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Dedication

For readers who love difficult heroines and isolated settings. I see you. I am you. But especially to May Chen, for staying calm when my insecurities flared. You are amazing and I’m lucky to have you on my side.

Chapter 1

Connor Rye arrived on Whitaker Island a little after eight on an unseasonably warm fall evening. He knew the temperature was not the norm because all eleven people he met in and around the marina where the ferry landed told him exactly that. Then they asked if he, by chance, had a brother who once stayed on the island. As soon as he answered yes, the conversation took a sharp left turn into a discussion about his older sibling.

Happened every single time. Connor grew up listening to his parents, teachers, friends, and many women talk about Hansen’s general greatness. Not that Connor minded . . . that much. He’d counted himself as his big brother’s number one fan, or at least he had until Hansen got engaged after a whirlwind romance that started right here on Whitaker.

If island legend was correct—and he’d gotten an earful about that, too—the romance blossomed in the same cabin where Connor now stood. Probably around the two-burner stove he was leaning against.

Connor shot up straight and wiped his palms on his jeans because thinking about his brother’s love life was not a thing he did—ever—and he really didn’t want a mental play-by-play now.

He traveled to Whitaker for a much-needed break. He’d been on a wild roller-coaster ride of work and grief for almost two years. Twenty-three months and seven days to be exact. But who was counting?

He’d buried himself in the day-to-day operations of the family business while straining to keep everyone around him moving forward and, damn, he was exhausted. Haunted and bone tired. Completely out of gas and aching for normal.

So tonight he craved quiet. He really hoped for a few weeks of relaxation, but relaxation wasn’t exactly his area of expertise. He’d settle for anything that sounded close. Tomorrow he’d set out, meet people, buy groceries, and otherwise pretend to be friendly when he felt anything but. Tonight . . . nothing.

He unloaded the last of the few provisions he’d brought with him at Hansen’s suggestion. The first of many hints and interruptions over the last few days because his big brother had an equally big control issue. He’d texted up until Connor’s flight took off from Washington, D.C. to Seattle, and again as Connor stepped on the ferry from Seattle to Whitaker. A never-ending trail of texts filled with instructions and a few warnings about not messing up the place. One pointed out that the house was on sibling loan only and not to get too comfortable.

Uh-huh. Noted.