It takes me fifteen minutes to get myself under control. Another five for us get back on the road. Ten minutes later, I know where we’re going.

Cape Cod.

“So, I should probably tell you something,” Declan says, flicking a quick look in my direction. He looks nervous. Like he isn’t sure how to say what comes next. “Uh, how much has Con told you about us. Our family, I mean?”

Not what I expected.

I turn in my seat to watch the boardwalk roll past us. Tourist shops and restaurants. “Nothing,” I say, growing more confused by the second. We pass the parking lot for the public beach. Even though it’s a Tuesday, it’s packed. Moms herding kids across hot pavement. Dads carrying coolers packed with ice. Umbrellas and beach bags.

“Okay.” He stares out the windshield, taking us farther down the shore, past economy vacation rentals and boat repair shops. “So, there’s money.”

“Money?” I look out the window. Watch the roads widen. The homes get bigger. The trees get older. Gardeners trimming bushes. Nannies supervising children. Maids carrying in groceries.

“Yeah.” He bobs his head. “Family money. A lot of it.” He says it like he’s telling me his parents belong to a bowling league or that they prefer brand-name laundry detergent. “We don’t live off it. Don’t even really talk about it.” He executes several turns and stops like he knows exactly where he’s going. Finally he pulls onto a private drive flanked by low stone walls on either side. There’s a plaque set into the wall closest to me. No address but there’s a name.

The trees on either side of the drive are tall, their branches reaching up and over, perfectly trimmed to create a canopy that shades the road. “The only reason I’m mentioning it now is because I’m trying to get a head start on trying to explain what we’re doing here.”

I’m about to ask him what we are doing here but then the house comes into view and I forget what I was going to say. Thick stone walls. A steeply pitched roof. A bright white spire reaching upward, cutting through the bright blue sky. “It looks like a church,” I say, face press against the glass like an awestruck four-year-old.

“It was.” Declan rolls to a stop and slips the engine into park. “Every Gilroy for three generations have been married here.” He kills the engine and pulls the key from the ignition before aiming his gaze through the windshield. “There was a fire in 1986 and the place was condemned.” He sounds like he’s giving me a history lesson “My grandpa couldn’t stand the thought of it being torn down so he bought the place. Had it restored and converted into a house.”

“So, this is your family’s house?” I say, because despite the plaque and the history lesson, I need clarification.

“No.” Now he looks at me. “It’s mine.” When I don’t say anything he elaborates. “My grandfather left it to me when he died a few years ago.”

“This is your house?”

He reaches across the truck and opens the glovebox. Pulls out a thick white envelope and hands it to me. “Open it.”

“What is it?”

“It’s the deed to the house.”

I try to hand it back. “I don’t need to see—”

“I want you to.” He frowns at me. Seems frustrated. “I don’t want you to worry that we’re not supposed to be here or someone is going to come home and call the cops.”

He anticipated that I’d have reservations.

That his criminal activity would make it hard for me to believe his story.

He knows I don’t trust him. Not completely and he’s not defensive about it. He’s not angry. He’s trying to put me at ease. Prove himself.

“I believe you, Declan.” I put the envelope on the seat between us. “I don’t need to look at this.” Before he has a chance to argue with me, I open my door and hop out before giving him an exasperated sigh. “Now, are you going to take me inside or did we drive all this way to sit in the driveway?” Closing my door, I circle the front of the truck. I can feel him looking at me. Watching me. Finally he follows suit, scooping Shad off his lap before climbing out of the cab and slamming his own door closed. Tucking the cat into the crook of his elbow, Declan reaches into to the back of the truck and pulls out a bag.

My bag.

“I might have liberated a few necessities from your room this morning, while you and your dad were downstairs,” he says with a sheepish grin. When I reach for my bag he hands me the cat and a set of keys instead. “The security code is 12533.”

I take Shad up the walk and use the key he gave me. Key in the code to silence the alarm. And then stand in the doorway and stare. Old stone floors, worn smooth from centuries of use, stretch across an open floor plan. Kitchen, dining room and great room all flowing together. Beyond the dining room is a hallway leading toward what I assume are bedrooms. Directly to the left of the hallway is a curved staircase leading to what looks like a loft space. It’s open and spacious. No stuffy antiques or priceless artwork but there’s a casual elegance about the place that makes me feel ridiculously inadequate.

But the time I have the house open, Declan is right behind me with my bag, plus several others. “Are we moving in?” I say jokingly, looking at the load he’s carrying.

He stops in the doorway to stand over me, dark blue eyes aimed down at mine. “Do you want to?”

Because he sounds dead serious and because the thought of it threatens to send me into cardiac arrest, I laugh. “Sure,” I say, looking up at him. “Why not.”

“Say when,” he says, still looking like he means it. Before I can ask him if he does, he walks past me, into the kitchen. “Do you want to take a shower?”

“With you?” I say it just so I can watch his eyes go dark. His jaw go tight.

He sets a bag down on the kitchen counter and pulls Shad out of my arms. “Bathroom’s upstairs. I’ll bring you your bag.”

Despite the open invitation, I shower alone, spending the next thirty minutes scrubbing and washing in a shower big enough to play field hockey in. I wrap myself in the huge towel hanging on the hook next to the shower. When I step out of the bathroom and into what turned out to be the master suite, my beat-up bag is sitting on the bed.

Digging through it I find the same tanks and jeans I’ve worn a thousand times.

And a sundress.

It’s mine.

I put it on.

It’s been shoved in the back of my closet for years.

Coming down the stairs I can see Declan moving around the kitchen. “How do you feel about lobster?” he calls out when he hears me.

“I’m pro-lobster as long as there’s an indecent amount of butter involved.”

He laughs. “I didn’t know there was another way to…” When he catches sight of me, he stops talking. “I…” He clears his throat and starts over. “I found it in your closet.”

I look down at the dress I’m wearing.

White eyelet with buttons down the front of it.

I don’t want to tell him that my mother bought it for me because the fact that a dress I’ve had since I was fourteen still fits me is kind of embarrassing but also because I don’t intend to spend the day crying about my mother. I don’t intend spending it eating lobster either.

Intend to spend it in bed with Declan.