“That shandy really is spectacular,” she says enthusiastically, squeezing my hand as we walk past the infamous chicken coop and toward the cabins. “And the whole barn is so beautiful. Can’t you just imagine people coming in from the city? You know, stay at the cabins, go to the brewery. People would love it.”

“People like you?” I ask.

She blushes again, toying with a loose strand of caramel-colored hair that’s blowing around her face. “I’ve certainly enjoyed my stay here, if that’s what you mean.”

What I mean is will you come back and never, ever leave? But that seems a little aggressive. So I say instead, “We’ll be ready whenever you decide to come back.”

“We?” She pauses, assessing me with dark, inquisitive eyes. “Aren’t you headed back to Boston too?”

“Yeah, soon,” I say, because I’m not ready to discuss the idea that I might want to stick around here more permanently. “For now, I think I’m going to be splitting my time when I can. Fly out here during the off season and holidays and all that.” I pause, kicking the gravel with the side of my boot before adding, “Maybe you could join me.”

“We’re not all hockey players,” she reminds me. “Owning my own business means my paid time off is nonexistent. And last I checked, there aren’t a whole lot of athletes that need counseling in Lost Haven.”

I raise the hand that’s not laced with hers. “There’s at least one.”

She laughs, and it warms me up quicker than a beer around a bonfire.

Two weeks ago, this girl was a total stranger. An unwelcome guest in my family home. And here we are, our fingers laced so tightly together that you’d think we’d never let go. And maybe we’re not supposed to. Maybe whatever we have will transfer back to Boston.

A guy can dream, right?

“Well, this is my stop,” she says, pulling me from my daydream.

We’re already back at her cabin. But I don’t want the night to be over, especially not if she was serious about leaving tomorrow.

“I guess it is,” I grumble, cursing myself for not walking slower.

I don’t want her to go. Not into her cabin, and not back to Boston. But I have no right asking her to stay.

Heaving out a sigh, I run my thumb along her soft, sensitive palm one last time. “Have a good night, Summer. I’ll see you in the morning before you go?”

But several heartbeats later, neither of us has moved. We’re frozen in this moment, and with every passing second, I’m slipping deeper into her chocolate-colored eyes.

Should I say something? Do something? Beg her again to come back to my cabin and to never leave my side?

God, even in my head I sound so desperate.