Tara hadn’t taken her eyes off Mia, and she was looking nervous too, her eyes misty. “You’re so beautiful,” she whispered.

Mia’s eyes cut to her, quiet and assessing. “I look like you.”

“Not as much as you look like…”

They both turned to Ford.

Having the woman he’d once loved with painful desperation, along with the daughter he’d dreamed about, both looking at him with varying degrees of emotion, was a punch in the solar plexus. Ford found he could scarcely breathe.

“Can I hug you?” Tara asked their daughter.

Mia gave a halting nod, but it was too late; they’d all seen the hesitation. Awkwardness settled over them all as Mia moved into Tara for a quick embrace. Ford was next, and he was surprised that with him Mia didn’t seem awkward at all. Anxious, even eager, but not reluctant, and as he wrapped his arms around this thin, beautiful teenager that was his—Christ, his—he closed his eyes and breathed her in. “How did you find us?”

Mia pulled back and shifted her weight nervously, although her voice never wavered. “I thought I’d tell you after I got hired.”

Bold. Ballsy. Probably she’d gotten a double whammy of both of those things from the gene pool, Ford thought.

“I only have seven weeks,” Mia said, and Tara’s hand went to her chest as if to keep her heart from leaping out.

Ford understood the panic. Hell, he felt it as his own. When Mia had been young, she’d had heart problems. A leaky valve that had required surgery. The only reason either Ford or Tara knew about it was because Tara’s mother had donated a very large chunk of money to the medical bills, taking a second mortgage on the inn to get it—something that had only been discovered after Phoebe had died.

“What’s the matter?” Tara asked Mia, voice thick with worry. “Your heart again?”

“No. I’m doing my senior year of high school in Spain as an exchange student, and I’ll be gone for nine months.”

“Oh.” At this, Tara sagged in visible relief.

“So you’re healthy then?” Ford asked Mia. “Everything’s good?”

“Yep. I haven’t had so much as a cold in years.”

“That’s wonderful,” Tara said. “And your parents are okay with you doing this? Coming here to meet us?”

Another slight hesitation. “Well, they wanted to come with me,” Mia admitted. “To be sure I’d be welcome, but I wanted to do this alone.” Something came into her eyes at that. More nerves. And a dash of defensiveness.

And there was something else, too, Ford noticed. Whenever Mia spoke, she did so directly to him, not Tara. Almost as if Mia somehow resented the mother who’d given her up, but not her birth father.

Worse, given the look on Tara’s face, she knew it too, and was miserable about it. Up until now Ford had caught only glimpses of the guilt that haunted Tara, but seeing it etched so deeply on her face squeezed his heart.

“My parents know I’m applying for work,” Mia told them. “They’ve agreed that I can drive back and forth from Seattle to Lucky Harbor. If, you know, I get the job.”

Smooth, Ford thought. Also from the gene pool.

“I’ll hire you,” Tara said softly. “If that’s what you want, to work for me.”

“Really?” For a beat, the cool, tough-girl expression fell away from Mia, revealing a heartbreaking vulnerability.

“Of course,” Tara said.

“But… you don’t even know my real skills. Or me.”

“You came all this way,” Ford said quietly. “Don’t lose your nerve now.”

Mia turned to him, studying his face like she’d been hungry for the sight of it as he’d been for hers.

“You’re hired,” Tara said. “I can teach you what you need to know. And then maybe by the end of the summer, you’ll be able to write a real résumé, with real experience.”

“Thanks,” Mia said, looking slightly softer. Younger. “And don’t worry. I’m real organized and a big planner. My parents tell everyone I’m anal, and it’s sorta true.”

“One guess as to where you got that,” Ford said.

Tara slid him a long look, making him smile.

“I think I’m more like you,” Mia said, looking at Ford.

Tara looked away at the quick hurt of that, and Ford felt unaccustomedly helpless, not sure how to breach the gap between mother and daughter.

“Excuse me, Ms. Daniels?” Carlos called from the marina office door. He was in baggy homeboy jeans and a T-shirt that advertised some surf shop in Cabo. His dark hair was in spikes today, his earrings and eyebrow piercing all black to match his untied, high-top Nikes. He’d been cleaning windows in the morning sun, and his arms and face gleamed with sweat. “You have a phone call.”

Mia looked at him, and then kept looking.

“Thanks, Carlos,” Tara said. “Can you take a message?”

The teen nodded, his gaze falling to Mia, meeting her outwardly curious gaze.

“Mia, this is Carlos,” Tara said, introducing them. “He works for the inn part time as well.”

Carlos smiled, and to Ford, the expression had horny teenager written all over it. A very new and entirely surprising emotion hit Ford squarely between the eyes.

Paternal protectiveness.

Which was ridiculous. Hell, when he’d been Carlos’ age, he’d looked at Tara just like that. He’d also done a hell of a lot more than just look.

“I’m going to start planting those seedlings,” Carlos said to Tara. “You said it was a two-person job, but everyone’s busy so…”

“I could help,” Mia piped up.

“No!” Tara and Ford said at the same time. Ford let out a breath. That settled it. He was going to have to kill Carlos. He glanced over at Tara and found her wearing what he imagined was a matching scowl to his.

Luckily, before either of them could do or say anything stupid, Mia’s stomach growled into the silence.

“Oh, Sugar,” Tara exclaimed. “You’re hungry! Come on, come up to the inn. I’ll get you some breakfast.”

“But the planting,” Mia said, still looking at Carlos.

“Maybe later,” Tara said.

Much later, Ford thought. Like never.

Tara hustled them all into the kitchen. Well, except Carlos. Carlos she sent on a run into town on an errand. When he was gone, Tara sat Mia at the table and pulled ingredients out of the fridge until she had a mountain of food on the island. “What would you like? Omelets? Crepes? Pancakes? French toast? I have—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mia said. She and Ford watched as Tara went to work, her hands a blur. “Anything’s fine. So about you two. Are you… a two?”

“Veggie and cheese omelets?” Tara asked, looking a little desperate for a subject change. “With turkey bacon and fresh fruit?”

“Okay.” Mia hesitated and then glanced at Ford. “Is she always like this?” she whispered.

Crazy? Yes. Often. “She loves to cook.”

Mia nodded, glancing at the newspaper that had been left on the table. “Is this for real?”

Ford looked over her shoulder. “What?”

Mia pointed to an article on the front page and read: “It’s neck and neck between two fine stallions in the race for Lucky Harbor’s Beach Resort owner Tara Daniels’ heart. Which sexy hunk will make it to the finish line? The NASCAR cutie Logan Perrish or our own sailing hottie, Ford Walker? This just could be a photo finish, folks. Be sure to vote in our new poll, up on Facebook now. We’re looking for donations of a buck a vote. The pot goes to the pediatric cancer research center at General, so don’t be shy. We all have a buck to give, right? Vote now.” Mia lifted her gaze and stared at Ford and Tara. “Is this about you guys?”

Ford looked for the byline. Lucille Oldenburg. Nosy old bat.

Behind the stovetop, Tara had gone utterly still, her eyes horrified. “Are you kidding me?”

“Nope,” Mia said. “It’s all right here in black and white. Who’s Logan Perrish? Cuz it also says he spent two hours of his time graciously signing autographs—and bikinis—on the beach yesterday.”

Tara closed her eyes. “He’s my ex-husband.”

Mia turned to Ford. “You’re in competition with her ex-husband? For real?”

“It’s a joke.” He wondered if Jax would find him a good criminal defender after he killed Lucille.

Mia glanced at the paper thoughtfully. “Do you think you’re winning?” she asked Ford. “In the poll?”

“Pay no attention to that,” Tara said, pointing with her spatula. “I’m not seeing either of them.”

Mia looked at Ford.

Tara looked at him, too, sending him a silent plea to back her up. He refused to, on the grounds that… hell. He had no idea. But when he remained silent, Tara let out a noise that managed to perfectly convey what she thought of him. He was pretty sure he knew what that might be.

“So you’re not dating each other?” Mia asked Ford.

“No,” Tara said, answering for him.

“But if you’re not seeing each other, why were you kissing on the dock?”

“Do you prefer Swiss, mozzarella, or American cheese in your omelet?” Tara asked a bit desperately, turning to the refrigerator again.

“I don’t care.” Mia was still looking at Ford. “So have you two been… not seeing each other all this time? The past seventeen years?”

“No,” Tara said. “Yes. Wait a minute.” She pressed her fingertips to her eyes. “Can you rephrase the question?”

“Until about six months ago, Tara lived in Texas,” Ford told Mia. “And I lived here.”

“So you two were never together?” Mia asked. “Not even when… you know. When I was conceived?”

Ford drew in a deep breath. This part was going to suck. “We were seventeen,” he said.

Mia nodded. “Like me.”

Yes, and he wasn’t proud to say that he’d been far too experienced for his age. He’d lost his virginity two years prior, after being seduced by a sexy waitress who’d promised to rock his world. She had. For one entire glorious spring break, she’d rocked everything he had.

But Tara hadn’t been experienced. At all. He had no idea how, but she’d seen something in him that had inspired her trust. “We were too young for the kind of relationship that we found ourselves in,” he said carefully. Please read between the lines and never have sex.

Ever.

“Yeah,” Mia said quietly. “I figured I was an accident. A really big one.”

“No,” Tara said fiercely.

“It’s okay,” Mia said. “The whole giving-me-up thing was a dead giveaway.” She shrugged as she looked at a stricken Tara. “You needed to fix a mistake quick, so you gave me up. Easy enough.”

Christ, those eyes, Ford thought. The both of them were killing him. “It wasn’t easy,” he said, hoping to God that Mia believed him. “And it wasn’t about us giving you up to make things better for us. It was about making things right for you.”

Tara had turned to blindly face the window, completely ignoring what she was cooking.

Ford imagined she was feeling sick over the same thing. Heartbreaking to hear that the child they’d given up was thinking that it had been an easy fix. More heartbreak that she’d felt unwanted, even for a minute.

“I think I forgot to do the dishes this morning in the cottage,” Tara whispered. “I should go check.”

Ford would bet his last penny that she’d done every dish in the place and he stood to go to her, but, eyes glittering, mouth grim, she shook her head.

They’d been kids when she’d gotten pregnant. Stupid kids. That was no longer the case, and yet the situation was bringing back all the emotions from that time—the fear, the stress, the anxiety.

The utter helplessness.

And that overwhelming, ever-present, life-sucking guilt. Looking at Tara, Ford saw it all. He knew that she felt that they’d done the right thing. She’d always felt that way. But any woman would still feel the pang of giving up her own flesh and blood. She’d carried Mia, had been the one to feel her wriggle and kick, to feel her every hiccup.

And then had been left with little choice but to sign her away.

“I smell something burning,” Mia said, and pointed to the stovetop, which was now smoking.

Yep, something was burning all right. Ford stepped behind Tara, took the spatula out of her hand, and turned off the burner. He carried the pan, and the blackened omelet in it, to the sink, where it hissed and smoked some more when he added cold water to the mix.

“I burnt it,” Tara murmured.

“Yeah,” Mia said, eyeing the pan. “You killed it dead.”

“I never burn anything.”

“No biggie,” Mia said quietly. “I wasn’t that hungry anyway. Should I go?”

“No.” Tara straightened, seeming to come into herself again. “Mia, my burning breakfast was an accident. Like forgetting to go to the dentist. Like running out of gas on the highway…” She paused and swallowed hard. “But having a baby, that would never be classified as an accident. Not by me. I want you to know that. I’m not good at this. At revisiting the past, or talking about things that—I’m not good at emotions and feelings. But I want—I need you to know that I never thought of you as an accident. And I want you to stay.”