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For the next hour, I barely stop moving. I take orders, clear tables and learn which customers will talk for ten minutes if I give them the opportunity. A man named Jerry—not my Jerry—tries to convince me that Maine winters “build character,” while Bill quietly mouths don’t encourage him from behind the bar.

A woman named Mary corners me between orders and asks for my entire life story. Before I can work out how to escape, she casually mentions the exact cottage I’ve moved into.

Apparently, nothing goes unnoticed in Hartwell.

By the time I return with another round for a table near the window, I’ve stopped checking with Georgie before doing everything. My feet remember the path between the tables, and my hands begin finding bottles behind the bar without needing to search.

It feels good.

Familiar, even.

* * *

As soon as I walk through the front door, I lock it behind me.

Then I begin my usual routine.

Bedroom. Empty.

Sitting room. Empty.

Closets. Empty.

The back door is still locked exactly the way I left it.

Only once I’ve checked every room do I let myself breathe properly.

I’m absolutely wrecked. Between moving yesterday, unpacking the entire cottage and surviving my first shift tonight, my body feels like it could collapse on the spot.

Tea. Bath. Bed.

That’s the plan.

While the kettle boils, I find myself thinking about Dean.

Again.

His eyes. His voice. The way one side of his mouth lifted when I made a joke. Even the way he said my name has somehow lodged itself inside my brain.

He seems guarded. Like every word is carefully considered before he lets anyone hear it.

Not that I know anything about him.

He drinks pale ale, has a daughter and rescued me from Hartwell’s resident interrogator. That’s hardly enough information to start analyzing the man.

He’s also ridiculously attractive.

Unfortunately, that piece of information feels very relevant.

I groan at myself and carry my tea toward the bathroom.

“Get a grip, Blair.”

An hour later, I climb beneath the covers with damp hair and aching feet. The cottage is silent around me apart from the leaves brushing against the bedroom window and the faint sound of the ocean in the distance.

The quiet still makes me feel exposed.

Mary knowing my name, my job and where I live hasn’t exactly helped with that.