On her way to the freezer for a bag of last season’s wild blueberries, she opened the door that led to the family quarters. In the living room, her mother reclined on the sofa. The roots of Mae Brown’s dark auburn hair were gray, something she never would have allowed before her heart attack over the winter, and her body was far too still. Holding her breath, Mandy tiptoed closer. Her mother’s chest rose and fell. Relief coursed through Mandy. She backed away, nearly lightheaded, and slipped back into the kitchen to finish her breakfast prep. Her mom’s recovery had been slow. Mortality had checked into the inn as a permanent guest.

Things were never going to be the same.

She folded the blueberries into the batter and carefully filled the muffin cups. The baking tin went into the hot oven. Mandy set the timer.

An engine rumbled. Likely guests returning. The weather hadn’t dissuaded the fishermen, hikers, or kayakers staying at the inn from enjoying their vacations. They were making the most of every day, an attitude Mandy was trying to emulate. She filled the teakettle and set it on the stove, then started a pot of coffee. Even the most die-hard outdoor enthusiasts felt the cold at the end of a rainy spring day.

A car door slammed. She moved to the window. An old convertible was parked at the rear of the lot. Strange. Most of her guests drove SUVs.

The doorbell rang. Mandy deposited a tray of biscotti into the dining room, then ducked into the reception area. She looked through the peephole. A man stood on the front porch with his back to her. Mandy paused. The set of his shoulders was familiar. He was brushing the water droplets from his jacket with one hand. Daylight reflected off hair gleaming and black as a raven.

It couldn’t be.

As if he sensed her, he turned. Turquoise eyes focused on the door. Shock swept her brain free of all thoughts but one. It was him.

Danny Sullivan.

She smoothed her hair, wiped her hands on her apron, and opened the door.

“Danny.” She stared at him. Her mind reeled with memories of that traumatic night, while a different kind of tension gathered in her belly.

“Hi, Mandy.”

She moved back. “Please, come in.”

The foyer closed in on them as he stepped into the house. She shut the door. He’d filled out a little since December. His face was still lean, his body tall and rangy. But he’d lost the sickly pallor, and the desperate look had been kicked aside by determination. Thick hair, wet from the rain, curled over his collar and was just unkempt enough to be sexy without crossing into sloppy territory. A leather jacket highlighted broad shoulders, and sinfully worn jeans hugged lean hips.

If he’d been handsome then, he was devastating now.