Though the day had started cloudy, a light breeze had pushed the clouds to the east, revealing a baby blue sky and bringing air that you could think was actually warm. It was nearly May. Maple syrup season was over. The trees were greening up so fast you could almost see the leaves growing. Daffodils were in full bloom, tulips were coming up, and the woods would be filled with, in addition to the morel mushrooms, trout lilies and marsh marigolds and, my favorite, trilliums.

“Have you decided?” Rafe asked.

I blinked.

My mind was a million miles away, but we hadn’t gone far from the house. A hundred yards, maybe, almost to the marina where I’d formerly moored my adorable little houseboat. I was pretty sure, although not completely sure, that he hadn’t said anything else, so I took our location as a clue. “About the houseboat, you mean?”

“If you want to sell, I know a guy who might be interested.”

“Of course you do.” I took his hand. If there was ever a situation in which Rafe didn’t know a guy, I’d start looking around for zombies, because the apocalypse was surely on the horizon.

“If you don’t want to sell,” he said, “I’m okay with that, too.”

I squeezed his hand. “So if I hang on to it, and rent it for the season to someone, you won’t think I’m hedging my bets, just in case this marriage thing doesn’t work out?”

“Nope. I’ll think you’re smart. Making the most of your original investment.”

My heart sang. He really was an excellent human being. And he understood me. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

“Um.” He gave me a sidelong glance. “You already have it rented, don’t you?”

“Let’s just say everything seems to be working out,” I said smugly. But then my smugness evaporated. Because there was one thing that wasn’t working out at all.

I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and turned to him. “We need to talk about the house.”

“What about it?”

His puzzled look raised my annoyance level from flat zero to a solid seven. I did my best to push it down. “The fact that I’m not paying for any of it except for utilities. That I don’t know how much you paid for it, how much you spent on the renovations, and how much you’re paying for the mortgage. That we’re getting married in”—I did some quick mental math—“less than five months, and I don’t know what kind of debt I’m getting myself into.”

“Five months? Really?”

The annoyance level did not drop an iota. “Do not divert,” I said, and he must have finally grasped how serious I was.