Page 4 of Our Bay Will Come

"You have no idea." His voice drops an octave, and my body responds embarrassingly fast.

I clear my throat. "So, construction. You work with Rowan?"

"Yeah, Cedar Bay Construction. The three of us—me, Rowan, and Cole—started it after we got out of the Army."

"And you like it here? In this tiny town where everyone knows your business?"

He shrugs. "It has its moments. The fishing's good."

"Riveting endorsement."

His mouth quirks. "Not everyone needs the buzz of a big city to be happy, Prue."

"I'd go stir-crazy. Seattle's barely big enough some days." I take another bite, avoiding his eyes. "I miss Cilla, though. It's weird not having her nearby. We've never lived this far apart."

"You two are close?"

"She's my best friend, not just my sister." I smile, thinking of her. "I was so proud when she got the teaching position at St. Agnes, but I hate that she's out in the middle of nowhere."

"Ouch." Fox presses a hand to his chest. "Tell me how you really feel about my hometown."

I wince. "Sorry. I just meant?—"

"I know what you meant." He sets his plate down. "Cedar Bay isn't Seattle, but it's not exactly the backwoods. We have indoor plumbing and everything."

"Now, who's being defensive?" I challenge.

He concedes with a tilt of his head. "Touché."

"Cilla seems happy here," I admit. "I just don't understand the appeal."

You may need a better tour guide than your sister. Those dogs of hers aren't exactly showcasing the nightlife."

I laugh. "Are you volunteering?"

"Could be." He moves closer until he's standing between my knees. "Give me a weekend. I'll change your mind about Cedar Bay."

His proximity is distracting. "I doubt that."

"Is that a challenge, Griffin?" His hands rest lightly on my thighs, warm through the fabric of his shirt.

"It's an impossibility." I set my fork down. "I'm a city girl. Always have been, always will be."

"Never say never." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "People change."

"Not me." I shake my head. "I like knowing my neighbors don't know when I come home or who I'm with."

"Privacy has its perks," he agrees. "But so does community."

"Says the man who claims everyone thinks he's an asshole."

"I said most people. Not everyone." His thumb traces circles on my bare thigh. "The ones who matter know better."

Something in his eyes makes me want to look away—a certainty, a patience that suggests he's playing a longer game than I am.

"I should go," I say, but make no move to leave.

"Probably," he agrees, leaning closer. "But you haven't finished your pancakes."

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