Margot stepped in and stopped.
The dock shed had changed.
Not much. Evan did not change things dramatically. The tools still hung on the pegboard. The camp stove still sat on the workbench. The tide chart was still taped to the wall beside a calendar that was finally on the correct month.
But there was a second hook by the door.
Her rain jacket hung there.
Below it sat a pair of boots in her size. Not new. Practical. Navy rubber, with the price tag still tucked inside one boot because Evan could install a bilge pump blindfolded but apparently could not remove evidence of shopping.
On the shelf above the camp stove were two mugs.
His old chipped one.
And a second mug, white with blue lettering.
MARGOT’S.
She stared at it.
Evan came in behind her and shut the door.
“I can take it back if it’s too much.”
She turned. “You bought me a mug.”
“Technically, Jolene bought it. I asked where a person could get a mug with a name on it. She said the gift shop. Then she said if I came back with one that said Beach Babe, she would throw me off Dock Two.”
“Sound advice.”
“I thought so.”
She looked at the mug again. Her name sat there in blue letters, ordinary and impossible.
She had her own key to his apartment. Her office lease was signed. Her boxes were upstairs over Front Street. Her mail had started arriving with Harbor’s Hope printed beneath her name.
This was the thing that undid her. A mug on a shelf.
He shifted his weight. “I know you have your place. And the office. I’m not trying to crowd you.”
“I know.”
“I just thought, mornings get early around here. And you keep leaving coffee in paper cups on my workbench.”
“One time.”
“Four times.”
“I was under deadline.”
“You’re always under deadline.”
She looked at him. “That sounded dangerously close to criticism.”
“It was observation.”
“You hide a lot behind that word.”
