I stop at the grocery store once we’re halfway and feel almost giddy. The traffic closer to Windy Harbor picks up. There are a lot more cars around here now that the resort is going full throttle. I look at all the cute restaurants and shops, and I once again feel a little pang that I’m missing out. When I visit, I want to be part of this community. Everyone looks so sweet and so happy, and everything Dylan’s told me about his family and friends just makes me want to experience it all too.
I’m so tired of tiptoeing around my dad.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
EXCURSIONS AND WHATNOT
DYLAN
I move around the house like a burglar at dawn. My keys barely make a sound when I pick them up. I’m getting good at this. Chloe is a champion sleeper, but I’m not risking waking her. I pause at the doorway and look at Dahlia. Her hair is splayed across the pillow, her face soft in sleep. Her hand rests where my chest had been before I slid away.
God, I love her.
I pause and peek in on Chloe, whose head is where her feet were when we put her to bed. Bill is by her side and stares at me sleepily. I grin and back out.
I love that little girl.
I lock the door behind me and head into the cold morning air.
I’ve got a fishing excursion today. Just one guest, which almost never happens. But I can’t exactly turn down—what’s his name? I check the chart. Mr. Ferris.
I get to the dock while it’s still black outside—so early even the loons aren’t awake yet. The boat rocks gentlybeneath my feet as I climb in, still half-asleep but working through muscle memory. Bait, gear, engine check, cooler stocked, safety kit, backup GPS.
I’m checking the rods when I hear footsteps on the dock behind me.
I glance over.
A guy in a hooded jacket steps onto the boat with a stiff nod. He waves once, no enthusiasm, and sits at the bow.
“Morning,” I call quietly. “I’m Dylan. I’ll get us out on the water if you’re ready to go, Mr. Ferris.”
“Sounds good,” he says, voice gravelly.
I finish what I’m doing and start the engine, easing us away from the dock. The boat cuts across the still, glassy water. Sunrise is barely starting to smear color across the horizon when I make my way to the front.
I hold out my hand. “Sorry I didn’t do this sooner. Dylan Whitman—glad to have you on board.”
The man looks up, and then he pushes his hood back.
My entire body goes cold and heavy with dread.
Like the moment before a car crash, when you know you can’t hit the brakes fast enough.
Bruce Granger.
“Good morning, Dylan,” he says with an emotionless expression.
My heart kicks hard once, then steadies into something more controlled.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask quietly.
His jaw clenches.
“I’ve recently discovered you’ve been seeing my daughter,” he says. “Imagine my surprise when I learned it’s been going on for months.”
My stomach tightens. “How’d you find out?”
“Well,” he says, leaning back like this is casual, “mygranddaughter kept talking about you. Chloe’s quite the chatterbox. And then, I got a call from Christian. You know—Chloe’s father.”
