Finally, I decide I’ve waited long enough and make my way over.

Jonah’s leaning against his truck, an easy smile touching his lips as he listens to Mabel prattle on. I’m halfway across the lawn when he notices me coming, and begins stealing frequent glances my way.

“They let you drive yourself home?” I holler, struggling to keep my pace slow and casual. As if I haven’t been silently counting down the hours, anxious for him to get home.

He eases off the truck to stand taller and takes steps toward me. “Who was gonna stop me?” He’s not wearing any bandages. A thin, tidy line of black stitches runs across his forehead, about an inch below his hairline. The cut is smaller than I expected it to be, for as much blood as it produced. Still, it looks like it’d be painful. Most of the blood has been washed from his skin, but his beard is matted and sticking together in crimson clumps.

A bite my lip against a smile as a fresh wave of relief and happiness washes over me. I nod toward his forehead. “How many?”

“Just nine. Should heal up nicely.” His lips part with a sly smile. “Doc said it’ll only add to my good looks. I think she was flirting with me.”

“Right. Of course she was.” I roll my eyes but laugh. “And every-thing else was fine?”

“Shoulder’s a bit sore but doesn’t look like anything’s torn. I was lucky.”

“I’ll say.” Again, I think of how today could have gone, and I shudder.

“Come and see Wren’s porch!” Mabel insists, reaching for his hand.

“Later, kiddo,” he says, dropping my dad’s pet name for her. “I’ve gotta shower and change. Maybe take a nap.” The dark navy of his cotton shirt hides the bloodstains well, but not completely. He nods to something in the distance, smirking. “Looks like someone’s interested in seeing it, though.”

We turn to see Bandit scampering toward my dad’s house.

“The chips!” Mabel exclaims and takes off running.

Jonah chuckles. “He’s gonna eat well while you’re around.”

“Whatever. He can have it all. I’m not hungry after today.” I wrap my arms around myself to ward off the chill in the wind.

He opens his mouth to say something, but then seems to change his mind. Reaching through his driver’s-side window, he pulls out a red-and-black-checkered flannel jacket and tosses it to me. “Figured you didn’t want your sweater back. It’s the smallest they had. Should fit.”

“Wow. It’s . . . Thanks.” I slide my arms into the sleeves and tug it on, reveling in the soft material against my fingertips. “Now I look like I belong here.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he says, but he’s smiling.

“Do you know when my dad’s coming home?”

“Probably a while, still. FAA cleared us to take off again.”

“Yeah, we’ve been seeing planes for the last hour.” My dad has a perfect view of the skies around the airport from his porch. I can’t help but wonder if that was intentional or just a lucky coincidence when he moved here.

“He’s still dealing with the investigator, but him and that guy go way back, so hopefully that’ll speed things up. Not that there should be any problems. We’ve got all the maintenance records. Should be a quick clear for me to be back in the air.” His tone is casual. Not the tone of someone who’s rattled because he could have died today, but also not the Jonah who’s just waiting to poke at my temper.

I shake my head. He just got home from the hospital after crashing a plane and he’s already itching to get back in the air. “Freaking sky cowboys,” I mutter under my breath.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing.” I nod toward his house, hugging the jacket to my body. “Thanks again for this. You should go and rest.”

Jonah begins walking to his porch, his steps slow and seemingly reluctant.

“Hey . . . Did you get far with that website today?” he calls over his shoulder.

“Not really.”

“You’re not much for hard work, are you?”

There’s the Jonah I know. “Maybe if you’d learn how to keep a plane in the air, I wouldn’t be so distracted.”

His responding chuckle is deep and warm, and it sends a small thrill through my body. “Bring your computer over after you have dinner and we can work on it.”

I frown. “You sure?”

“Gotta get it done, right?” His pace picks up as he climbs his stairs and disappears into the house.

The skies are still bright with sunshine—deceptively so, for eight p.m.—when I leave my dad and Mabel in the living room and stroll across the marshy grass. I have a plate of leftovers in hand and my MacBook tucked under my arm. I hesitate for only a second before I rap on the door with my knuckles.

“Yeah!”

I wait another moment, listening for approaching steps.

“I’m not getting up!”

I ease the door open. The scent of lemons and mint catches my nose as I step into a tidy little kitchen that’s a duplicate of my father’s in layout and style—right down to the color of the cabinets and countertops. And yet it feels fresh and clean and new.

Probably because there isn’t an army of ducks.