Toby stared at the bike as if it would disappear the moment he looked away. She wanted to forbid him to take it, but of course she couldn’t. Mike’s ambush had made that impossible.

Toby’s voice grew small, uncertain, unable to comprehend that something so wonderful was happening to him. “For me?”

Bree blinked her eyes against a sting of tears. He’d received a gift he hadn’t needed to fight for. A gift she couldn’t have given him.

As Toby reached out to touch the handlebars, Bree understood what Toby couldn’t. The bike wasn’t being offered out of affection but as a way for Mike to horn in where he didn’t belong. He’d done the same thing when they were kids. Shown up with bags of Skittles and Lemonheads—entrance tickets to the group that wanted to exclude him.

“Brand-new,” Mike said. “I saw it when I was on the mainland yesterday and thought to myself, now who could use a great bike like that? Only one name came to mind.”

“Me,” Toby said on a long, soft breath. His lips were parted, his eyes so focused on the bike that nothing else existed. He looked exactly as David used to look when something he regarded as amazing happened. She ached with the pain of remembrance.

Mike pulled some tools from the truck bed and they worked together—man to man—to adjust the seat height. She was so angry she felt sick. She wanted to be the one giving David’s son a bicycle. She wanted to be the one who made Toby’s world brighter, not this master manipulator with his overpowering cologne, designer logos, and oily charm.

Toby mounted the bike. As his spindly legs found the pedals, Mike pointed down the drive. “It’s too dark to ride on the road tonight. Give it a spin in the driveway, then try it out on the path in the woods.”

“Thanks, Mike. Thanks a lot!” Toby took off.

Mike still hadn’t acknowledged her. Only after he’d slammed the tailgate did he look in her direction. She turned away and stacked the last of the honey into a carton.

“I brought you something, too, Bree,” he said from behind her. “To help with your business.”

“I don’t want anything.” She grabbed the wheelbarrow and began pushing it through the scrubby grass. She needed to fix the doors on the storage shed behind the farm stand so she didn’t have to keep hauling everything back and forth twice a day.

“You don’t know what it is.”

“And I don’t care.” The front wheel caught in a rut, the honey jars rattled, and she barely prevented it all from overturning.

“You don’t believe in second chances, do you, Bree?”