Page 52 of Hearts on the Line

“Uh… thanks?”

She smirks, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Don’t forget to say please and thank you. Be a gentleman.”

There’s a beat of silence that stretches too long, filled with everything we’re not saying.

“I can leave if you need me gone later.”

“Why would you leave?”

“In case you want to bring her back here.”

The words hit me low and hard, a sucker punch.

I don’t answer fast enough. Can’t find my voice around the tightness in my throat, so she dresses quickly, then grabs Wally’s leash.

“Come on, boy. Let’s give the gentleman some space to get ready.”

Michaela turned out to be everything my grandmother promised—a family lawyer from Portsmouth with kind eyes and an easy laugh. She recently bought a condo in the South End, doesn’t like mushrooms or undercooked chicken, and loves her Italian grandmother dearly enough to call her twice a week.

We got along fine over dinner at that new place in Newburyport, the kind of effortless compatibility that should have been promising. She was smart and funny and was interested in hearing about the lobster boat.

But every time she laughed at something I said, I found myself wondering what Sloane was doing. Every time Michaela asked about the restaurant, I caught myself starting stories that all somehow led back to a girl who likes to collect sea glass when she walks the beach.

We finished dinner with polite promises to “do this again sometime” that we both knew were lies, and I spent the drive home taking every wrong turn I could think of, procrastinating.

Chapter 17

Sloane

It’s going to be a long summer if I keep denying to myself that I’m still completely attracted to Ethan and that grumpy mouth of his.

I bring Wally home after a walk on the beach, grab wine, and sink onto the couch. Everything is hot and sticky, the humidity finally settling in for a long stretch in July. When Ethan finally pushes through the door near midnight, I’m still there like a bridge troll, rotting in place, watching Love Is Blind.

I fold my knee up to my chin and hug my leg close. “Hi.”

“Hey.” His voice is gruff as he tosses his keys onto the counter, not looking at me. He heads straight to the fridge, grabs a beer, and takes a long drink before his eyes finally snap to mine.

I swallow back things I want to say, the things I’m afraid to say. Annoyed that there’s a small flutter in my chest at the very sight of him.

So what? He went on a date. What does it matter?

I’m not going to ask, I’m not going to ask, I’m not going to⁠—

“How was your date?” I blurt out.

Shit. So much for not asking.

He runs his hands through his hair, tousling it. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Wow, that good?”

“Was just a favor for Nana.”

A funny thing happens, because as soon as he admits that, I can suddenly take a deep breath.

“It’s wicked fucking hot in here,” he grumbles.

When Ethan’s tired, his Boston accent leaks out. It’s rough and messy, and…