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Chapter One

Wayne struck a matchover the cinnamon candle and watched as the flame flickered, growing strong as it swallowed up the thick black stem. He glanced again at the far mirror, at the button-up shirt he’d stupidly donned and the dark jeans and the hair he had tried to handle with a little bit of gel.

It had been a long time since he cared what a woman thought of what he looked like.

Always so handsome,or so the world had always said about him. He’d never necessarilyfeltthat way about himself. He had never had to. He’d had love, and then he had lost it. That had nothing at all to do with his looks or lack thereof.

It was six-thirty, which meant that Elise would arrive in a half-hour’s time. Truthfully, since Elise had moved into the Bloomingfeld Bed and Breakfast and “given Wayne his house back,” the house had felt empty all over again. It had been that way in the year after his wife’s death—something to be expected. Something missing—but slowly, Wayne had gotten used to it, “marking his territory,” making it his own or at least something he could stand after such a horrible reality.

It had only taken a little, slight, brief romance with someone special to remind him just how alone he really was in the world.

The timer blared on the stovetop. He turned quickly to slip his hand into the oven mitt, yank open the door, and remove the admittedly glorious-looking butter chicken. He waved the oven mitt over the top, through the steam, and beamed at what he had created.

I still got it.

His wife had never been particularly domestic. He’d teased her about it, laughing as she’d burnt the toast, delivered him runny eggs, somehow getting worse, year after year, at mixing a cocktail. Wayne had decided a long time ago to take this as a challenge. Cooking? He mastered it. And he and his wife had reaped the rewards of that.

Of course, it had been a long time since he had cooked for anyone new, as well.

He’d told himself to get over this one.

When he had first seen Elise Darby on the ferry over to the island (after he’d had to meet up with his wife’s mother, a really traumatic lunch meeting that had left him stripped down and nostalgic), he had thought—A beautiful woman, alone in the world. I wonder what went wrong to bring her here?

At this, he had demanded of himself why he’d thought anything had gone wrong with her. Obviously, people chose to be alone all the time. Some people preferred it.

Wayne had felt true love, had had constant companionship, had found his soulmate and then she had been taken away. He guessed that was why he felt those who were alone hadn’t planned it. Maybe they’d just never known what true love was and didn’t know they were meant to keep looking for it.

Not that everyone had unlimited energy to keep looking.

Elise had found a way to step back into his life. She had appeared at The Grind with a bleeding leg and large, eager eyes. Wayne could have bantered with her for hours. With a quick joke, he could make her dizzy with laughter.

It was like he had cast a spell over her.

And she had over him, as well.

When she was around, he didn’t dwell on the past in the same way.

He felt hope or something kind of like it.

Wayne hustled to set the table as the chicken cooled a bit. He added garlic bread to the oven and grabbed an aged bottle of wine from the bottom of the cabinet. He second-guessed the way he had set the oven, then readjusted.

He felt like a teenager, preparing for his first date.

Fifteen minutes before seven, he leaned against the counter, yanked the cork out of the bottle of wine, and poured himself a glass.Let it breathe;he heard a voice in the back of his head remind him. He didn’t have time. He wanted to escape these rapid, whirlwind thoughts that raced through his mind.

Elise Darby. Why did he have to like this woman so much? She had brought with her chaos and nothing but trouble.

“If I had another daughter for you, Wayne...”

Dean had actually said those words to him two years before when Wayne and Dean had bonded after the death of Dean’s wife. Two widowers, out on the sailboat, living their single days beneath the sun.

Why hadn’t Dean ever mentioned his affair with Allison Darby?

Had he forced himself to forget?

Elise, I don’t want to be forward, but I haven’t felt this way about anyone in years.

My wife died three years ago.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
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