so she could finish the quilt with her sisters and mend her family.
Gia crept from the bed, got dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, slipped out the front door, and scurried in the dewy grass toward the bungalow. She worried about waking Mike, but she needed to get ahead of this. Plus, she wanted it finished in time for the eight A.M. ICU visiting hours.
Gingerly, she stepped over the small stone wall separating the inn from Mike’s house. His four-door pickup truck was parked out front.
At the door, she paused with her fist held aloft, ready to knock.
Hesitated.
What if he got mad at her? Mike had never gotten angry with her and the thought sent a shiver down her spine. Uncertain, she turned to leave. Maybe it was for the best that she come clean to her sisters.
Flying pigs. Without even starting work on the quilt? What about Grammy’s letter?
Okay, okay, okay. She could do this. Gia smoothed down the hem of her shirt that had hiked up on her belly when she’d raised her hand to knock.
The door opened.
“Hey, Short Stack, why are you hanging around my porch?”
“I . . . I . . .”
Mike grinned as if overjoyed to see her and he motioned her inside. “Come on in.”
Heart thumping quick, Gia followed him.
He wore faded blue jeans and a red T-shirt that said MOONGLOW DRAGONS, the name of their high school football team he’d once quarterbacked. He was barefoot, and his damp hair was combed back off his forehead as if he’d just gotten out of the shower. With his dark complexion, dark hair, and surprisingly out-of-context Scandinavian blue eyes, he looked like a movie star who’d taken on the role of a carpenter, liked it so much that he’d thrown over acting for his hobby. Harrison Ford in reverse. He smelled of sandalwood soap and basil-scented shampoo. Gia just wanted to take a big deep breath and sniff him.
“Are you hungry? I was about to cook eggs.”
“Sure.” She shrugged.
He seemed to want to feed her and since her breakfast was usually a protein bar, or an apple, why not? Although she wasn’t sure she could eat after she told him the shenanigans she’d involved him in.
“Scrambled?”
“That’s fine.”
“I could make an omelet.”
“Don’t go to any trouble for me.”
“Why not? You’re always doing things for other people. I still remember when you made me chicken soup because I had the flu.”
“You were all by yourself,” she said. “Your parents had just moved, and your sister and her family were out of town. You were so miserable. I felt sorry for you.”
“Ahh, pity soup.” He winked. “Nothing tastes quite like it.”
That wink unraveled her in a bizarre way. Why? “I owed you. You looked out for me plenty of times. Remember that guy who got handsy with me at that Labor Day beach party a few years ago? You knocked him flat on his ass.”
“No one messes with one of the Moonglow sisters when I’m around.” He went to the fridge. “Just made a pot of coffee,” he called over his shoulder. “Help yourself.”
She poured a cup of coffee and perched on a barstool, watching as he assembled the ingredients for an omelet on the kitchen counter.
“How’s your grandmother?” Adeptly, he cracked the eggs and whisked them in a bowl.
“I don’t know. They sent us home last night and told us to come back this morning at visiting hours.”
“I’m sorry for what you’re going through.” His eyes met hers, latching on to her gaze for a beat too long, then he shifted his attention back to his work, and melted a pat of butter in an omelet pan.
Heat simmered in her belly, but she had no rational excuse for it. “Thanks.”
“What was happening with you three on the beach yesterday?”
Gia took a long sip of coffee and avoided meeting his eyes again. “You saw that spectacle?”
“I was varnishing a table on the back porch.”
Gia ducked her head. This was it. Her opening.
“Wanna tell me why Maddie was pouring lighter fluid on a quilt and trying to barbecue it?”
She explained.
Mike winced. “Ouch, that puts you in a tough spot.”
“Exactly.”
“Knowing you, Short Stack, you tried to make peace.”
“Guilty as charged.” She raised her hand halfway.
“Did you convince them?”
“Um, yes, but—”
“I had no doubt.” He chuckled. “Trust you to negotiate a truce. You might have missed your calling. You should have been a diplomat.”
“Don’t do that,” she whispered.
“Do what?” He cocked his head and watched her as he flipped the omelet.
“Don’t praise