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the eastern wind and taken up residence in your town, and I am an interloper. But I am not the scoundrel you suppose me to be, and I am here with honorable intent. I have committed no crimes except for unbearably poor timing and abysmal communication skills. I desperately long to set things right with Amelia, to reveal to her the truth behind our regrettable row. I hurt her, and it deeply pains me.”
    He swallowed, took a drink of his root beer. Met her gaze again. “However, I promise you this. If Amelia, bearing all the facts of my case, still chooses to reject me, I will walk away and be content to leave her in peace, despite my broken heart.”
    Something flickered in Claire’s eye. A flare of trust?
    “I humbly ask if you will give me a chance to prove myself, to do as Jensen suggests and earn the respect of the Christiansen family and win back Amelia’s trust. I promise I will not let you down. Nor Amelia.”
    Claire stared at him. Jensen didn’t move.
    He felt it then, the weight of what he’d come to do. To prove not only to Amelia, not only to her family, but apparently to the entire town that he could win the heart of the damsel of Deep Haven   —and deserved to do so.
    Finally, from Claire: “Okay, then. Jens, please pass Roark some more bread.”

    National Geographic wouldn’t come in search of Amelia or laud her photographic achievements after today’s not-so-epic shots of Troop 168 and their buckets of sudsy water, but it might be enough to land her the freelance job at the Deep Haven Herald .
    “Lindy! Alice! Marissa! Show me some smiles and hold up your sponges!” Amelia positioned herself on top of the fire truck, capturing the gap-toothed joy of the soggy Girl Scouts as they scrubbed Edith Draper’s Ford Escape. Water sprayed into the cool air, caught by the breeze and turning to kaleidoscope bubbles against the blue sky and laughter of the fifteen-plus girls working the crowd in the Deep Haven EMS parking lot. A small line of locals, pledging their support of the troop’s fund-raiser for a playground addition, stood around slurping coffee, holding ten-spots, and waiting their turn to get their vehicle sudsed up and sprayed down.
    And Amelia caught it all   —or most of it   —for posterity.
    She supposed it could be worse   —her tryout for the editor might have been during a council meeting or the annual garden club show. Although extreme close-ups of prizewinning roses did pose a unique challenge. Too bad journalistic photos and macro photography didn’t exactly overlap.
    Amelia climbed down from the truck and scanned through her pictures. A few of the girls spraying water on each other, a few more with them crowded together, sponges raised. Football coach Caleb Knight and his wife, Issy, eating donuts with the pastor’s wife, Ellie   —her daughter was one of the older scouts. A couplebubbles drifting into the sky, the sheen of the sun glinting off the surface; she probably wouldn’t show those to Lou at the Herald .
    But nothing epic. Breathtaking. Magazine worthy.
    “Amelia, look out!”
    She looked up, searching for the voice just as water showered her, cold, sharp, dousing her T-shirt, her jeans. “Hey!” She tucked her camera away, turning fast.
    “Sorry!”
    This from one of the girls, her blonde hair plastered to her head from the hose war she’d just waged with her cohort.
    Amelia forced a smile instead of stringing the girl up by her multi-badged sash. “That’s okay.”
    “Babe, you look good soggy,” Seth called from where he was selling raffle tickets for the fire department in the open bay area. Wearing his turnout pants, red suspenders dangling, and a tight white T-shirt, his blond hair tucked under a patriotic bandanna, he probably sold double the usual raffle take. Especially when he grinned, his teeth white against his tanned face.
    He should be on a poster somewhere, for pete’s sake.
    Now he sauntered over, picking up a dry towel on his way. Her