And what a view it was.

The inky, gray waters of Lake Huron stretched out to infinity in front of the cottage, constant and dependable. Just like the man prowling her space. He stalked into the kitchen, taking up all of the space with his cowboy shoulders and grumpy competence.

And that, she realized as she shed her boots and coat, was why she’d come back. To be just close enough to feel safe again. Despite his protestations, Brick Callan cared about her. There was something in his spirit that demanded that all the people he cared about be safe. She envisioned him running around like a cattle dog, nipping at the heels of the people of Mackinac, keeping them all from harm’s way.

She let out a sigh. Nothing good ever came from mooning over the ungettable man. Besides, she had bigger, more dangerous problems on her hands.

He produced a blister pack of batteries from one of the bags. She watched as he efficiently popped the cover on the first smoke detector without needing a chair or stepladder and wished she could curl up on the couch and sleep while he was here. While she was safe.

She climbed into one of the blue velvet swivel armchairs in front of the window. Turning her back to the lake, she pulled her knees up to her chin and watched him grudgingly take care of her.

Covers clipped back into place, he pitched the packaging and old batteries into the trash bin under the sink.

“Do you do a lot of maintenance for Agnes?” Remi asked.

He turned to look at her, and when those long legs of his ate up the space between them, she scooted back in the chair. She didn’t know what she’d expected him to do, but it certainly wasn’t to take her right hand gently in his and push up the sleeve of her oversized sweater.

She had hugged, kissed, poked, prodded, and leaned into him about a thousand times over the years. There was a spark of something special every time they touched. It fascinated her. Comforted her. Confounded her. But the very thing that attracted her to Brick seemed to repel him from her. She could count on one hand the number of times the man had voluntarily touched her first.

“How the hell did you do this?” he demanded. His voice was stern, but the way he held her hand as he examined the plaster was almost tender.

“It wasn’t my fault,” she insisted, not sure if that was indeed the truth.

“Does it hurt?”

“No, it feels great. Of course it hurts. It’s a broken arm,” she snapped.

“How did it happen?” he demanded grimly.

She tensed, unable to control the visceral reaction to the memories. Blindingly bright lights. Metal collapsing in on itself. Falling into the dark.

“I told you. It was a car accident,” she said, trying to pull her arm away. But he held her arm carefully, firmly in his grip as his fingers explored the tangerine plaster of her cast.