“What do you think?” Kit asks. I jump, turning around. He’s wearing a gray pullover and jeans.

“Nice,” I say. “Actually, pretty dreamy.” I turn away so he can’t see my smile.

“Me or the condo?”

My smile turns to a frown. It’s not fair that he always catches me.

“Both,” I sigh. When I turn around he’s staring at me. He looks sleepy and sexy.

He nods. “My uncle loved it. He restored the whole place. He owned the building and left each of his nephews a unit when he died.

“How did he die?”

“Pancreatic cancer. He was forty-five.”

I sit on the couch, and he goes to the kitchen to make coffee. While it brews he builds a fire, and without asking me to move first, he pushes the sofa across the floor until it’s in front of the fire. I like how he just does things. Without my permission. He just knows himself. I deeply envy that.

“How’d you know to go to the docks?” I ask.

“You post pictures there all the time. It’s your go-to place.”

“Am I that transparent? God, don’t answer that.”

He sits down next to me. “Some people pay attention.”

Then he puts his hand palm up on his leg and looks at me like he expects me to hold it. I do. God, he’s so bossy. I’m mortified at myself, truly.

“Listen,” he says. “You can pretend that never happened at the restaurant. I’m sorry if me telling you that hurt you. That wasn’t my intent.”

“How’d you know about my dream?”

He squeezes my hand, his eyebrows drawing together.

“You just said you had one, and I imagined what mine would look like.”

“That’s impossible. The things you wrote were things I actually dreamt about.”

Kit shrugs. “Can’t we share the same dream?”

I swallow hard and look away. “I don’t know.”

He squeezes my knee knowingly. “I’ll get the coffee while you deal with your overload of emotions.”

“Two sugars,” I call after him.

It’s funny, but also not. How does he know that stuff?

And that’s how we end the night. Sitting on the sofa in front of the fire, drinking coffee and listening to the sound of each other’s voices. Afterward, Kit walks me back to the cannery and gives me a hug goodbye. Della has been blowing up my phone: twelve texts and four missed calls. I feel guilt creep into my belly. They’re not together, I tell myself. But that’s lousy reasoning. A slippery slope. I’ve known her since we were kids. My loyalty is supposed to be with Della; chicks before dicks. Is that even realistic? Humans seek connection above all else, and we are willing to destroy things to attain it. I decide not to answer Della. Not until I’ve had time to process what Kit said. I put my phone on silent and crawl into bed a guilty woman.

I’m locking up the gallery the following night, struggling not to drop my purse or the bags of trash I’m holding, when I get a text from Kit. His text tone is set to a train whistle. Every time I hear the whistle I look around in alarm for its source. It makes me laugh, though I’m always mildly embarrassed at myself. Kit has sent a picture. I let everything drop to the sidewalk, suddenly unconcerned. The picture is of his building, the creams and blues outlined in front of a malevolent gray sky. Did he just take this? It feels like a booty call, even though I’ve never given him booty. What does it make me if I go?

I take my time walking down Main Street, stopping to glance in store windows while carefully examining the quality of my heart. My heart is in deep conflict with my mind. I feel weak and foolish. Selfish. Disloyal. I feel like the kind of girl other girls talk about. I stop at the corner, a choice to make. I can continue on to the cannery, or I can cross the street and visit with Kit Isley.

He is waiting downstairs to let me into the building. We exchange only a look as I step inside. I can smell him right away—gasoline and pine. He’s wearing a dark blue athletic shirt with yellow trim around the collar.

“How did you know I’d come?”

“I didn’t. I was hoping.”

Hoping. I spend most days fighting my feelings for him, making up my mind to never see him again. By evening, I fold like wet paper. My will is soggy, and my morals smudged.

Upstairs, he has a fire going, and I can smell something delicious.

“You cooked!” I exclaim.

“Something I caught with my own hands.”

“Mmmhmmm. I’ve heard that before.” I stand outside the kitchen to check out his setup, but he grabs the tops of my arms and steers me away.

“Give me a minute,” he says. “It’s almost ready.”

“How do you know I’m even hungry?” I ask, because it seems like the thing to ask now.

“You’re always hungry.”

He’s right.

A few minutes later he carries out two plates and sets them on TV trays that still have price tags hanging on them. He goes back to the kitchen for the wine.

“You have skills,” I tell him. He grins as he pours my wine and hands it to me.

“That’s from Marrowstone Vineyards,” I say. “Demise of your relationship. Thanks for telling me about that, by the way. She almost had a mental breakdown when we went.”

Kit shrugs. “You can remember the bad things about a place, or you can remember the good. Sometimes they’re tied together. That makes it even more interesting.”