Neil bent to retrieve his shoes and she did the same. When she straightened, another surprise—the weight of the blanket draping over her shoulders. “Oh, uh . . . thank you.”

As quickly as Neil had neared, he backed away, stooping once more to pick up the picnic basket. “Let’s go before the frostbite sets in.”

He took off at his usual resolute pace, bare feet sinking into the sand and long legs quickly widening the gap between them. But she didn’t move. Couldn’t. It was as if the cold had crept under her skin and made ice statues of her limbs.

Except, no, it wasn’t a chill coursing through her now. It was something else, something warmer. Waves of tumbling emotion, too many feelings moving too swiftly to name or differentiate.

Except for the one that bobbed at the surface, like a buoy under the light of a beacon. Longing. It wasn’t a new feeling. As a child, she’d longed for a parent’s affection. As a teenager, she’d craved stability. As a young adult, she’d wished for a career that filled her with purpose.

And she’d longed for family and a place to belong for pretty much her whole life.

But always before, the longing had been like a page from a child’s coloring book—black lines and blank spaces. Now . . . now her yearning had color. She wanted this family. She wanted this place.

Two days. You shouldn’t feel this strongly in just two days, Syd. It’s impossible. Maybe she was just affected by the crazy turn her life had taken. Maybe she was just cold and wet and tired . . .

Distracted by the sight of Neil’s sopping wet shirt clinging to his broad shoulders.

Why had he given her the blanket?

As if sensing her gaze, he slowed and then stopped entirely. He’s waiting for me. Captain bounded to her as she hurried to catch up, clutching the blanket around her neck, the ground rough underneath her feet.

“You okay?” he asked as she neared.

She only nodded, somehow certain if she tried to speak, her voice would clog or, worse, her eyes fill with tears. Bizarre. Must be the sea salt air infecting her logical, rational side. Or maybe she’d lost that piece of herself the moment she’d called Wilder Monroe and agreed to fly to Maine.

Neil started walking again, this time keeping his strides shorter, content, it seemed, to let the silence stretch. He’d been like this last night as they painted—unbothered, even comfortable, with quiet. Not that he hadn’t talked at all. He’d spoken, at times, about the farm, about how he’d started working the fields full-time following his high school graduation.