I was out on the deck again—under the umbrella, thank you very much, Mother—and waiting for the handyman to take his position on the roof for our appointment when Mom came outside, her hands full of file folders.

“Sweetie, I need you to do me a favor and take these out to the yacht club for your dad. He forgot them at the office and needs them tonight for a conference call with California.”

I sat up on the chair. “Can’t you send a courier?” I hadn’t been alone with my father since our confrontation last year.

“And pay a hundred dollars while you sit around aging your skin prematurely?” She sniffed and thrust the folders at me. “Go get dressed and take them over. Maybe you two can have dinner and chat.”

“I thought you said he had a call.”

“An early dinner, then,” she insisted. “You two are acting like such babies, I swear. I know he was upset you put school on hold and went off to Europe.”

Yeah, Mom. That’s what he was upset about.

“But really, not everyone is as focused as your father is.”

No. Just my sister.

“You’d had a rough semester, what with that boy…and your health scare. I think it’s good you took time to regroup. And going to Europe is never a bad idea. All that culture and language and everything.”

Behind the safety of my sunglasses, I rolled my eyes. Next, she’d be saying it made me more marriageable, like we lived in a Victorian novel and we had to be concerned about my prospects. Although maybe it was right for her to be concerned. After all, I wasn’t exactly career-focused these days. Mom probably thought an MRS degree was the best I could do.

“Anyway, go put on a nice dress and take these out to the island. I’ll call your father and tell him you’re meeting him for dinner.”

I sighed. Fine. It was three-thirty, anyway. I guess the handyman wasn’t coming today. Stand a guy up one time and that was it for our little game. I hadn’t realized how much I looked forward to our wordless interaction every day until it had stopped happening.

I went inside, donned the flowered sundress I’d rejected yesterday, slipped my feet into a pair of sandal wedges, swept my hair up into a clip, and headed off. The drive to the yacht club took about an hour, which gave me plenty of time to think about what to say to Dad when I saw him. This wasn’t my idea, I don’t have to stay for dinner, and I heard you broke up with your mistress were top of my list.

Because I knew that was why he was spending so much time at the yacht club these days. I mean, really at the yacht club. In the past, he’d had “meetings” all over the place, and he’d often been at his mistress’s apartment. You’d think now that she was out of the picture, he’d come home more often, but I guess my presence made that difficult.

Either that or he had a new sailor girlfriend. Anything was possible with Dad.

But the weather was pleasant, the countryside beautiful and green, and the bridge to the island spanned a stretch of sparkling blue water dotted with boats. It was a great drive…right up until I pulled onto the road leading to the yacht club and ran over…something. Actually, several somethings. The tire pressure monitor on my dash flared to life, like I needed the warning, as it suddenly felt like I’d lost a couple of wheels on the car.

With difficulty, I pulled over to the shoulder and got out to see what had happened. Huge slashes had opened up on both of my left side tires, and when I went back to the road, I found the culprit—a giant bolt that had somehow wedged itself, screw side up, in a crack in the blacktop. I yanked it out. Little bastard.

Well, crap. I called AAA and explained the situation, but since I was in the back of beyond, they said it would probably be two hours before the tow truck could arrive. The yacht club was still a mile or two away. Probably better to deal with the car issue after I’d delivered Dad’s paperwork. I slid his folders into a Canton College tote bag I found in my trunk, slung my purse over my shoulder, and started down the road.

The afternoon, which had seemed so pleasant while in the air-conditioned confines of my BMW, was revealed to be humid and unpleasant. Not to mention buggy. Perspiration dripped between my shoulder blades and my hair began to frizz out of the clip that secured it off my neck. The cute sandals I’d donned started to chafe my big toes, and I was pretty sure I looked like a bedraggled, blistered mess by the time I’d gone the first mile.

Which is when the white pickup truck arrived. The window came down, and who leaned out but the hot handyman himself.

“Look who it is,” he said, smiling brighter than the summer day. “The Girl Next Door.” That’s how he said it, too. As if it were a title or something. “I thought that car back at the turn looked familiar.”

“Hi.” I swiped some sweat off my forehead. “Had a little car trouble.”

“Sorry to hear it. You’re going down to the yacht club, right? Me, too. Need a lift?”

I turned to face him and he braked. “I shouldn’t take rides from strangers.”

He laughed and stuck his hand out the window. “My name is Boone.”

Boone, huh? I wouldn’t have expected that, but I kinda liked it. “I’m Hannah.”

“Hannah.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Nice to meet you. At last.”

I climbed into the cab. Cool air shivered across my arms, and every nerve ending came alive as I realized that the handyman—Boone. Boone Boone Boone—sat less than a foot away from me. All that luscious, sun-soaked skin I’d ben staring at from across the fence was now right here. The tattoo on his arm peeked out from under the sleeve of a plain white T-shirt. It wasn’t a starburst like I’d thought, but a compass rose. I could touch it if I wanted, he was that close.

And I wanted to.

His shorn hair was definitely blond. His eyes were a pale blue-green. His jeans were so worn and faded they were practically white in places and I estimated he was nearly a foot taller than my five-four. My blood thrummed in my ears. The cab was otherwise silent. If he’d been listening to the radio or anything before, he’d turned it off when he’d stopped for me.

“So,” I said, trying to cover the awkward silence. “Do you work at the yacht club?”

“No,” he replied. “I’m a member.”

I nearly swallowed my tongue before he shot me a smile. “Kidding. But I’m restoring an old boat with a berth there.”

“Nice.”

“Are you a member?” he asked wryly.

“My dad is.” I gestured to the tote bag at my feet. “I’m bringing him some files for work.”

“What a dutiful daughter.” Oh, he had no idea. We pulled into the yacht club parking lot, and up to the front door. “Here you are.”

“Thanks,” I said. I opened the door and slid out. Then I turned and looked back through the window. “You know, I was wondering where you’d gone to today.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I like our appointments,” I said. “Boone.”

“Me, too. Hannah.”

---

Dad was holding court in the club restaurant, seated at a big round table with about eight of his cronies. The surface of the table was littered with empty glasses and half-eaten appetizer platters, and the atmosphere was loud and raucous. It didn’t seem like a business meeting at all.

I slipped around to his side of the table. “Hey, Dad.”

“Ah, Hannah!” he boomed. “Everyone, this is my daughter, Hannah. She’s a senior at Canton.”

Technically, I was a second-semester junior, thanks to my European excursion. According to student guidelines, this semester was my last chance to declare a permanent major, since we needed to be set by senior year.

Around the table, there were murmurs of approval and greeting.

“I…brought you your files.” I held out the tote bag.

“Great,” he said, still facing his buddies. “You can just put them right here. I don’t have that conference call until later.”

“And did Mom call you?” I tried. “About…dinner?”

He looked at me, and that cold glint was in his hazel eyes. I had eyes the exact same color. So did Tess. “Yes. Yes she did.” He turned back to his cronies. “Excuse me for a few minutes, guys. Hannah needs help with something.” He rose from his seat and put a firm hand on my back as he guided me out of the restaurant. Once we were in the empty hallway, he looked at me.

“Your mother thinks we should have dinner,” he said.

“I know.”

“And you also know that’s not going to happen.”

My chest constricted, and my throat closed up. “I know.”

“So here’s what is going to happen, Hannah. You’re going to stay out here for another few hours. I don’t care what you do or where you go. And then you’re going to go home and tell your mother we had a lovely evening.”

So that’s what this was going to be. I guess it was better than actually sitting across from him for two hours.

“I can’t go home,” I protested. “My car broke down about two miles from here. I had to walk.”

A flicker of concern crossed his features. “Broke down? What’s wrong with it?”

“Flat tires.” Figured. He was concerned for the Beemer. “I drove over some screw or something in the road.”

He sighed, annoyed, and flipped through his phone until he found a number, which he scribbled on the back of one of his business cards. “Here’s the number for a car service I use sometimes. Charge it to the company and get the BMW towed back to Canton.”

“Okay.”

And then my father just walked off and left me standing there. I know I deserved it, after threatening him last year. I know I’d wanted him angry; as angry as I was. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

I plopped on a bench outside the yacht club, in the shade of the awning, and stared at the card in my hand. Fine linen, beautiful ink. Steven Swift in bold, irrefutable strokes, the typography of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and exactly how to get it. Tess and Dylan had told me that he’d forced Tess and her mother to keep quiet about her origins for twenty years. He’d played us all, our whole lives, and the only wrinkle in the system was me.

Once upon a time, I’d been perfect Hannah Swift. I’d had the name, the pedigree, the lessons and the looks and the life they could probably have engraved on silver place settings in advance, it was so obvious where it all was going. My parents were perfect, and the daughter they’d raised would be equally so. Intelligent, but not intimidating. Accomplished, but not ambitious. A respectable high school record, a smash debut, and a degree from Canton in…something, it didn’t really matter, since after that, I was destined to marry a quality man and have his quality children and we’d all look like a big Christmas card family. Sweet. Nice. Perfect.

I’d screwed it up. I’d screwed it up by discovering just how screwed up the Swifts’ perfection really was. Dad wasn’t mad at me for threatening him. He was mad because my knowledge of his double life meant that I’d never be the daughter he’d raised me to be again. How could I be, when I now understood that the whole picture was built on lies?

“Still waiting for the tow truck?”

I looked up. The handyman—Boone— stood on the walk, his magnificent arms crossed over what I knew was an equally magnificent chest.

“I’m going to be here a few hours.” My voice was raspy, like there was something in my throat. Well, other than that pesky lump.

“That so?” He regarded me. “You okay?”

“Aside from being stuck out here? Peachy.” I reached into my purse for my sunglasses. I didn’t like how he was looking at me now. It wasn’t the appreciative stare from the rooftop, but something more.

“Come on,” he said, and he held his hand out to me. “You need to get out of here.”

“I have to wait for the tow truck.”

“Which won’t be coming for a few hours?” he reminded me.

“Yes, but—”

He grabbed my hand and pulled me to my feet. “Good. Then you need to get out of here, and you need a drink.”