Whenever I try to write the acknowledgments for any of my books, I am overwhelmed, thinking of all the people who help bring my stories to life. As always, I am deeply indebted to my editor, the wonderful Gail Chasan (and her assistant Megan Broderick); to my agent, the indomitable Karen Solem; to Sarah Burningham and her hardworking team at Little Bird Publicity, for tirelessly helping spread the word about my books; and to everyone at Harlequin—from the art department for their stunning covers to the marketing team to everyone in editorial and sales (and anyone else I have neglected to mention!). My two assistants, Judie Bouldry and Carrie Stevenson, make everything in my world so much easier and I would be completely lost without my dear friend Jill Shalvis, who sends me encouragement and virtual cookies when the words seem clogged.
Finally, I must thank my hero of a husband and our three children, who have somehow managed to put up with my deadline brain nearly sixty times now. I love you dearly.
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SOMEONE WAS TRYING to bust into the cottage next door.
Only minutes earlier, Megan Hamilton had been minding her own business, sitting on her front porch, gazing out at the stars and enjoying the peculiar quiet sweetness of a late-May evening on Lake Haven. She had earned this moment of peace after working all day at the inn’s front desk then spending the last four hours at her computer, editing photographs from Joe and Lucy White’s fiftieth anniversary party the weekend before.
Her neck was sore, her shoulders tight, and she simply wanted to savor the purity of the evening with her dog at her feet.
Unfortunately, her moment of Zen had lasted only sixty seconds before her little ancient pug, Cyrus, sat up, gazed out into the darkness and gave one small harrumphing noise before settling back down again to watch as a vehicle pulled up to the cottage next door.
Cyrus had become used to the comings and goings of their guests in the two years since he and Megan moved into the cottage after the inn’s renovations were finished. She would venture to say her pudgy little dog seemed to actually enjoy the parade of strangers who invariably stopped to greet him.
The man next door wasn’t aware of her presence, though, or that of her little pug. He was too busy trying to work the finicky lock—not an easy feat as the task typically took two hands and one of his appeared to be attached to an arm tucked into a sling.
She should probably go help him. He was obviously struggling one-handed, unable to turn the key and twist the knob at the same time.
Beyond common courtesy, there was another compelling reason she should probably get off her porch swing and assist him. He was a guest of the inn, which meant he was yet one more responsibility on her shoulders. She knew the foibles of that door handle well, since she owned the door, the porch, the house and the land that it sat on, here at Silver Beach on Lake Haven, part of the extensive grounds of the Inn at Haven Point.
She didn’t want to help him. She wanted to stay right here hidden in shadows, trying to pretend he
