“Are you going to finish your breakfast, Summer?” Two more sausage links roll off Dolly’s red spatula onto my plate before she holds it up with pride. The kitschy café-inspired kitchen is my grandma’s arena. Silicone, metal, and wood cooking utensils are her weapon of choice. If she had her way, like she did having us call her Dolly, I’d be rolling out of here like those links just did.

“I can’t if you keep putting more food on the plate.” Hugging my stomach, I wince at the thought of taking another bite. “I’m so stuffed I can’t eat anymore.” I take one more bite, though, just to make sure. Yeah, I’m done.

“But sausage is your favorite.” I love how she acts so surprised that I can’t eat two pancakes, scrambled eggs, fruit, two links, and then two more.

I’ve been known to be a breakfast-food fanatic, but this is too much. “Even I have my limits, Dolly. Save some for the others.”

“Muffins are coming out of the oven for Fall, bacon is ready for Winter, and biscuits are rising for Spring since we all know she won’t be up for another hour.”

The urgency of my morning whips through my veins, so I stand, tug the hem of my blue dress down to where it’s supposed to hit mid-thigh, and collect my plate. “And she’ll need another hour to get ready.” I transport the links to a napkin to take with me because these won’t go to waste. I’ll eat them later. We’re not part of the clean-plate club around here, but if I finish anything, it’s going to be those.

I move to the sink to rinse my plate.

Wiping her hands on a dish towel, she asks, “Why are you rushing off so early on a Saturday morning anyway? Weekends are for rest, walks of shame, and causing a little chaos. Not work.”

I choke out a laugh, wishing she wouldn’t say things like that when I have an overfull stomach. My grandmother has always staggered through life as an unabashed black sheep, with a reputation that my sisters and I can’t quite determine was rightfully earned or pinned on her by Mountain Laurel Cove’s long history with my family. She’s been raising us in her carefree spirit ways since our parents passed away ten years ago. The town only turned toward us instead of away, accepting us with open arms they didn’t always hold for Dolly.

Give her a little attention and power, and she’s either going to be a total menace or a legend around the Cove. Depends on the day, I suppose.

Sometimes I wonder if she’s disappointed that I turned out so straitlaced. Sure, there was a little fun over the years, but being the oldest of four orphaned girls came with responsibilities I wasn’t prepared for, even if I wasn’t responsible for the bills. So, I haven’t done any walks of shame, but it doesn’t mean I don’t wish I’d had the opportunity. Maybe I didn’t fall so far from my grandmother’s tree after all.

I grin. “I’m happy to have the steady income. After I recommended that Mrs. Dover raise the cottages’ rates last winter—quite significantly, I might add—we haven’t had a shortage of renters. So that paid off.”

“When is she going to let you have those cottages? You’ve been running that business for four years now, increased her profits, and taken care of every renter to come through there. Seems the old coot would be ready to retire.” Mrs. Dover and Dolly never really saw eye to eye, but again, who has with Dolly? She knows everyone’s buttons to push and has jammed them her entire life.

“She’s been retired for years. She just owns those properties to keep money coming in. And I don’t want both. I’m not greedy. I only want the Cove Cottage.”

Her eyes level with mine. “She and that cheating husband of hers made plenty of money in this lifetime. They need to sell you the property next door so you can make some too, especially since you’re the reason those properties are bringing in money anyhow.”

“We shouldn’t speak ill of the—”

“MacKenny Dover died in Mistress Annie’s barn loft. Underneath Annie, I might add.” I try not to cackle at her calling Annie Dumplin, Mistress Annie, but fail, and a giggle escapes. There’s never been a grudge Dolly didn’t hold on to, and Annie did her dirty when they were cheerleaders back in high school. No way am I sticking around for that story again, though. She’ll talk about it until the tides go out tonight if I let her.

“Dragging up ancient history isn’t going to get my name on the titles of those properties. But you know what will?” I glance up through the window in front of me to watch the waves sweep onto the edge of our land and then back to deeper waters again.

“Begging?”

Glancing at Dolly, I smile. “Yes, begging. I’m going to try that since I’ll have more free time and a bonus for renting out Cove Cottage for the summer. I don’t have to check different people in and out every week for the next three months. There will be no new welcome baskets to deliver to guests. I won’t have to deal with all the things that come with managing a hospitality business, other than occasionally checking on them. This is going to be a breeze. I’ll have to find new ways to spend my spare time. One will be the presentation for Mrs. Dover, I know that much. I can put the bonus money down as collateral for my intent to keep the property in the family. The Mountain Laurel Cove Family, that is.” I scrape the food scraps into the trash. “And in the meantime, you’ll get sick of seeing my face.”

“Impossible, honey.” She swoops in to retrieve the plate just as I finish rinsing it and set it in the dishwasher. When she stands back up, her eyes are shining as she takes me with a gentle smile. “You look so much like your mother in the morning light. I can still picture her eating breakfast right where you just did.”

I waffle my head on my neck and laugh. “I look like my dad, and you know it.”

I don’t kid myself anymore. Before I was ten, I was told how much I resembled my mom, but the preteens set me squarely on track to inherit the Season family's traits. Not unattractive by any means, but not as delicate or glowy as our maternal side. Dolly Loving is still beautiful and looks younger than her age. Despite her wild and youthful ways, she always had her choice of suitors. Maybe more so because she never needed a man to make her feel whole. She thrives in her independence. Gotta love that about her.

I can’t say the same. Standing tall on my own is fine and dandy, but it would be nice to have someone help carry the load of the world instead of it all weighing on my shoulders. So I don’t think a companion of the male species would be so bad, would it?

“Your dad was an attractive man, Summer. Your mom fell head over heels the moment she laid eyes on him.”

She’s never been shy about sharing our parents’ love story. We’ve heard it a million times and still hang onto every word, like we cling to our memories of them. I stand next to her at the sink, resting my hip against the counter, and drag the gold butterfly along my mom’s delicate chain wrapped around my neck. Silence comes over her so quickly that I’m worried she’s gotten lost in her own memories of my mother, her only child. With the sponge in one hand and a plate in the other, she looks at me with a fresh glassiness to her eyes and smiles. “Faith and Charlie were a beautiful couple.”

Yes, they were—notably so by anyone who met them.

I move closer to wrap my arm around her. Dolly’s shorter than I am by a few inches these days, but we’re as bonded as we were when I was little. We stare out the window as the wind picks up, causing the water to lap the rocky shoreline at our little part of the cove, and let the feelings feel, as she likes to say. After taking a deep breath that she releases, she adds, “You should be getting on before the morning slips away from ya. You don’t want to keep your gentleman from New York waiting.”

The eye roll comes automatically as I release her and cut through the kitchen. I knew I shouldn’t have shared any details. She has a knack for letting her imagination run away with the smallest of details. “He’s not my gentleman from New York. He’s a guest, a tenant at most, and he’s brought his son with him. So don’t let the ideas I know you’re already concocting hatch into plans.”

“Sounds like he’s single if it’s only him and his son all summer.”

I catch my fingertips on the doorframe to stop and turn back. When I meet her gaze, I level her with a flat look of my own. “I don’t know if he’s single, but he’s here to get away from life, not get caught up in mine. So please, Dolly, don’t make this into something it’s not before I’ve even met him.”

“Can I make it into something once you meet?”

Shaking my head, I want to laugh, but I can’t relent, or she’ll play matchmaker all summer long. “No.” Total menace, but she still makes me grin like an idiot because I wouldn’t have her any other way.

“You act like we get a new selection of men around these parts all the time. A missed opportunity can turn into regret.”

“I’m not going to regret not jumping the man.” I walk out knowing this conversation is heading toward the gutter if I let it. “See you later.”

“You’re twenty-six, sweet girl. Go have the kind of fun that leaves the town gossiping.” Her voice follows me into the front of the house, but I don’t reply. I haven’t been a girl in some time, but the name still fills me with the warmth she’s always given my sisters and me. She wholeheartedly loves us as her own, through the ache she carries inside over the loss of her own daughter and son-in-law.

I return to the kitchen and kiss her on the cheek. “Love you, Dolly.”

“Stop getting sappy on me and take care of your business.”

“On it.” I make my way toward the front room when I hear the creak of that third step that’s never been fixed. My gaze pulls up the staircase.

My sister’s sunset-hued hair bounces around her shoulders as she comes trotting down the stairs. “Do I smell blueberry muffins?”

“Good to know your sense of smell isn’t broken like your sense of time. It’s almost ten, Fall.” She couldn’t have been named more appropriately for a season with her gingery hair color and vibrant green eyes. I may have inherited my dad’s more defined features and oval-shaped face, but she gets her coloring after our dad, the only one of us to have that particular connection to him. And in stark contrast to my blond hair and blue eyes.

“It’s Saturday.” The skirt of her sundress swishes around her legs as her bare feet pad against the wood. “Saturdays are for sleeping in and daydreaming.”

Quirking an eyebrow, I shake my head. “You sound like Dolly.”

Stopping on the landing, she remains two steps up from where I’m standing with a solid grip on the baluster. “There are worse ways to be than marching to your own beat, dearest sister. You should try it.” The wobble of the wood causes her to straighten her spine and release it. “One of us could get hurt. What if this broke on Dolly?”

I start for the front room. “Add it to the never-ending list of things we need to fix in this old Victorian. We need to start tackling one issue at a time. Surely, five women can figure it out.” I prop the bag of mini cookies up in the back of the basket behind the scones, and ask, “Are you going to be around later?” A glance back is shared. “We need to plan for a sister meeting soon. It’s been too long.” Meeting means hang out and catch up. With all of us running in different directions lately, I miss them.

“Want me to schedule a Google meetup?”

“No. We’re not scheduling sister time through an app.”

She laughs. “Time to embrace technology, big sis. It’s the easiest way these days.”

Grabbing hold of the basket, I turn around. “I prefer the shouting down the hall method. It’s been effective thus far.” I laugh. “You’re busier than I am these days. Add me to your calendar when you can fit me in.”

Tucking her hair behind her ear, she says, “I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks. I’m heading to the cottage next door to welcome the new summer guests.”

“If he’s cute, call me.” Her smile is too familiar to all of us. This small town feels even smaller when you know everyone in it, and there’s not a man over eighteen or under sixty in a twenty-mile vicinity who’s the least bit interesting. “And I’ll be right over.”

“If he’s cute, I’m not calling anyone. I may be blond, but I’m no fool.” I walk to the door, unable to stop the girlish giggle from erupting. A girl can only dream he’s as cute as they hope. With the basket balanced on my lifted leg, I scrounge my fingers through the bowl on the entry table for my keys. Taking hold of the hard shell of the enamel bee keychain, I nod toward the door. “Make sure the honey stand is replenished.”

“I always do.” The second-oldest sister opens the door and then leans against it after I walk outside. Turning back, I say, “If I’m not back by four, send help.”

She laughs. “The only help you’re going to need is resisting your own guest.”

“Wait, why would I have trouble resisting—” The door closes before I can interrogate her for more details. Maybe I should have done some online research on him. Has she? What am I walking into? Paying in full for the entire summer six months ago didn’t have me questioning anything. It made me celebrate the profit I’d just made for Mrs. Dover and the bonus I had just earned, so how he looks is the least of my concerns.

Since the basket is too heavy to carry the half mile down the road, I slip it into the trunk of my car and start the short drive to the rental property.

A quick wave to Mr. Taylor mowing his lawn across the street is a Saturday ritual. I catch sight of Mrs. Browley, who lives next to him, weeding her side beds at her house. Slowing the car, I roll down the window. “Your hydrangeas are competition-ready,” I holler through the opening.

She looks up, narrowing her eyes as she swipes the back of her glove across her forehead before she realizes it’s me and smiles. “I’m thinking about entering this year. Blooms this beautiful in June deserve a blue ribbon.”

“They sure do. Have a great day.”

“You too, Summer.”

I cruise on, reaching the dirt driveway of the waterfront property. It’s beautiful, like our large lot next door, but there’s something different here. Maybe it’s the arrangement of the trees as they scatter across the grounds without blocking the view from the house. Or the lack of flowers around. We all love flowers. There’s only a small patch of grass, enough to play around on but not enough to mow. A weed eater does a fine job of keeping it trimmed.

The blue siding and creamy trim complement the rustic backdrop. The wooden front deck my sisters and I built two winters ago extends far enough to accommodate lounge chairs for watching the sun set over the water. Dinner would be divine under the awning of the trees. And when the breeze blows just right, seeing the stars beyond them is a dream. Excitement still bubbles up every time I pull into the driveway. “Heaven.”

My smile comes easy, along with my breath, when I’m here. This is my own little piece of paradise, entrusted to me to take care of and protect.

It’s not a secret that I want this property as my own, but Mrs. Dover isn’t quite ready to make a deal for it yet. I just hope we can reach an agreement before the vultures snap up this land in their venture capitalist greed.

The ache returns when thinking about the threat invading our coastline. I run my tightened grip around the steering wheel, starting to feel desperate to make sure nothing happens to it before I have my chance to save it. I glance at the time on my dashboard like it’s an oven timer about to go off.

Take a breath.

Do your job.

Greet the guests.

A spot of sun beams off a black convertible—parked next to the house with the top down—striking my eyes. I squint, realizing the guests are early. I peek over at the car once more, the custom black-and-white license plate catching my attention this time. HATTRICK. That’s peculiar.

My gaze veers to the sign in front of the car. No Parking. It’s one I hung up several summers ago for the safety of the wood-sided house. Why’d he have to park there? I sigh under the weight of the forthcoming confrontation, but the rules are not meant to be broken.

I cut the engine after parking in one of the allotted, clearly marked spaces in the yard, away from the house. I gather my gumption and slip into my manager lady pants, ready to not only greet the guests but also tackle this issue head-on.

I grab the basket from the trunk and start toward the house. Small sticks crunch under my freshly washed white sneakers. But when my feet stop unwillingly, I just about topple over my toes when I lay eyes on him the first time.

Oh my, my. “Wow.”

 Tan skin like the sun kissed it itself. Sexy, muscular arms with tantalizing prominent veins in thick forearms that branch across the tops of his hands. Those are the kind of hands that only come with people who use them in their daily work.

I didn’t realize I found such details a turn-on until now.

Slick hair wet from the water tempts me to finger through it to loosen the strands . . . wait, what? I blink several times to snap myself out of whatever daze I’ve fallen under and hold my chin up to shake off the ridiculous places my mind wants to take me with him.

He looks back, sunglasses covering his eyes, while nothing hides the rest of his body other than the swimsuit. A touch of hair on his chest leads my eyes lower to the foray of abs on display. Good Lord.

Moving his sunglasses to his head, he sits up from the lounger and sets his feet on the wood decking. Tilting his head and eyeing me, he maintains his neutral expression, maybe a bit curious, from this distance. And from the straight line of his lips, you’d think I was the one intruding. Maybe I am, like a Peeping Tom. Oh God. Embarrassment zips up my spine at the thought, heating my cheeks and making them pinken. But before I can fan myself back to reality or even turn away, he stands, and the basket slips from my hands.

Swim trunks hanging so low around his hips that an old tan line is revealed.

Water trails over biceps built over time, not overnight.

Four. Six. Eight abs so hard and defined that the word perfection isn’t accurate enough to describe them.

The water god comes toward me just as I drop my bare knees into the dirt, needing any excuse not to stare—and this basket is a darn good one. I’m not even sure he’s real, much less human. Where would someone like him have come from?

My hand stills on a jar of my sister’s honey when it dawns on me. New York City.

Bending down in front of me, he hands me the baggie of Dolly’s homemade scones that escaped during the incident. When I dare to peek at him, I’m met with brown eyes that hold both tetchiness and compassion so equally, I’m not sure how to react. So I don’t. I just stare instead, gobsmacked that a man who looks like this exists in real life, much less on my big deck. I’m fairly certain my mouth is hanging wide open, but that’s not confirmed until he lifts my jaw off the ground and smirks.

“You must be Summer.”

Oh my, my indeed.