She served them with a smile, nodded at the signal to run a tab, and followed the hail to the next table.

Her break was still ten minutes away. It might as well have been ten years.

‘‘Hey, there, Gracie.’’

‘‘How’s it going, Curtis, Bobbie.’’ She’d gone to school with them in the dim, distant past. Now they worked for her father, packing seafood. ‘‘Usual?’’

‘‘Yeah, a couple of drafts.’’ Curtis gave Grace his usual—a quick pat on her bow-clad butt. She’d learned not to worry about it. From him it was a harmless enough gesture, even a show of affectionate support. Some of the outlanders who dropped in had hands a great deal less harmless. ‘‘How’s that pretty girl of yours?’’

Grace smiled, understanding that this was one of the reasons she tolerated his pats. He always asked about Aubrey. ‘‘Getting prettier every day.’’ She saw another hand pop up from a nearby table. ‘‘I’ll get you those beers in just a minute.’’

She was carting a tray full of mugs, bowls of beer nuts, and glasses when Ethan walked in. She nearly bobbled it. He never came into the pub on Saturday night. Sometimes he dropped in for a quiet beer midweek, but never when the place was crowded and noisy.

He should have looked the same as every second man in the place. His jeans were faded but clean, a plain white T-shirt tucked into them, his work boots ancient and scuffed. But he didn’t look the same as other men—and never had to Grace.

Maybe it was the lean and rangy body that moved as easily as a dancer through the narrow spaces. Innate grace, she mused, the kind that can’t be taught, and still so blatantly male. He always looked as though he was walking the deck of a ship.

It could have been his face, so bony and rugged and somewhere just at the edges of handsome. Or the eyes, always so clear and thoughtful, so serious that it seemed to take them a few seconds to catch up whenever his mouth curved.

She served her drinks, pocketed money, took more orders. And watched out of the corner of her eye as he squeezed into a standing spot at the bar directly beside the order station.

She forgot all about her much-desired break.

‘‘Three drafts, bottle of Mich, Stoli rocks.’’ Absently, she brushed at her bangs and smiled. ‘‘Hi, Ethan.’’

‘‘Busy tonight.’’

‘‘Summer Saturday. Do you want a table?’’

‘‘No, this is fine.’’

The bartender was busy with another order, which gave her some breathing room. ‘‘Steve’s got his hands full, but he’ll work his way down here.’’