Piper chuckled. “Recognize anyone in yours?”

“No.” Hannah took down another. “Wait. Pipes.”

She was busy scanning the faces looking back at her from the past, so she didn’t immediately hear the hushed urgency in Hannah’s tone. But when the silence stretched, she looked over to find Hannah’s face pale, fingers shaking as she studied the photo. “What is it?” Piper asked, sidling up next to her sister. “Oh.”

Her hand flew to her suddenly pumping heart.

Whereas the brass statue of Henry had been impersonal and the fishing license had been grainy, an unsmiling man making a standard pose, this photo had life in it. Henry was laughing, a white towel thrown over one shoulder, a mustache shadowing his upper lip. His eyes . . . they leapt right off the glossy photograph’s surface, sparkling. So much like their own.

“That’s our dad.”

“Piper, he looks just like us.”

“Yeah . . .” She was having trouble catching her breath. She took Hannah’s hand, and they turned it over together. The handwriting was faded, but it was easy to make out the words, Henry Cross. And the year, 1991.

Neither of them said anything for long moments.

And maybe Piper was just overwhelmed by the physical proof that their birth father had really existed, a picture discovered while standing in his bar, but she suddenly felt . . . as if fate had placed her in that very spot. Their life before Los Angeles had always been a fragmented, vague thing. But it felt real now. Something to explore. Something that maybe had even been missing, without her knowing enough to acknowledge it.

“We should pretty up the bar,” Piper said. “We should do it. Not just so we can go home early, but . . . you know. Kind of a tribute.”

“You read my mind, Pipes.” Hannah laid her head on Piper’s shoulder as they continued to stare down at the man who’d fathered them, his face smiling back from another time. “Let’s do it.”

Chapter Thirteen

Brendan watched through his binoculars as Westport formed, reassuring and familiar, on the horizon.

His love for the ocean always made returning home bittersweet. There was nowhere he was more at ease than the wheelhouse, the engine humming under his feet. A radio within reach so he could give orders. His certainty that those commands would always be carried out, no questions asked. The Della Ray was a second layer of skin, and he slipped into it as often as possible, anxious for the rise and fall of the water, the slap of waves on the hull, the smell of salt and fish and possibilities.

But this homecoming didn’t have the same feel as it usually did. He wasn’t calculating the hours until he could get back out on the water. Or trying to ignore the emotions that clung to the inside of his throat when he got his crew home safe. There were only nerves this time. Jumpy, anxious, sweaty nerves.

His mind hadn’t been focused for the last three days. Oh, they’d filled the belly of the ship with fish, done their damn job, as always. But a girl from Los Angeles had been occupying way too much headspace for his comfort.

God only knew, tonight was not the night for exploring that headspace, either.

As soon as they moored the boat and loaded the catches to bring to market, he was expected at the annual memorial dinner for Desiree. Every year, like clockwork, Mick organized the get-together at Blow the Man Down, and Brendan never failed to work his fishing schedule around it. Hell, he usually helped organize. This time, though . . . he wondered how he’d make it through the night knowing he’d been thinking of Piper nonstop for three days.

Didn’t matter how many times he lamented her glamorous internet presence. Didn’t matter how many times he reminded himself they were from two different worlds and she didn’t plan to be a part of his for long. Still, he thought of her. Worried about her well-being while he was on the water. Worried she wasn’t eating the right items off the menus he’d left. Hoped the hardware store had gotten his note and she was no longer bumping her head.

He thought of her body.

Thought of it to the point of distraction.

How soft she’d be beneath him, how high maintenance she’d probably be in the sack and how he’d deliver. Again and again, until she wrecked his back with her fingernails.

A lot of the men on board started checking their phones for reception as soon as the harbor was in sight, and Brendan normally rolled his eyes at them. But he had his phone in hand now, kept swiping and entering his password, wanting a look at her fucking Instagram. He’d barely been aware of the damn app a few days ago; now he had his thumb hovering over the icon, ready to get his fill of her image. He’d never been so hard up for relief that he beat off while on the boat, but it had been necessary the first damn night. And the second.

Three bars popped into the upper left-hand corner of his screen, and he tapped, holding his breath. The first thing he saw was the white outline of a head. Pressed it.

Piper had followed him back?

He grunted and looked over his shoulder before smiling.

There was one new picture in her feed, and he enlarged it, the damn organ in his chest picking up speed. She’d taken his suggestion and gone to the winery, and Jesus, she looked beautiful.

Making grape decisions.

He was chuckling over that caption when a text message popped up from Mick.

Call me was all it said.

Brendan’s smile dropped, and he pushed to his feet, pulse missing a few beats as the call to his father-in-law connected. Dammit, Piper had gotten herself in trouble again, hadn’t she? She’d probably started another fire or broken her neck falling down the stairs while trying to escape a mouse. Or—

“Yeah, hey, Brendan.”

“What’s wrong?” he demanded. “What happened?”

“Whoa, there.” Mick laughed, music playing in the background. “Nothing happened. I just wanted to remind you about tonight.”

Guilt twisted like a corkscrew in his gut. Here was this man preparing for a party to memorialize seven years without his daughter, and Brendan was worried about Piper. Could think of nothing but her. That wasn’t right. Wasn’t he a better man than that?

Brendan looked down at the wedding band around his finger and swallowed. Seven years. He could barely remember Desiree’s voice, her face, or her laugh anymore. He wasn’t the type to make a vow and easily move on from it, however. When a promise came out of his mouth, it was kept to the letter. She’d been woven into the fabric of his life in Westport so thoroughly, it was almost like she’d never really died. Which might account for him getting stuck on the till death part of his promise.

Remnants of her surrounded him here. Her parents, her annual memorial, people who’d come to their wedding. Taking the ring off had struck him as disrespectful, but now . . . now it was starting to feel even more wrong to keep it on.

Tonight was not the night to make big decisions, though.

He had a duty to be at the memorial and be mentally present, so he would be.

“I’ll be there,” Brendan said. “Of course I will.”

* * *

The first few years after Desiree passed, the memorial potlucks had been reenactments of her funeral. No one smiling, everyone speaking in hushed tones. Hard not to feel disrespectful being anything but grief-stricken when Mick and Della plastered pictures of their daughter everywhere, brought a cake with her name in bright blue frosting. But as the years went on, the mood had lightened somewhat. Not completely, but at least nobody was crying tonight.