The venue probably didn’t do much to cultivate an easy atmosphere. The basement of Blow the Man Down hadn’t seen renovations like the upstairs. It was a throwback to the days of wood paneling and low, frosted lighting, and it reminded Brendan of the hull of his ship, so much so that he could almost feel the swell and dip of the ocean beneath his feet.

A collapsible table and chairs had been set up against the far wall, laden with covered dishes and a candlelit shrine to Desiree, right there next to the pasta salad. High tops and stools filled out the rest of the space, along with a small bar used only for parties, which was where Brendan stood with his relief skipper, trying to avoid small talk.

Brendan felt Fox studying him from the corner of his eye and ignored him, instead signaling the bartender for another beer. It was no secret how Fox viewed the yearly event. “I know what you’re going to say.” Brendan sighed. “I don’t need to hear it again.”

“Too bad. You’re going to hear it.” Apparently Fox had taken enough orders over the last three days and was good and finished. “This isn’t fair to you. Dragging you back through this . . . loss every goddamn year. You deserve to move on.”

“Nobody is dragging anyone.”

“Sure.” Fox twisted his bottle of beer in a circle on the bar. “She wouldn’t want this for you. She wouldn’t want to be shackling you like this.”

“Drop it, Fox.” He massaged the bridge of his nose. “It’s just one night.”

“It’s not just one night.” He kept his voice low, his gaze averted, so no one would pick up on their argument. “See, I know you. I know how you think. It’s a yearly nudge to stay the course. Stay steady. To do what you think is honorable. When the hell is it enough?”

Goddammit, there was a part of him that agreed with Fox. As long as this memorial had remained on the calendar, Brendan kept thinking, I owe her one more year. I owe her one more. Until that refrain had turned into I owe it one more year. Or I owe Mick one more. For everything his father-in-law had done for Brendan. Making him captain of the Della Ray. Would that faith and trust go away if Brendan moved on?

Whatever the reason, at some point the grieving had stopped being about his actual marriage, but he had no idea when. Life was a series of days on land, followed by days at sea, then repeat. There wasn’t time to think about himself or how he “felt.” And he wasn’t some selfish, fickle bastard.

“Look,” Fox tried again, after a long pull of his beer. “You know I love Mick, but as far as he’s concerned, you’re still married to his daughter and that’s a lot of pressure on y—”

“Hey, everyone!”

Brendan’s drink paused halfway to his mouth. That was Piper’s voice.

Piper was here?

He gripped his pint carefully and looked over his shoulder at the door. There she was. In sequins, obviously. Loud pink ones. And he couldn’t deny that the first emotion to hit him was pleasure. To see her. Then relief that she hadn’t gone back to LA already. Eagerness to talk to her, be near her.

Right on the heels of that reaction, though, the blood drained from his face.

No. This wasn’t right. She shouldn’t be there.

On one arm, she had that ridiculous lipstick-shaped purse. And cradled in her other arm was a tray of shots she’d obviously brought from the bar upstairs. She clicked through a sea of dumbfounded and spellbound guests, offering them what looked like tequila.

“Why the long faces?” She flipped her hair and laughed, taking a shot of her own. Jesus. This was all happening in slow motion. “Turn the music up! Let’s get this party started, right?”

“Oh fuck,” Fox muttered.

Brendan saw the exact moment Piper realized she’d just crashed a memorial for a dead woman. Her runway strut slowed, those huge blue eyes widening at the makeshift shrine next to the pasta salad, the giant poster-board picture of Desiree’s senior photo, her name in script at the bottom. Desiree Taggart. Her mouth opened on a choked sound, and she fumbled the tray of shots, recovering just in time to keep them from crashing onto the floor. “Oh,” she breathed. “I—I didn’t . . . I didn’t know.”

She dropped the shots onto the closest table like they offended her—and that was when her eyes locked on Brendan, and his stomach plummeted at the utter humiliation there. “Piper.”

“Sorry. I’m . . . Wow.” She backed toward the exit, her hip ramming into a chair and sending it several inches across the floor, making her wince. “I’m so sorry.”

As quickly as she’d arrived, she was gone, like someone had muted all sound and color in the room. Before and after Piper. And Brendan didn’t think, he just dropped his beer onto the bar with a slosh and went after her. When he started up the stairs, she’d already cleared the top, so he picked up his pace, weaving in and out of the Friday-night crowd, grateful for his height so he could look for pink sequins.

Why did he feel like he’d been socked in the stomach?

She didn’t need to see that, he kept thinking. She didn’t need to see that.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of pink crossing the street. There was Piper, in what appeared to be ice-pick heels, heading toward the harbor instead of back home. Someone called his name from the bar, but he ignored them, pushing outside and following in her wake. “Piper.”

“Oh no. No no no.” She reached the opposite sidewalk and turned, waving her hands at him, palms out. “Please, you have to go back. You cannot leave your wife’s memorial to come after the idiot who ruined it.”

Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t go back. His body physically wouldn’t allow it. Because as much as he hated her obvious embarrassment, he would rather be out there chasing her in the street than in that basement. It was no contest. And yeah, he couldn’t deny anymore that his priorities were shifting. As a creature of habit, that scared him, but he refused to simply let her walk away. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

She scoffed and kept walking.

He followed. “You’re not going to outrun me in those heels.”

“Brendan, please. Let me cringe to death in peace.”

“No.”

Still facing away from him, she slowed to a stop, arms lifting to hug her middle. “Pretty shortsighted of me to leave those shots behind. I could use about six of them right now.”

He heard her sniffle, and bolts tightened in his chest. Crying women didn’t necessarily scare him. That would make him kind of a pansy ass, wouldn’t it? But he’d encountered very few of them in his lifetime, so he took a moment to consider the best course of action. She was hugging herself. So maybe . . . maybe one from him, too, wouldn’t be a bad move?

Brendan came up behind Piper and cupped her smooth shoulders with his hands, making sure she wasn’t going to run if he touched her. Lord, they were so soft. What if he scratched her with his calluses? Her head turned slightly to look at his resting right hand, and he was pretty sure neither one of them breathed as he tugged her back against his chest, circling his arms around her slight frame. When she didn’t tell him to fuck off, he took one more chance and propped his chin on top of her head.

A sound puffed out of her. “You really don’t hate me?”