Page 36 of The Story Between Us

“I mean—well, from that summer. He always went out on the water at dawn.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“It’s not—I don’t⁠—”

“You’re staring, dear.”

Across the lake, Nate had slid into his kayak and paddled out onto the water with the sleek movements of a man who knew how to handle himself.

“He does have magnificent shoulders,” Aunt Lila said quietly.

Livvie glanced back at Aunt Lila. And then laughed. “I see what’s going on here.”

“What? I canoe every morning. The scenery is breathtaking.” Her aunt winked.

Nate’s kayak disappeared around the point, swallowed by the mist. Livvie let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Yes, it is.”

By the time they returned and Livvie had changed clothes, grabbed her supplies, and made the short walk to the Rivers’ house, the morning had warmed enough to burn off the mist. The lake glittered through the trees, and the white bakery bag from Maple Sweets swung from her hand as she climbed the porch steps.

She tried the door. Open, and Huck and Finn materialized instantly, tails wagging, noses bumping against her hands. She crouched to greet them, arms wide, and they nearly knocked her over with their welcome.

“Hey, guys. Miss me? It’s been twelve whole hours. I know, I know, basically an eternity⁠—”

“You’re talking to my dogs.”

She looked up.

Nate stood in the kitchen doorway, coffee mug in hand, one eyebrow raised. Jeans worn soft at the knees. A flannel shirt over a gray T-shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair still hung damp from the lake, curling slightly at his temples.

Her mouth went dry.

Stop.

“I’m building rapport,” she said, straightening. “Dogs are excellent judges of character. If they like me, you should trust their instincts.”

“They like everyone. They liked the UPS guy so much he had to file a complaint.”

“Details.” She held up the bakery bag. “I brought reinforcements. Edie’s cinnamon rolls. But—” She pulled the bag back as he reached for it. “There’s a condition.”

“Of course there is.”

“You go to your office. You write something. Words on a page, that’s all I ask. And when you emerge with proof of productivity, you get pastry.”

He stared at her. “You’re bribing me with baked goods.”

“I’m incentivizing you with baked goods. There’s a difference.”

“There really isn’t.”

“Is it working?”

A pause. His jaw worked like he fought something—annoyance, maybe, or the ghost of amusement trying to surface through three years of grief.

“Fine,” he said finally. “But if I write something and it’s terrible, you don’t get to complain.”

“I would never.”

“You would absolutely.”