“Not me,” she said, cocking a hip.

“Give it time.” He reached for a can of peas. “Matter of fact, don’t.”

She threw the hand holding her phone, let it slap down against the outside of her thigh. “Wow. What is your problem with me?”

“Bet you’re used to men falling all over themselves to make you happy, huh?” He tossed the can up in the air, caught it. “Sorry, I’m not going to be one of them.”

For some reason, his statement had Piper’s head tipping back on a semi-hysterical laugh. “Yes. Men salivate to do my bidding.” She used her phone to gesture between them. “Is that all this is? You’re being rude to me because I’m spoiled?”

Brendan leaned close. Close enough to watch her incredible lips part, to catch the scent of something blatantly feminine—not flowers. Smoky and sensual, yet somehow light. The fact that he wanted to get closer and inhale more pissed him off further. “I saw your judgment of this place before anyone else last night. The way you looked up at the building and laughed, like it was some cruel joke being played on you.” He paused. “It’s like this. On my boat, I have a crew, and each member has a family. A history. Those roots run all through the town. They’ve lived a lot of it inside No Name. And on the deck of my boat. Remembering the importance of each member of my crew and the people waiting on shore for them is my job. That makes this town my job. You wouldn’t understand the character it takes to make this place run. The persistence.”

“No, I don’t,” she sputtered, losing some steam. “I’ve been here less than one day.”

When sympathy—and a little regret over being so harsh—needled him in his middle, he knew it was time to move on. But when he turned the corner into the next aisle, she followed, trying to look like she knew what she was doing by putting apple cider vinegar and lima beans in her cart.

“Jesus Christ.” He set his cart down and crossed his arms. “Just what the hell are you planning on making with that combination?”

“Something to poison you with would be nice.” She gave him one last disgruntled look and stomped off, that work-of-art backside twitching all the way to the end of the aisle. “Thank you for being so neighborly. You know, you obviously love this place. Maybe you should try being a better representation of it.”

All right. That got him.

Brendan had been raised by a community. A village. By the time he was ten years old, he’d seen the inside of every house in Westport. Each and every resident was a friend of his parents. They babysat him, his parents returned the favor, and so on. His mother always brought a dish to celebrations when the men came back from sea, did the same for acquaintances who were sick. Kindness and generosity could be counted on. It had been a damn long while since he’d wondered what his mother would think of his behavior, but he thought of it now and grimaced.

“Fuck,” he muttered, snatching up his basket and following Piper. Spoiled rich girl or not, she’d been right. About this one thing. As a resident of Westport, he wasn’t doing this place justice. But just like the rare times he got off course on the water, he could easily correct the path—and get the hell on with his day. “All right,” he said, coming up behind Piper in the baking aisle and watching her shoulder blades stiffen. “Based on the conversation you were having with your phone, it sounds like you’re looking for a quick meal. That right?”

“Yes,” she mumbled without turning around.

He waited for Piper to look at him, but she didn’t. And he definitely wasn’t impatient to see her face. Or anything like that. This close, he judged that the top of her head just about reached his shoulder, and felt another minor pang of regret for being a dick. “Italian’s easiest, if you don’t need it to be fancy.”

Finally, she faced him, mid–eye roll. “I don’t need fancy. Anyway, it’s mostly . . .” She shook her head. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“It’s mostly for Hannah.” She fluttered her fingers to indicate the lined shelves. “The cooking. To thank her for coming with me. She didn’t have to. You’re not the only one with important people and roots. I have people who I want to look out for, too.”

Brendan told himself he didn’t want to know anything about Piper. Why exactly she’d come, what she planned to do here. None of it. But his mouth was already moving. “Why are you in Westport, anyway? To sell the building?”

She wrinkled her nose, considered his question. “I guess that’s an option. We haven’t really thought that far ahead.”

“Think of all the giant hats you could buy.”

“You know what, assho—” She turned on a heel and started to bail, but he caught her elbow to halt her progress. When she ripped out of his hold immediately and backed away with a censorious expression, it caught him off guard. At least until he noticed she was looking pointedly at his wedding ring.

The temptation to put her misconception to rest was sudden and . . . alarming.

“I’m not interested,” she said flatly.

“I’m not, either.” Liar, accused the tripping of his pulse. “What you said before, about your sister being your roots. I get that.” He cleared his throat. “You’ve got other ones, too. Here in Westport. If you feel like bothering.”

Her disapproval cleared slightly. “You mean my father.”

“For a start, yes. I didn’t know him, but he’s part of this place. That means he’s part of us all. We don’t forget.”

“There are barely any memories for me to forget,” she said. “I was four when we left, and after that . . . it wasn’t spoken about. Not because I wasn’t curious, but because it hurt our mother.” Her eyes flickered. “I remember his laugh, though. I . . . can hear it.”

Brendan grunted, really beginning to wish he’d stepped back and considered her from more than one angle before going on the defensive. “There’s a memorial for him. Across from the museum, up on the harbor.”

She blinked. “There is?”

He nodded, surprised by the invitation to bring her there that nearly snuck out.

“I’m almost scared to go look at it,” she said slowly to herself. “I’ve gotten so comfortable with what little memories I have. What if it triggers more?”

The more minutes ticked past in Piper’s presence, the more he started to question his first impression of her. Was she actually an overindulged brat from the land of make-believe? He couldn’t help but catalogue everything else he knew about her. Such as, she wouldn’t pursue an unavailable man. Thought she couldn’t belong in a room full of people she knew. And she was in the store at eight thirty in the morning to buy ingredients to make a meal for her sister. So. Maybe not as selfish as he’d originally thought.

Honestly, though. What the hell did his impression of her matter?

She’d be gone soon. He wasn’t interested. End of.

“Then I guess you’ll have to call your therapist. I’m sure you’ve got one.”

“Two, if you count my backup,” she responded, chin raised.

Brendan staved off his interest in inspecting the line of her throat by rooting around in his basket. “Look. Make your sister an easy Bolognese sauce.” He transferred his jar of marinara into her basket, along with the flute of pasta. “Come on.”