I’m color-blind. Not in the sense that I can’t see the deep, warm eyes of my curious contemplation. But color-blind in that I can’t see most shades of green and yellow. A variation of tritanopia, to be more exact.

It doesn’t cross my mind often. Not until I’m standing at the paint counter, attempting to compare samples of colors and wishing like hell I’d brought Dev along. But asking the rigging favor was the limit for a few days, and I still haven’t heard from Sebastian.

So I stare at slips of paper that apparently have different shades of green on them and let out a grumble. The only difference I can see is the names. But, for reasons I can’t fully explain, the ticket hut has to be green. My mother always kept the ticket hut green—or so she told me.

“There a problem?” Hal, the man who owns the hardware shop, ambles over. He’s quick to introduce himself, saying he saw the Heroine dock a week ago. And that conversation works itself into a discount on the paint, which I won’t turn down.

I hold up one of the greens. “How’s this?”

He grunts and shrugs.

“It’s green, right?” I ask. How many shades of green can there possibly be?

This time, instead of the shrug, I get an eyebrow raise. “Yep, it’s green.”

“Well, then. Three gallons.”

He peers at me, and I wonder if I’ve made a tragic mistake. Portage is a funny little town. About a third the size of Upper Bay, and without the infrastructure. No public transportation or big box stores. No hospital. The tiniest library I’ve ever seen, which they call the Idea Center for some odd reason. All I know is that I’ve already read every book in the historical section.

And I get the distinct idea there are expectations. Unwritten and unspoken, and all of them just as hard to see as green.

Hal shrugs and jots down the color number. “It’ll take a few minutes to mix.” He takes the rest of my order, and I tell him I’ll come back later in the day. No need to rush the man—it seems like not rushing Hal might be one of those hidden expectations.

Maybe so, because when I turn toward the door, he stops me with a grunt.

“Good to have the Heroine in dock,” he grumbles before ambling down the paint aisle.

“Thanks,” I call after him. Not surprisingly, there’s no response.

The hardware store sits in a short line of stores that must stay open year round. A bakery, a barber, and a general store. Everything else is shut up tight—even the coffee shop that’s shaped like a lighthouse. But the restaurants and bars along the Harborwalk have signs that they’ll be opening in a week or two. In a few of the huts along the harbor, owners are opening the windows to air them out. It feels like life is about to crawl back into the town. This town could use some life.

I meander down the wide sidewalk, past the little post office that’s only open a few hours a day. The smell of fresh bread seeps from the bakery. Laura’s is painted across the window. Between the letters, a long glass counter runs the length of the back wall. And behind that, someone tucks bread into the case.

A very curious someone. It clicks together—the smudge of flour on her chin, and the way she smelled so sugary-sweet. Strawberries. The thought makes me smile.

I stop, my feet inches from the window. She tucks bread around a cupcake holder, although she seems to be having some trouble since the cupcakes totter more than once. Her forehead wrinkles, but she keeps struggling with it until the whole unit tips to the side and a few cupcakes tumble out. She steps back, glaring down at it with those stunning eyes. They have the most beautiful shape, upturned slightly at the end like the edges of a smile. That’s what she has—smiling eyes.

Familiar eyes. She’s like a word caught on the tip of my tongue. I can almost catch the first letter, but then everything hazes, and she slips away. My mother moved us from Portage when I was a kid—but Sebastian and I did go to school here when we were little. We probably played soccer with her at recess or something.

But what the hell is her name? The sign across the bakery is Laura’s, but I’m certain that’s not right. Something that ends with a Y?

Jenny? Daisy?

And what the fuck am I doing out here with a pane of glass between us? At least I can’t scare her off the dock when we’re on dry land.

A silver bell tinkles over my head when I open the door. She glances up, a smashed cupcake in one hand, and then she stills. Those beautiful eyes widen slightly. Her hair is pinned back but still curling out on the edges. Flour brushes across her chin, and I have this desire to walk to her, reach over the counter, and smooth it away with my thumb.

Instead I close the door behind me, and she still doesn’t move.

Brushing flour off her chin might be a bit forward. I should start with her name.

Sandy? Shelly?

She’s got to remember me from the dock. There aren’t a lot of new people—or any new people besides me and Dev—around Portage, so it seems like she would. But she keeps blinking at me.

I cross and tap on the top of the case. “A second almost-fall. I regret that I wasn’t here in time to rescue it.”

She just keeps staring at me and holding the smashed cupcake extended in her hand. It’s got a carrot frosted on the top that probably used to be centered before its traumatic fall. A carrot with a little gray topper. The cupcake liner is as pinkish-gray as the wall behind her, and I have the sudden desire to know what color everything is—even though I hardly ever wonder about those things.

“I-I…” She bites her bottom lip. “I’m sure we’ll both recover.”

“Perhaps. Although maybe not the poor cupcake.” I try to resist smiling, but it trumps me. “I’d be happy to help. If you’re looking for a hero.”

Her eyes narrow. “A hero of almost-falls and smashed c-cupcakes.” She bites down on a full bottom lip. “I don’t think I need a hero.”

She sets the cupcake on the counter and turns her attention to the others. She hasn’t even asked me what I’m doing in the shop. Not that I want to hurry her. I’ll stand here as long as she’ll let me. Discover her name. Find out why she’s familiar. How long she’s worked here and why she was down by the slips before. What her favorite time of day is and how the hell I can convince her to go out with me. And, if I’m honest with myself, I want to take in another view of that perfect ass. But asking her out first. Ass second.

“Maybe you just haven’t encountered the right hero yet.” I’m grinning ear to ear. Just like I do when the wind catches a sail. I’m grinning and watching her organize cupcakes.

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got a very firm no-hero policy in my life.” When she finally glances up, there’s no trace of a smile in those eyes.

I take my hand off the counter and a solid step back. My smile falls.

She turns to maneuvering the loaves of bread, and I clear my throat. She doesn’t even glance up.

Great. This has rejection written all over it. Better keep it simple—a cup of coffee.

Although the bakery is the only place to buy a cup in the offseason. So…

A drink?

At one of the bars or restaurants that aren’t open.

I can ask if she wants to tour the Heroine. Which I already asked and she already rejected.

The barber. General store. This town is not helping me much.

Is it acceptable to ask her to the library? I’ve never asked a woman to the library before. It might be too odd for a first date.

She straightens, glancing behind me out the wide window. “Can I help you with something? Bread?” She nods toward the smashed cupcake. “Some other baked good?”

“Sure.” I glance over the case, feigning interest. Wheat, sourdough, cinnamon… “Wait, you have olive bread?”

“No,” she snaps, her eyes going wide for a moment.

I point at the loaf. “Then what’s that one?”

For a second, I wonder if my color deficiency is playing tricks on me. But no, those are most certainly olives. My mother used to buy it from a corner bakery in Upper Bay. She’d bring it over to the docks, and we’d tear off warm salty bits. She passed away twelve years ago, and some memories have faded. But not that image of her on the dock.

I let out a breath, trying to figure out how to transition from bread to libraries. “There’s nothing like freshly baked olive bread. Or libraries.”

Her forehead lines in confusion. Ah, shit. Smooth, Dean. Real smooth.

“I’m holding that bread for someone else.” She reaches past that to grab a smaller loaf of something. “You should take this one.” Her tone changes—certain, decisive. And sexy as fucking hell. The only thing I want to know is… who is the someone? A male someone? “And I also wanted to tell you about this festival.”

“A festival?” I repeat.

She nods and then bites down on her lower lip.

Her name. I need her name.

“I’m Dean,” I offer. I’m about to ask for hers when the silver bell tinkles.

She glances past me, and whatever loaf of bread she just grabbed falls from her fingers. It must land on the floor on the other side, but she doesn’t glance down. That heavy look returns to her eyes—the same one she gave the masts. Swirling ghosts and evil portents. What the hell?

I turn, and my throat goes dry. It always does when I see my father. “What are you doing here?”

He stands in the middle of the shop, his shirt a button off, his big toe sticking out of a hole in his slippers. I do a quick scan—but those are the only things that seem amiss. Other than the fact that he’s alone. He shouldn’t be alone. I pay those people so that he’s always with someone.

“Getting lunch,” he snaps at me. “Aren’t you hungry?” His tone makes me jump just like I’m nine years old again. But I’m not nine anymore. I’m six inches taller than him and twice as strong—I’ve made sure of that. But the memories cause me to widen my stance. Heat crawls up my neck and across my shoulders. Anger as quick as my heartbeat.

He points a finger at me, but it starts to shake so hard he can hardly keep his hand up. He’s also not the man he used to be. I doubt he even remembers what he did to us.

I force myself to walk across the tiny shop and take his arm, my grip firm on his elbow. “They’ve got your lunch in the cafeteria. Or wherever the hell you eat.” I wouldn’t know because I haven’t visited him.

He yanks away from my grasp, and I have to keep myself from grabbing him and dragging him from the store. It’ll be easier if he goes willingly.

“The cafeteria?” he asks. “Where’s Rosemary?”

“Not here.” The mention of my mother makes another flash of heat run across my shoulders. I hate explaining to him she died twelve years ago. Again and again and again.

There’s an exhale of breath from behind the counter. Fuck. I don’t want her anywhere close to this man. Or myself, for that matter. Not when this heat is crawling down to my clenched fingers.

I turn to find that unease plastered on her face. She fidgets with her apron as if she’s nervous. Or scared. As she should be around a man like my father. Can she see the things he did to Sebastian and me just by looking at his face? Or can she see it working in my blood—that I’m part of him. Part of that.

“He seems… different.” She shakes her head as if she’s suddenly returning to the present.

I’m taken aback by her directness. Usually people avoid the question. Look away out of embarrassment.

“He has Korsakoff syndrome.” I bite it out, trying to relax my shoulders and hands.

She sets her hand flat against the counter like she’s trying to steady herself.

“Dementia,” I explain. “Even when he remembers, it’s through a fog.”

Clatter makes me turn, and I find that he’s rearranging some of the chairs—stacking them around one table. I need to get him out of here.

“Dementia,” she repeats.

A chair tips and topples to the ground. I cross to right it and shove it back to where it belongs. I grab his arm again.

“Wait.” She reaches in the case. “Don’t worry about the chairs.” She gives me a thin smile and picks up that loaf of olive bread. She tucks it in a bag and holds it over the counter. “W-welcome to Portage.”

My father points at her. “You’re—”

Fuck. I grab his hand, pulling it down.

“Please, take it.” Those beautifully shaped eyes are so earnest. I step toward her to reach over the counter and take the bag, trying not to squash it in my shaking hands.

She nods. Like she’s trying to tell me something with olive bread.

“Thank you,” I manage.

The bell chimes. Fuck, he’s stepping out on the street. I don’t have time to think about the bread or the beautiful woman whose hand I almost touched and name I still don’t know. Instead, I follow my asshole of a father.