And she still couldn’t tell whether the quirk at the corner of his mouth was a scowl or the start of a grin.

“Scoot over.” He reached one long arm past her, his other hand gripping the towel knotted at his waist.

“What?”

“The knob. You have to jiggle it just right.”

She tried to step out of his way but bumped into the counter. “Why is this bathroom so small?”

“Felt plenty big to me until you waltzed in.” He wiggled the door handle. “People don’t knock where you come from?”

“I—”

He jiggled the knob again, then tapped her elbow to nudge her backward and pulled open the door. “There you go. Your escape route.”

She didn’t even wait for him to move out of the way, simply rushed past him, getting a horrible, wonderful whiff of his soap. But at least she managed not to look at him, catching only the briefest glimpse of bare skin as she brushed by.

“Nice to meet you, Sydney Rose.”

She whirled. He still clasped his towel in one hand, the opposite arm leaned up against the doorframe. And oh, that was definitely a grin. A tragically handsome one. She was going to die. She was going to march down those stairs and demand Wilder give her a ride back to the airport and slowly expire from mortification on the way.

“You know who I am?” Her voice squeaked.

“Red hair gave you away. But maybe if you don’t mind, I’ll go ahead and get dressed before we carry on with the introductions.”

“See that you do, Neil MacKean.”

Another unfamiliar voice. This one belonging to a woman.

Sydney turned—slow and unsure and suddenly somehow more comfortable with the sight of a towel-clad man than this woman who must be Margaret Muir, standing at the top of the staircase. She was several inches shorter than Sydney, with nearly-white hair and such hope and joy shining in her eyes it could almost take a person’s breath away.

“Sydney.”

She didn’t know what to say or to do. Didn’t know whether to step forward. Certainly couldn’t step backward or she’d run into that man’s chest. Neil. His name is Neil.

So she just stood there, mute and motionless.

Until the woman burst into tears and pulled her into an embrace. “Welcome home.”

Welcome home.

Neil balled his napkin in his lap, his aggravated gaze darting to the head of the dining room table, where Maggie stood over a pan of steaming lasagna, pulling a knife through its bubbling cheese. Usually the smell of Maggie’s cooking set his taste buds to watering, but tonight not even the butter-and-garlic aroma of her homemade bread could do the trick.

Welcome home.

Home. As if there wasn’t a single doubt in Maggie’s mind that the redhead who’d barreled into the bathroom, not to mention their lives, belonged here. An hour later and he was still brooding.

Not that he intended to show it. Oh no. He would sit through this Sunday night dinner like a perfect gentleman, employ every one of the polite manners Maggie had instilled in him. He owed her that much.