There was a part of him that wanted to get to know her better, and that was strange, because after the ego-crushing experience with Emily, he’d turned into a player, pursuing women who weren’t complicated, who didn’t make emotional demands, who could be satisfied with a physical relationship. This had been working for him for a long time. But instinct told him it wouldn’t work with Camille Adams.

No matter. He was heading back to work in France, and her life was here in the States, raising a teenager, running her business, doing whatever it was she did in the utterly pleasant, remote beach town where she lived.

Despite knowing their paths were not likely to cross again, he briefly toyed with the idea of contacting her once more, despite her insistence that she wasn’t open to seeing him again. He was arrogant enough to think he could persuade her. Let’s get a drink. Go out together. But no. What would be the point? It would likely make the inevitable parting more frustrating.

But oh, man. She sparked something in him. He wasn’t sure why. She lingered in his mind, reminding him that there was more to life than hooking up and getting laid. He had never felt anything like this, not even with Emily.

Camille didn’t want him to call. He shouldn’t call. But when had “shouldn’t” ever stopped him? Bad idea, he reminded himself. One thing Finn was good at was knowing when to walk away. When to leave well enough alone.

This was one of those times. Yes, Camille Adams was intriguing and beautiful and there were undiscovered layers he longed to explore. Since his divorce, he’d walled himself off from the kind of feelings she inspired. But her soft eyes and soft lips, the way she lit up when she talked about her daughter and her work—those things exposed vulnerable cracks in his wall. No. Finn shored up his defenses. He was not going to do a long-distance anything.

The beauteous, sad, worried photography expert would stay where he’d left her—a missed connection.

And so, when his phone vibrated against his heart to signal a message, he was blown away to see the name of the sender—Camille Adams. Camille “Don’t Call Me” Adams. Camille “I’m in a Bad Place” Adams.

Camille “I Don’t Even Know How Sexy I Am” Adams.

“I wonder if I did the right thing,” Camille said to her mother and half sister Britt. “Maybe I shouldn’t have sent him that text message about the pictures I found in Papa’s old camera.”

The three of them sat together at Brew-La-La. They met here every Monday morning for coffee, a business meeting, and girl talk.

Sometimes they were joined by Hilda, the younger daughter of Cherisse and Bart. Hilda was still in college, currently doing a semester abroad in Cape Town.

The shop specialized in local snacks—Kaiserschmarrn with macerated berries, breakfast croissants filled with scrapple, Taylor ham sandwiches for the visitors from Jersey. Camille always opted for a tartine with butter and strawberry freezer jam.