The sharp whistle of the teakettle pulled Hayden Green’s attention from her book. She made the short trek to her kitchen, flipped the gas burner off and reached for her waiting teacup.

      Through the driving rain, she could barely make out the shape of the market across the street and yet her senses prickled. Stepping closer to her upstairs window, she squinted at the street below and found her senses were, as usual, spot-on.

      In the deluge lurked a figure. Right outside her yoga studio. It was a man, most definitely, his dark leather jacket unable to hide the breadth of his shoulders.

      She pressed her forehead against the pane to get a better look, confident he couldn’t see her since the kitchen light was off. He tilted his head back; the street light overhead illuminating him as the rain splashed his upturned face and closed eyelids.

      Hayden recognized her unexpected visitor instantly. “Tate Duncan, what are you doing?”

      Tate’s reputation had reached almost mythical proportions on Spright Island. He owned the island, so everyone knew him or knew of him, anyway. Hayden was somewhere in between. She knew of him—of his legendary pushbacks on the laws that stated their community had to have standard streetlamps and ugly yellow concrete curbs. Tate had fought for, and won, the right to design streetlamps that were art sculptures and to install curbs of sparkling quartz. He’d personally overseen every detail because to him, the details mattered.

      Hayden had been romanced by SWC. It was a relaxing, serene place to live—a retreat from bustling city life. She had been born in Seattle into a busy, distracting, dysfunctional household, and had longed her entire adult life to be somewhere less busy and distracting.

      When she’d learned about Spright Island’s wellness community a year and a half ago, she’d come to visit. Days later, she’d taken out as big a business loan as the bank would give her and leased the space for her yoga studio. She’d quit her job at the YMCA, finagled her way out of her Seattle apartment’s lease and moved here with minimal belongings.

      It’d been her fresh start.

      Shortly after, Tate had stopped by her studio to personally welcome her to the neighborhood and invite her to a wine tasting happening that weekend at Summer’s Market. It was a kindness she hadn’t expected, and without it, she might never have met and grown to know her neighbors.

      She rarely saw a suit and tie step foot into a yoga studio, so Tate’s presence had garnered every ounce of her attention. One of his signature quick, potent smiles later, she’d promptly lost any train of thought she’d had. As it turned out, the legendary Tate Duncan was also stupidly attractive, and when he smiled, that attractiveness doubled.

      She’d grown used to his presence around town, if not his mind-numbing male beauty. She and Tate had bumped into each other several times in town, from the market to the restaurant to her favorite café. He’d always offered a smile and asked her how the studio was doing. Come to think of it, it’d been a while since she’d spoken to him. She’d seen him in recent weeks—or was that a month ago?—when she’d left the post office. He’d had his cell phone to his ear and was talking to someone, a deep frown marring his perfect brow.

      He’d scanned the road and she’d waved when his eyes reached her, but he didn’t react at all, only kept talking on the phone. It was strange behavior for Tate, but she’d written it off.

      But now, watching him stand in the rain and willingly get soaked, she wondered if his behavior that day had been strange after all. She glanced over at her teakettle, considering. It wouldn’t hurt to invite him in for a cup...

      Once he’d gone out of his way to make her feel welcome. The least she could do was offer him a friendly ear to bend. Just in case he needed one.

      She bypassed her front door for the door next to her coat closet. It led to a private staircase and down to her yoga studio. She shared the building with a few other businesses, but her apartment was in a hallway all its own. The attached studio and private entryway were her favorite aspects of the unique building.

      Downstairs, she flipped on the studio’s overhead lights and Tate blinked over at her, recognition dawning. He lifted a hand in a semblance of a wave, like he was embarrassed to be caught outside her place of business.

      The stirring of her senses reinforced her instincts to come down here. Tate needed someone to talk to even more than he needed a warm space to dry off.

      She unlocked the door and held it open for him, tipping her head to invite him in. “Wet night for a walk.”

      He ran a hand through his soaking hair and offered a chagrined twist of his lips, a far cry from the genuine smile he’d given her almost every other time she’d seen him.

      He wore dark pants and shoes, his leather coat zipped to his chin. Her day had been packed with errands, so she still wore her jeans and soft, cream-colored sweater from earlier. If she’d greeted him wearing her usual—leggings and slouchy sweatshirt, minus the bra—he wouldn’t have been the only one of them embarrassed.

      “My teakettle whistled and then I spotted you down here. You look like you could use a warm drink.”

      “Do I?” He palmed his neck and glanced behind him. Maybe she’d misread this situation after all.

      “Unless you’re waiting for someone?”

      She’d seen him in town with a waifish blonde woman a handful of times. Claire, Hayden had gleaned. Tate’s girlfriend and very recently, fiancée. The other woman seemed proper and rigid, and Hayden’s first thought was that she was an odd match for the always bright and cheery Tate...though he wasn’t bright or cheery at the moment.

      “No. I was at the Pony,” he said of the restaurant up the hill from here. “The