Stevie, she thought darkly. Her friend’s insistent prodding had gotten to her, and now she was spinning fairytales for herself. Emilia Russo’s father had died, and Morgan had no desire to complicate Emilia’s life further. The woman clearly had a lot going on. More to the point, so did Morgan. She could be friendly, though, and try not to dwell on Emilia’s sputtered “I’m gay” for too long, or the curl of hair trailing down the open collar of her sweater. Morgan cleared her throat.

“So,” she asked. “Where are you coming from?”

“The dock.”

“In general,” said Morgan, noting the slight curve of Emilia’s lips. Had she cracked a joke?

“Boston.”

“Ah. That makes you a summer person. I’ll try not to hold it against you.”

“Appreciated. Did you grow up here?”

“Born and bred. I spent some time in New York—upstate, not the city—for school, but this is home.” She waved her hand at a row of buildings that took “weathered” past the borders of quaint and into derelict.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Depends on your perspective.”

“Which is?”

“I love it here. Granted, the winters are long and the roads are shit, but it’s worth it.”

“My dad thought so, too. He and my mom split when I was eight. He came back here. I spent the summers with him until I was a teenager.”

“Emilia of the Emilia Rosa.”

“Yes. I have a boat named after me.”

The wry note in Emilia’s voice made Morgan laugh.

Storm’s-A-Brewin' came into view around the corner with its dark blue awnings hanging over the cheerfully lit windows.

“Before we go in, I have to ask—was she named Stormy or is it a nickname?” Emilia asked.

“Her mother named her Victoria, which she hates, by the way. Apparently, she had terrible temper tantrums as a kid. Her brother started calling her Vic-stormia, and Stormy stuck.”

“I suppose Stormy is better than Vicky.”

“If you ever feel like living on the edge, call her that.” Morgan opened the door, and as Emilia stepped through it, she caught some faint hint of scent. Floral. Sweet. Emilia’s perfume, or maybe just a fancy brand of shampoo—whatever it was, it inspired the unhelpful urge to lean in and breathe deeply.

“Boifriend!” Stormy waved from behind the bar. A red bandana held her tempestuous black curls in place. Morgan caught Emilia’s raised eyebrow at Stormy’s exuberant greeting.

“Boi with an ‘i.’ It’s a long story,” Morgan said as she approached the bar.

“Not really,” said Stormy. Only two other customers were in the shop, which didn’t bode well for business. It also gave Stormy an excuse to insert herself into their conversation. “Morgan’s my stand-in partner. Whenever some creep hits on me, I tell him about my big, strong, truck-driving boyfriend.” She snapped the bar towel at Morgan’s biceps.

“Ouch.” She rubbed the spot where the towel had hit.

“One time, I had a customer who just wouldn’t let it go, and Morgan happened to be here . . .”