But u might as well tell me which one u picked.

Me: Didn’t. The color I picked was perfect.

Her: No.

Me: No what?

Her: No way I’m staring at that ugly green all day. I can see it from the bakery.

Me: Get used to it, baby. That’s ur new view.

Her: U aren’t serious. Fess up. What color?

Me: Wistful sage green.

I pause before sending. Then I add thank you, but it still doesn’t feel complete. Maybe it’s all my thoughts from before. When I said I wanted to know everything about her, I wasn’t joking.

Even if it takes a while—if she can’t trust me right away, I’m still in. Still want to know.

Her: Awww… that makes me pee.

I bust out laughing, so hard that I struggle to type a message back.

Me: Makes you pee?

Her: No! Evil autocorrect. That makes me pee.

Her: It won’t work.

Her: That makes me h-a-p-p-y.

Me: I aim to please.

Her: Wait… was that a pee joke?

“Paint.” Hal clunks three one-gallon cans down on the counter, and I reluctantly stash my phone. But when I go to pull out my wallet, he shakes his head.

“Bacon cupcakes,” he grumbles.

“What?”

“She’s been bringing me those bacon cupcakes all week. She keeps doing that, and the damn girl’s never going to pay for anything again.”

I stare at the paint. “You sure?”

“Have you tried one of those cupcakes?” Both his eyebrows go up, and one palm hits the table in a smack of certainty.

“Yeah,” I say. “I have.”