“Thank you.” She whipped the towel over the side of the door and around her body. Now please leave.

“No problem. I’ve got some clothes, too. They’ll probably be too big, but they’re dry.”

“I don’t—” she began, but a green flannel shirt and a scuffed pair of work pants followed Morgan’s words. She contemplated putting her wet clothes back on. The idea felt childish as well as cold, and so she shrugged into the soft, worn shirt and tried to ignore the shiver of gratitude from her traitorous body. The fabric smelled like pine and salt and something else—sandalwood? She shook her head to free her hair from the collar. The pants, unlike the oversized men’s shirt, fit snugly. Almost too snugly. She cursed Morgan’s slimmer hips as she shimmied into the dungarees.

Nell thrust her snout into her hand when she emerged, barefoot and still shivering, into the darkness of the boathouse.

“Still alive,” she told the dog as she shoved her feet into her sodden sneakers. Morgan was nowhere in sight. “Think we can sneak away?”

Her dog licked the lingering salt from her skin and did not offer comment, but hearing her own words out loud sobered Emilia more than the cold water. Her humiliation was no excuse for downright hostility. She owed Morgan a thank you for the clothes, and more importantly, slipping away would make her look even more ridiculous than she already did. She squared her shoulders and walked out of the boathouse.

The tiny Seal Cove marina boasted lockers, a bathroom and shower, complimentary parking, and a few picnic tables in various stages of decay. Morgan sat at one of the tables idly scratching her dog’s ears. The easy confidence in the way she lounged on the bench made Emilia want to grind her teeth. She would kill for an ounce of that self-assurance. Instead, her feet slipped in her wet sneakers, and her soaked clothing dripped from her hands.

“Better?” asked Morgan.

“Yes. Thank you for . . . well, you know.”

“No problem. Do you need a ride?”

Shit. Her keys, wallet, and phone were still in the boat, and her skiff bobbed on the mooring out of reach and probably taking on water. She could wait around until Morgan left and then borrow another skiff, retrieve her possessions, and pretend that none of this had ever happened, or she could ask Morgan for more help. Not happening.

“I’m fine.”

“You keep mentioning that.”

“I mean, I don’t need a ride. I walked here. You don’t need me taking up any more of your time.”

“Actually, you’re doing me a favor. I’m avoiding my least favorite social event of the year.”

“High school reunion?” Emilia guessed, wondering how she could get out of this increasingly mortifying situation.

“I think you have to go to an event for it to get ranked, and I’ve managed to avoid those reunions. I’m Morgan, by the way. You might not remember me, but you’re Ray’s daughter, Emilia, aren’t you?”