“I don’t know what kind of ‘see where things go’ you’re used to. But you can’t force me to meet your family.”

“You’ve already met Michael,” he pointed out. “That means my moms are not going to be patient for much longer. It’s only a matter of time before they just drop by the house. Besides, I already told them I’d bring you.”

“Mom or Mama B?” she asked.

“Mom,” he said.

Maggie typed up the message he dictated and hit send.

“How often do you all get together?” she asked.

“As a group? Once every week or two. But we mix it up with smaller get-togethers all the time.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know if I could do that. Have a family obligation every week? I’m just not much of a social animal.”

“Says the woman with 999,150 followers,” Silas pointed out.

She gave him a small smile. “That’s a different kind of social.”

“I’ll say it is.” He turned off Lake Street into the downtown.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked, peering through the rain-spattered window.

“Right here,” he said, pulling into a parking space and pointing at the storefront with gray cedar shakes. “Kinship Mercantile,” she read from the sign above the door. “I hate it already. You should give me your money now.” But he saw the way her eyes lit up when they locked on the cheerfully jumbled window display. Cloud-thin throws and overstuffed pillows with sayings like LAKE LIFE IS THE BEST LIFE perched on a whitewashed oak pedestal table.

“Let’s give it a few minutes. Let a man have a fighting chance,” he said, reaching over her and opening her door.

It smelled like sage and lemons when he pushed open the glass door of the shop. The swift rush of pride hit him, just like every other time he stepped foot in the Mercantile.

“Nope,” Maggie said, shaking her head. “I don’t see anything that interests me. I’ll wait in the truck.” But she was already picking up a stoneware dish glazed the exact color of Payette Lake on a sunny summer day. “Oh. Look at that.” She put the dish down and was drawn farther into the store to a rustic curio cabinet showcasing handwoven table linens.

He let her browse and headed toward the register.

“Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in—your dead-to-me uncle.” Nirina, his baby sister, took after Mama B in the high cheekbones, big smile, and hair-styling creativity departments. She had the Wright eyes, and her skin was exactly halfway between Mama B’s dark and Emmett Wright’s Irish pale. She was rubbing a ringed hand smugly over her rounded belly.

“Niri, have a heart. I come bearing gifts,” he said, stepping behind the counter to give his half-sister a hug.

“I don’t want any gift from you unless it’s—”