Chapter One

Sam

The firelight catches in Henry’s beard, silver and salt against sun-warmed tan. He stands close to the grill, beer in one hand, jaw tight with focus as he flips the turkey thighs before checking the internal temps like he’s expecting the CDC to show up uninvited. I love him like that. The man is quiet, thorough, and slightly grumpy. His hands move with slow certainty, the same way they do when he works knots out of my shoulders or tugs me deeper into bed.

I lean against the porch rail, sip my ale, and watch the last flickers of daylight stretch long across the backyard. The fairy lights have already kicked in, their soft gold strung like lazy garlands through the apple trees. The air smells like smoke and roast turkey, cider and cinnamon, melting butter and something sweet from Callum’s secret-recipe stuffing. Half the town is already full and tipsy, but no one is going anywhere.

When we party in Northwick Cove, we party.

Becca organized this whole thing as some kind of elopement-afterparty-Thanksgiving-mega-feast hybrid. Sheila is glowing in a green silk dress, surrounded by her husbands with a drink in hand and a smile that’s wide enough to expand the Maine state borders. The girl is radiant and happy, and so are her three men.

Savannah lounges on the porch steps with her two, bantering quietly, her cheeks flushed and eyes a touch glassy.

The porch rail digs into my forearms, but I don’t move. I like the vantage point. The fairy lights strung through the apple trees make everyone glow with soft edges, warm laughter, and too much wine and beer. It’s one of those nights Northwick Cove does right. There’s plenty of food, a good fire, and enough gossip to keep things interesting.

The past year has been a stormy affair, with first Savannah arriving then Sheila with her mom, but now things have quieted down, like we’re bracing for another cold winter. Everything feels settled and easy.

Beside me, Elliot nurses a spiked cider while watching Diane laugh with Jack and Mason across the yard. All three are tangled together on a bench seat, like the world doesn’t exist beyond that patch of light and flannel.

“Looks like it worked out for you guys.” I tilt my glass in their direction.

Elliot gives a soft snort. “Once we stopped competing to win her and figured out she didn’t want one, but all of us, it stopped being a damn contest.”

I nod, watching Diane toss her head back in a laugh as Jack presses a kiss to her temple. Mason buries his face in her neck.

“That’s the thing about women like her,” Elliot adds. “They don’t want to be fought over. They want men who know how to share.”

That earns him a grin from me. “Well, we’ve got that down pat.”

“Yeah.” His gaze slides toward the grill, where Henry stands like some bearded food monk, eyes on the meat like it might talk back. “You two never competed. Always moved together.”

“Yeah well.” I rub the back of my neck. “We’ve been together for years. We’ve had practice.”

Elliot clinks his glass against mine and murmurs, “Then all you need is the right woman to slide into the middle.”

I laugh, but it sticks in my throat.

That’s what we’re missing. Not only a warm body or a willing partner. We’ve built a home together, filling it with quiet and comfort, with the kind of steadiness most people don’t get in one lifetime, let alone share with another man. We don’t need a spark; we need kindling—a woman who can fit without rearranging the furniture of our lives. Who can meet Henry’s grumpiness and my chaos and not get lost in either.

Movement around the corner where Becca reappears catches my attention. But it’s more than only her movement but her entire demeanor. Her cheeks are pink, and her smile is strained. Her entire posture screams unease, and I straighten, ready to barge in to help. She pauses by the cider station, scanning the crowd like she isn’t sure whether to pull a fire alarm or continue with the party.

Elliot nudges me with his elbow. “You see that?”

I hum and cock my head. “That’s the face of a woman about to ruin somebody’s evening.”

“Or make it interesting.”

“Same thing.”

Becca makes a beeline for Savannah, whispering something low. Savannah straightens. Her posture shifts as she turns, not quite defensive, not exactly, but wary. Like someone who knows what is coming and isn’t looking forward to it.

Elliot leans forward. “You think…?”

“Probably.”

Then I see her.

She steps out from behind Becca like she’s been conjured by a particularly aggressive prayer. Suitcase in one hand, the other braced on her hip, surveying the yard like a queen sent to audit her fiefdom. Not judging, exactly, but… cataloging.

I squint, trying to place her.

Her hair is pinned back like she gives a damn, but not enough of a damn to spend an hour on it. Jeans hug her hips like they’ve been stitched with reverence. And that face. I swallow.

Holy hell.

Sharp cheekbones, full mouth, and a set to her jaw that screams, “Don’t even try me.”

Henry’s type.

And mine.

Becca speaks to Savannah, then steps aside. The woman doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t falter. Just marches right up and…

Well. Hugs her. Briefly. Politely. The kind of hug that says, “I love you but I’m still annoyed.”

I lean slightly toward Elliot. “You think that’s her mom?”

He makes a low sound of agreement. “There is a strong resemblance.”

Elliot’s right. Even in the dim light, I see it: the cut of her jaw, the stubborn line of her mouth, the quiet challenge in the way she holds herself. Definitely related, but while Savannah’s confidence is all metal, power, and grease-stained purpose, this woman carries herself with the kind of effortless command that turns heads without asking permission.

The kind of woman who’s already seen the worst of men and doesn’t scare easily.

Henry’s still at the grill but has gone perfectly still, one hand hovering over the tongs. Yeah. He sees it, too.

She doesn’t belong, not yet. Her gaze sweeps the scene with crisp efficiency, cataloguing it all like she’s filing a report: Why My Daughter Should Leave This Town Immediately.

She’s stunning. Not soft and fluttery like Becca. Not brash and blinding like Sheila. This one has teeth. And a spine.

And she’s mad. The emotion isn’t overt. There’s not a tantrum in sight, but it’s there in the clench of her jaw, in the tight way her eyes narrow when she clocks Todd’s hand on Savannah’s hip.

Her gaze sweeps the porch and lands on me.

Once.

Then again.

The second time, she lingers. Not long enough for me to flash her a smile but long enough for something low in my gut to wake.

Elliot speaks beside me. “You good?”

“We’re about to have ourselves a very interesting Thanksgiving.”

He grunts. “God, I hope so.”

From the other side of the yard, Sheila stands to give a toast, her borrowed green dress shimmering under the porch lights. Finn and Grady flank her, Callum behind with his arms loosely around her waist. Her voice trembles at first, but by the end, she’s radiant. Talking about roots. About home. About not expecting to find love in a place like this and finding more than she’d ever thought possible.

The whole gathering cheers.

I glance back toward the new arrival. She hasn’t cheered. She hasn’t clapped. But her eyes have softened, a smidgen. She looks at Savannah again. At the life she’s built. At the men standing beside her.

And maybe she doesn’t hate what she sees.

But it’s early.

And I like a challenge.

***

Henry

The firelight catches in dark chestnut hair with lighter threads woven in, like smoke curling through mahogany. She stands next to Becca, scanning the yard like she’s trying to memorize every soul in it long enough to pass final judgment.

Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t shrink, either.

And even from across the lawn, I can see the resemblance to Savannah.

Hell. That’s gotta be her mother.

Somewhere in her fifties or sixties, the woman is slightly curvier than her daughter. She’s… lusher. Built like a woman, not a girl. Those hips could start arguments. Or end them. I turn back to the grill before I burn the damn turkey.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Sam still leaning against the porch rail, his drink forgotten, staring at the woman.

Good. I’m not the only one.

I flip the last thigh, then check the internal temp. Almost perfect. Doesn’t need my attention. But it gives me something to do while I watch her from the periphery.

Sam and I have been a pair going on thirty-some years now. We’ve built a life here. Him with his books and his smart mouth, me with the store and my quiet. But we’ve always wanted more. Not instead of each other but alongside. A woman we can care for. Who can hold her own with both of us. We’ve tried. Mel had too much on her plate. Becca, sweet as she is, never quite sparked. And most of the others were too young, too green. Or they’d come through like summer storms. Too loud when they arrive, full of chaos for their brief stay, and then gone.

We don’t need chaos.

We need roots.

The kind of woman who doesn’t scare easily. Who doesn’t flinch from hard truths or rough hands. Someone solid. Strong. Who can meet Sam’s teasing with a smirk and my silence with a hand on my shoulder that says, “I see you.”

Across the yard, the newcomer turns enough for the firelight to catch her again. Her mouth twitches like she’s holding back a sigh, a snort, or something else that doesn’t belong in polite company.

Sam looks my way.

I jerk my chin toward her.

He grins, like the bastard knows exactly what I’m thinking. And, yeah, he probably does. In that second, I see the younger version of him, the one who cornered me outside the school library and asked if I wanted to date. Same cocky tilt to his mouth. Same gleam in his eyes.

And then, with that easy confidence of his, he pushes off the railing and saunters across the yard, heading straight for her.

I exhale through my nose, let the grill smoke wash over me.

I’m already wondering how long she plans to stay.

And how long it will take to make her want to.

Chapter Two

Judith

When I step out of the cab, I instantly regret not owning a thicker coat. The wind bites straight through my flimsy jacket, slipping between buttons like icy fingers, and I wince as my Florida flats crunch on gravel that is certainly not meant for thin soles. The driver barely mutters a goodbye before driving off, and I’m left holding my suitcase in front of the quaint, white-trimmed, and utterly deserted B&B.

I climb the porch steps, hoping to find someone inside with a key, a room, and hopefully a space heater. Instead, taped to the door is a handwritten note:

“Celebrating at 23 Alder Way just behind the garage. Follow Main Street toward the sea. Come join us!—Diane, Jack, Elliot & Mason”

I read it twice, hoping I’ve misunderstood, but no. I’ve flown nearly fifteen hundred miles, endured a cramped puddle-jumper to Bangor, then bounced my way through backroads in a cab that smells like old fries and wet dog, only to be rerouted to a party.

A party.

Typical.

I stare at the sign a moment longer, weighing my options. Leaving my suitcase on the porch feels risky, but dragging it through a party seemed worse. Still, I don’t know a soul in this town. I prefer to be safe rather than sorry.

Grumbling under my breath, I tug the suitcase back down the steps, the little wheels rattling in protest against the uneven porch boards and packed gravel path. A damp chill hangs in the air, seeping through the seams of my jacket as I turn left, heading toward distant voices and thumping music.

A headache is pulsing behind my skull. I already hate this place with a passion.

Main Street is quaint in that deliberately nostalgic way, boasting old-timey lamp posts, tidy shopfronts with bay windows, and hand-painted signs. In summer, it might be picturesque. Right now, in November, it just feels cold. My breath comes out in puffs, and my flats keep slipping against the frost-dusted stones.

The garage comes into view a few minutes later, a wide, low building with a bold sign that reads “MacAllister’s.” Fluorescent lights glow behind tall bay windows, and I glimpse toolboxes, stacked tires, and the metallic gleam of a lift. At least the place exists. Maybe Savannah really is working here after all.

The gravel shifts beneath my feet as I veer off Main Street and follow the narrow path that curves behind the building. It’s darker back here, shielded from the town’s warm storefront glow. I keep going, tugging my suitcase over patches of fallen leaves and scattered pine needles until another two-story house with a wraparound porch comes into view.

Lights are strung under the eaves and across the trees in the yard. Laughter and music spill out from somewhere behind it. Soft guitar chords accompany the kind of voices that blend like a well-practiced harmony. A crowd mills around what looks like a bonfire, and a dozen folding chairs dot the yard, most of them filled.

This must be the place.

I square my shoulders, adjust my grip on the suitcase handle, and force my feet forward. Time to find my daughter.

Through the window, I catch the flash of a woman’s face. She smiles like we know each other. She waves at me before disappearing, and seconds later, I hear the rapid thump of feet on hardwood and the front door swings open. “Hi there!”

The woman in the doorway beams like I’m a long-lost friend, not a half-frozen stranger with suitcase wheels jammed with gravel. Her shoulder-length blond curls bounce with her movement, and her smile could light half of Maine. “How can I help you?”

“I’m Judith Walker,” I say, clutching the suitcase handle like it might shield me from the absurdity of this moment. “I’m here to pick up Savannah.”

Like she is twelve, and I’ve shown up late to a sleepover.

The woman’s smile freezes, mouth parting just slightly. Her eyes widen. Under the porch light, I catch the pale blue of her surprisingly expressive gaze. For a second, I think she might close the door in my face.

Instead, she nods briskly and steps aside. “Right. Yes, she’s here. Follow me.”

We haven’t even made it around the house before the smell of roast meat, apples, sugar, and something unmistakably smoky hits me—the kind of smell that lingers in clothes and hair for days, that people call “homey” with stars in their eyes.

I hate parties. Too many people, too much noise. Gerald used to drag me to those awful backyard barbecues with his law firm friends, where everyone laughed too loud, drank too much, and said nothing of value. I never fit in there either.

I’d hoped this visit would be different.

The porch is lit up with fairy lights strung in lazy arcs, casting everything in a buttery glow that only makes the contrast sharper. I’m dressed for traveling in plain jeans, travel-wrinkled sweater, and a windbreaker from the outlet mall. My sensible shoes are scuffed from the airport. Everyone else is dressed like this is a damn Hallmark movie. Dresses, flannel, boots, and not a single shiver among them.

Don’t they feel the cold?

I shift my grip on the suitcase and scan the crowd for Savannah.

Too many voices. Too much movement. Too many people with flushed cheeks and open laughter, like this is some sort of family reunion-meets-Bonnie and Clyde potluck. Those fairy lights are rigged through the trees and looped over the porch railings like it is a goddamn wedding.

I hate holidays and loud parties. Always have. The noise, the forced cheer, the overeating and meaningless small talk. Gerald loved this shit, and he’d be half-drunk and half-naked at every neighborhood party from Labor Day to Flag Day. I was the one faking a smile and sneaking off to wash dishes simply to get a minute alone.

And now, here I am. Smack in the middle of someone else’s party with a suitcase in one hand and every nerve ending vibrating like I’ve swallowed one espresso shot after another followed by a live wire.

Savannah’s on one of the picnic tables near a bonfire.

She stands slowly, mug in hand, a flush on her cheeks that doesn’t look like rage, resentment or a hangover. Her hair is longer than I remember. She looks… good. Healthy. Clear-eyed. Like someone who sleeps through the night and eats proper meals. The tightness in my chest eases, a little. The part of me that has been wound up for months, waiting for a missed call or a hospital bill, loosens by a fraction. Her posture is open. Relaxed. She looks… happy.

Her lips curve in a soft smile as she leans into the tall man beside her. Another one sits behind her on the backrest with one arm draped casually over her shoulders.

The woman who greeted me at the door takes a step closer to my daughter. “Savannah.” She hesitates. “You have a visitor.”

Savannah’s gaze lands on me, and she folds her arms like armor. Doesn’t speak. Merely watches me with the wariness of a stray cat deciding whether to bolt.

So, I do what any mother would do. I hug her. Brief and awkward, but real. My hand brushes the side of her mug, and I catch the scent of mulled cider, and is that rum?

I narrow my eyes at the glass as I pull back. “How much of that have you had?”

She mutters about it being just cider, but her grip tightens, and she glances sideways. It’s a guilty tell she hasn’t grown out of.

My gaze drifts from the mug to her face. Gone are the dark circles and drawn mouth from those final months in Miami. She doesn’t have that hunched, brittle edge anymore—the one that made me worry she was breaking inside without telling me.

I should feel relief.

But suddenly and overwhelmingly, I feel out of place.

I scan the yard, and my attention snags on a darker-haired woman about my age—maybe a bit younger—curled up on a bench with two men at her sides, one rubbing her knee, the other whispering something that makes her tilt her head back and snort with laughter.

What in god’s name…?

Across the lawn, a redhead in a green dress sits at a long table with three men practically orbiting her. One stands behind her, the other two flank either side. The one on the left is feeding her a spoonful of something that makes her laugh out loud—the kind of laugh that doesn’t come from politeness. No, that one comes from deep in the belly. From being loved. The men surrounding her look like they’ve been split from the same rugged, bearded DNA and just got rearranged by height and hair color.

Brothers, maybe? Or cousins?

The woman in green rises from the table, brushing crumbs from her lap, and sets down a wineglass with a flair that makes the fairy lights glint off something around her neck. I wouldn’t have noticed, but everyone goes still. Even the kids.

She looks around, smiles wide but trembling a little at the edges, then she starts to speak. “I came here thinking it was a temporary escape.” Her gaze slides over the men around her and then to the woman I met at the door. “I didn’t expect to find home. I didn’t expect to find all of you. But I did. And I’m not going anywhere.”

One of the tall, broad-shouldered men shifts his hands resting on her hips to her front, wrapping his arms around her. The one to her right presses a kiss to her temple. The third mutters something I can’t hear, but her answering laugh sends another round of cheers through the crowd.

“This isn’t what I expected,” I say, sharper than intended.

“No.” Savannah shrugs. “It never is.”

“I thought you were working tonight.”

“I did. Half a shift. We closed early today to help with dinner.” Her brows lift. “I’m working at MacAllister’s garage. It’s a full-service shop. I rebuilt a carburetor yesterday, if that helps clarify.”

I pause to let that settle. It doesn’t work.

My brain keeps trying to make sense of it—of her. My daughter, who flinched at the sound of a car backfiring, who couldn’t walk into a grocery store without scanning for exits, rebuilt a carburetor. She works in a garage. Lives here. With them.

I told her to take a break, to heal, not to start an entirely new life. And certainly not this kind of life.

Around us, laughter spills from the porch, easy and unbothered, but my stomach feels tight. What the hell did she find here?

A broad-shouldered man strolls toward us, his easy smile cutting through the chill night air like it belongs here more than I ever could. Dark hair curls from beneath his cap, jaw strong and clean, shoulders wide enough to make the porch light seem small. He has the kind of rugged, all-man build that women my age might still notice, even if I’m far too irritated by the cold and this circus of a gathering to care.

“You must be Savannah’s mom.” He offers a hand for me to shake.

“She has a name, Todd,” Savannah mutters beside me, not looking up from her mug.

“Judith,” I supply, tightening my grip on my suitcase.

Todd’s grin deepens. His palm is warm and dry when I accept his hand. “Todd Turner. You’re infamous around here.”

“Infamous?” I arch a brow.

“In a concerned mother kind of way. You know... like storm warnings, strong opinions, a reputation for biting sarcasm.”

Savannah groans under her breath, but a man stepping down from the back porch snags my attention. His boots thud on the wooden steps, and while the sound might make me look that way, the guy is the reason I keep staring. He seems about my age, maybe younger, with a lean build and the kind of easy confidence that comes from knowing exactly how charming he is. Dark curls spill onto his forehead, his freaking shirt hanging open like he’s wandered in from a catalog shoot, and his sleeves are rolled up, showcasing colorful tattooed sleeves on his arms.

He strolls toward us with a grin that hitches slightly to one side—mischievous, knowing, entirely too comfortable. “Welcome.” His voice is low and warm, like bourbon and worn wood. “You want cider or something stronger? I’ve got moonshine hidden in the shed.”

“Jesus, Sam,” Savannah hisses. She rolls her eyes, but the corners of her mouth tip up in a way that tells me she’s more exasperated than angry.

I stare at him, unsure whether to be amused or alarmed. “You always this charming?”

He flashed me a lazy grin. “Only when I’m trying to impress someone.”

That grin draws my attention to his firm, expressive mouth. I wonder, unbidden, if those lips would be soft and yielding or hard and demanding when they kissed. My mouth goes dry, and I hate that I even notice his mouth.

“Stop it.” There’s steel in Savannah’s warning, soft but unmistakable.

I’m unsure if that’s meant for me or for the infuriatingly handsome man beside her.

I clear my throat, trying to reset the moment. “This celebration… what exactly is it?”

“Sheila got married,” Savannah says, too breezy by half. Something in her tone makes me narrow my eyes.

“To one of those men?” I nod toward the redhead in the green dress who’s now tucked under the arm of a man with a beard you could lose a hand in.

Savannah’s gaze darts briefly to the trio. Her shoulders shift, not defensive, just… aware.

I frowned. “Which one?”

After a pause, she smiles, her expression unapologetic, like she’s been waiting for this shoe to drop.

“All three,” she answers.

I blink. Once. Twice. “That’s not legal.”

“Depends on what you mean by legal,” Sam interjects with a smirk that makes made me want to swat it off his face. Or kiss it off, which is infinitely worse. “Only one marriage license involved. The rest is commitment. Love doesn’t need paperwork.”

Oh, for heaven’s sake. I look around again, suddenly hyperaware of every cozy trio, every overlapping touch, every shared laugh that clearly comes in multiples. “This whole town is one big hippie commune.”

Savannah sighs. Not dramatically, but patiently, like she’s expected my reaction and doesn’t take it personally. “No, it’s not. It’s just… not Miami.”

I let go of my suitcase and fold my arms. “Clearly.”

Sam’s grin doesn’t falter. “Well, if you get tired of judging us from a distance, we’ve got enough pie for a small army.” He tips an invisible hat then saunters away, whistling like he hasn’t just detonated my worldview.

I let out a breath I’ve been holding, cold air scraping down my throat.

Savannah watches me, warily at first before her expression softens. “You really came.”

“I said I might,” I mutter, suddenly wishing I’d arrived tomorrow or not at all.

“You’ve been threatening it for weeks.”

“And you didn’t think I would.”

“No.” She shrugs, then smiles. “I hoped you would.”

The words hit like a stone in the stomach. The sensation is heavy, unexpected, and impossible to ignore. I realize with a pang how I’ve missed my girl.

I look away toward the porch lights, toward strangers who seem perfectly at home in this baffling place.

“Well.” I straighten. “I’m here now.”

And I have no idea what the hell to do next.

Sam Whitaker
The night I first see Judith stride into that backyard, suitcase in hand and fire in her eyes, something in me wakes up. Henry and I have shared a life for thirty years, solid and steady. We always knew there was a missing piece. But I didn’t expect her. Sharp tongue. Guarded heart. A woman who looks at me like she’s already decided I’m trouble… and still stares twice.

Henry Lawson
She doesn’t scare. Not from noise, not from men, not from seeing her daughter wrapped up in a life she doesn’t understand. Judith stands her ground, poised and prickly, and somehow that only makes me want her more. I’ve spent years keeping myself in check, but the moment she looks my way, I’m already wondering how long she’ll stay… and how long it will take to make her want to.

Judith Walker
I came to Northwick Cove to bring Savannah home, not to be swallowed by a town full of triads, bonfires, and men who look at me like I’m more than the mistakes I’ve survived. Sam disarms me with charm, Henry with his quiet steadiness. Together? They’re dangerous. I’ve kept my heart locked down for decades. I’m not looking for romance. I’m certainly not looking for two men. But the longer I stay, the harder it becomes to pretend I don’t feel something pulling me toward them… and toward a life I never imagined wanting.

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