It was awkward and I felt horrible, and Marco was polite and kind, and still moved out to the island anyhow, so I knew he did love it here.

He was engaging and funny and interesting when he came into the bookstore to see me or when we accidentally met in town or when I saw him as a vet. He was never overbearing. He wasn’t pushy. He was his gorgeous and sexy and understanding gentlemanly self.

About a month after he came to the island, he tried to take me out again. “I know I have asked you before, but I thought I would try again. We can be friends. No pressure. Just dinner. Or fishing. Or we can read books by the ocean and I’ll bring cake.”

He knew I liked cake. My heart squeezed as I stared into those dark, soft eyes. I wanted to eat cake with Marco! “No, thank you.”

“All right. Well, if you change your mind.”

“I’m sorry, Marco. I can’t date you.” I winced. I shouldn’t have said “you.”

“Would you like to tell me why?”

“I’m not . . . I can’t . . . I’m not into dating right now.”

“Okay. Would you be into dating later? Say in a month or two or a year?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“I understand.”

He didn’t. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. I saw that he was disappointed, I saw that he was hurt.

How could he possibly understand the reason I couldn’t date him? What I saw, clear as a lightning blast, that first day I met him in my bookstore, handing him one nonfiction book after another?

“Well. If you would like to go on a hike or out on my boat in a nondating situation, as friends, would you let me know?”

“Yes, I will.”

There was more silence.

Dang. Double dang. I wanted to cry. I thought I might have seen a wet sheen over his eyes, too. I made a choked and inelegant sound in my throat.

“Evie?”

“Yes.” I was trying not to sob like a fool in front of him that day. I am not a pretty crier. I get all red in the face and my eyes swell up and I often start to hiccup and then that can cause me to wet myself a little bit, I have no idea why. So I’m a wet mess all over.

“Please bring your animals to me when they’re sick or hurt,” Marco said. “I do want to help them, heal them. I don’t want this to be awkward between us. I’ll pretend I never asked you out if you pretend the same thing.”

“Okay. Let’s do that. And I’ll probably see you soon.” I sniffled ingloriously.

“I’d like that.”

* * *

I tried to forget that I couldn’t date Marco as we talked for three hours that night at his home, the conversation flowing and funny and deep, all at the same time. It was so easy to get lost in him, lost in us. He was a man in all senses of the word. You could trust him. You could rely on him. He was confident, but never arrogant. He had a history that had hard things in it, so he didn’t expect other people to come perfect with no history.