“People are going to love this, Neil. Staying in a luxury treehouse sounds magical all on its own, but then you throw in the ocean only a short walk away and the charm of touring a blueberry farm and the cute little town a couple of miles up the road . . . there’s no way this won’t be successful. I bet you’ll get honeymooners.”

His fork clinked against his plate. “Yes. Well.” He cleared his throat. “Syd . . .”

She couldn’t leave him hanging any longer. The poor man had to have been wondering about her time with Tate Carter all day, had probably worried when she was gone longer than expected, and then to find her the way he had . . .

“It was . . . it was actually good. Talking with Tate.”

He abandoned his next bite, propping his elbows on the table, in full listening mode.

“He’s definitely the guy from the photo,” she went on, “and he’s definitely—at least, we both feel very certain he’s my father.” Amazingly, her tongue didn’t trip over the word. “I would’ve thought after such an intense discovery, he’d need some time and space, but no, he just kept guzzling coffee and asking me questions about my life and then he wanted to give me a tour around the farm and he drove me into town for lunch.”

And at that point, he’d seemed almost . . . happy. Still a little dazed, perhaps, but not as shell-shocked as he’d been earlier.

But then they’d gone back out to the farm so she could pick up Neil’s truck. Tatum was there and Tate had made the mistake of telling him who she was. And that’s when the accusations had started flying.

“I can’t believe you’d actually believe her with absolutely nothing to go on. A photo isn’t proof. Her word isn’t proof. She’s another Cynthia Muir wannabe. Probably realized there was nothing for her there, found a random snapshot, and figured out how to scam one of the wealthiest families in the state. And you’re falling for it. No, I won’t believe it. Not until a paternity test proves otherwise.”

Tate had argued, but she hadn’t been able to speak—eventually, hadn’t been able to handle it at all. So she’d walked to the truck. She’d slipped inside and driven away without so much as a goodbye to Tate.

She replayed the scene for Neil now, her cobbler untouched and his frown deepening with every word.

“Halfway home, I just . . . I lost it. Because of Tatum, yes, but mostly because it suddenly hit me that I was going to have to tell Maggie.” Her eyes filled with tears all over again. No, no more crying.

But how could she not? Just the thought of saying those words to Maggie—I’m not your granddaughter—and the discouragement that would surely fill the older woman’s face at realizing her search had once again hit a dead-end . . .