“Bree, we were kids,” he said from behind her. “Don’t tell me you’re still holding a grudge.”

She kept moving.

“I tried to apologize,” he said. “Did you get my letter?”

She was good at walking away from her own anger. She’d spent ten years doing exactly that. Ten years pretending she didn’t know Scott was a serial cheater. Ten years avoiding a confrontation that would end her marriage. And look where it had gotten her. Exactly nowhere.

She whipped around. “Do you still spy on people, Mike? Are you still the same sneaky rat now that you were then?”

“I had a crush on you,” he said, as if that justified everything. “The older woman.”

A year older. She dug her fingernails into her palms. “So you went to my mother and told her you’d seen David and me together. Great way to get the girl.”

“I thought if the two of you broke up, I’d have a chance.”

“Never in a million years.”

Once again, he dug his hands in his pockets. “I was seventeen, Bree. I can’t change the past. What I did was wrong, and all I can do now is say I’m sorry.”

She and David hadn’t suspected Mike was spying on them that night when they hid in the dunes and made love. Mike had gone to her mother the next day, and Bree had been sent off the island that same afternoon into exile at her horrible Aunt Rebecca’s in Battle Creek. Bree had never come back to the island, not until three weeks ago when she’d gotten word that Myra had died and left Bree responsible for her grandson.

Mike pulled his hands from his pockets. “Let me help you with Toby.”

“I don’t need your help. Leave us alone.”

He rubbed his gold bracelet with his thumb. “I care about the kid.”

“I’m sure it’s good for your image in the community to pretend to watch out for poor orphans.”

He didn’t display even a flicker of shame. “I knew you wouldn’t roll out the welcome mat for me, but I thought maybe we could work together on this.”

“You thought wrong.”

He gazed around at the weedy yard and small honey house with its peeling white paint and sagging tin roof. A gust of wind stirred the leaves but didn’t disturb his expensive haircut. “You won’t get much for this place if you try to sell it. There’s no water view, no beach access, and the cottage needs work.”

He wasn’t telling her anything she hadn’t already figured out. Unlucky in love and in real estate—that was her. The bank had foreclosed on the five-million-dollar house she and Scott had bought in Bloomfield Hills. The last she’d heard, they’d listed it for one-point-three million and still couldn’t move it.