The raindrops beating on the windshield softened, and eventually, she could see through the glass again. Another grey December day.

"I think it's stopped." Max had been silent for what seemed like an hour.

Arms crossed over her stomach, she tried to quell the sting of remorse over asking about his girlfriend. Curiosity had gotten the better of her, desperate to know about the woman Max had loved, was still pinning over. Bug. He'd given her a nickname. Albeit a terrible one, from Sophie's perspective. A warmth spread in her chest at the thought of his nickname for her. Sunshine. The word shouldn't have this effect, but the sheer notion of him having a nickname picked out for her caused tiny butterflies to stir in places they hadn't for years.

She glanced at the clock. "It's almost noon. Should we grab lunch?"

"I could eat."

"Not much choice in Bridgetown, other than the Waterfront Cafe."

Max rubbed his wrist. "Any place else?"

"We could hit the market, then head to the winery. Simon and Mary are away for the weekend and I'd like to see the new prep table the renovators installed yesterday." After years of working in other people's kitchens, her designs were coming to life, starting with a wide stainless steel island that would be the centerpiece of the work area. "I could make us something there."

The corners of Max's lips tipped north. "I like it. Want me to drive?"

"I got it." She started the Jeep, put it in drive and, determined to master her fears, pressed the gas pedal.

How had she gotten herself into this? Never in a million years did Sophie think she'd be living in a small town without transportation. As a child, they'd never had a car, too expensive in New York. When she moved to New Haven, it was quick and easy to take the train back home to the city. Even though Yale was surrounded by a small town, the bus system was extensive and she could get anywhere she couldn't walk to back then. Still, she always preferred to walk. Maybe it was being a New Yorker, or maybe it was her love of the outdoors.

After Thomas's death, she couldn't stand the idea of being behind the wheel of a vehicle, the risk of losing control too great. The longer the distance from driving a car, the harder it got to contemplate getting back into one.

Until she ended up living with Emily and Finn, miles away from the nearest anything. Bridgetown had exactly one bus. The Greyhound that rumbled through once a day on its way to Washington. Suddenly, she was reliant on her friends to go anywhere. One thing Sophie hated was depending on others. They might leave unexpectedly.

Christmas decorations lined the main street of Bridgetown, and Bing Crosby crooned through the speakers of the market as they picked up freshly baked bread, an array of cheeses, cured meats, and fresh vegetables. She selected organic strawberries and custard tarts that fit in the palm of her hand from the local bakery for something sweet. Max insisted on a bottle of wine, even though Sophie said it wasn't necessary.

The sun peaked out from the clouds on the drive to the winery and the smell of fresh paint greeted them as they entered the farmhouse. Sophie ran a hand across the newly installed stainless steel piece of furniture in the middle of the room. "Hello my pretty."

"Did you just call the table pretty?" Max opened one of the paper bags and began unloading cheeses.

Sophie popped into the dining room, returning a platter, two dishes and an assortment of utensils. "Yup. You give people nicknames. I complement my work tools."

Max leaned a hip against the island. "Why did you want to become a chef?"

"Maybe it's in my blood? My parents own a restaurant. Grew up there. My earliest memories are of watching my mother prepping kimchi late at night after we'd close. Bowls of covering the kitchen like confetti, her massaging the cabbage every thirty minutes for hours."

"What's kimchi?"

"Essentially fermented cabbage. Spicy and full of natural probiotics." Sophie handed Max one of the two pairing knives. "Can you cut the bread?" She unwrapped the brie, sliced it into wedges, placed it on the platter, and started on the aged cheddar. "Kimchi takes days to make. My mom's is the best."

"My mom's specialty is lamb." A shadow filtered across his face. "Haven't had it in years."

"When is your flight home?"

Max drew the knife back and forth across the loaf in steady motions. The movement reminded her of the night they'd spend together, his tender touch. Distracted, she nicked her finger. "Ouch."

In a flash, he was at her side, his hands inspecting the cut. "Are you hurt?"

She tugged her hand away. "Just a scratch."

He grasped her wrist and pulled her to the sink. "We need to clean the wound."

"Wound?" Sophie couldn't help giggling. "It's nothing." With the water on, Max ran her finger under the tap, refusing to glance at her. "Really. This happens all the time."

He used the hem of his sweater to dry her fingers. "Where's the first aid kit?" His voice was like gravel.

"In my office." She swallowed past the blade stuck in her throat.

Max stepped away, eyes glued to the floor. "I'll wash the strawberries."

In her office, Sophie sucked in a few deep breaths, trying to calm down her galloping heart, bewildered by her reaction to his concern over her injury. Maybe Max was squeamish around blood. Although her finger had barely bled.

Avoiding the desk, the scene of the kiss, she found a Band-Aid and wrapped it around her wound as Max had labeled it and returned to the kitchen. "All patched up."

Not looking up, he arranged the berries on the platter. Sophie slid in beside him and opened the bag with the prosciutto. Jovial Max had been replaced with a stiff awkward Max, and Sophie was desperate to break the tension. She reached out and placed a hand on his forearm.

Max jerked back. "Don't do that."

Surprised, she abandoned her task and stared at him. "I don't understand what's upset you. It's just a tiny cut." The wince on Max's face made Sophie's stomach turn. She reached for him again, but Max gripped the edge of the counter, the pads of his fingers white from the pressure. "Max. Why are you so upset by this?"

His lips formed a hard line as he rocked his head from side to side.

"I want to understand," she whispered.

Eyes screwed shut, he let out a long sigh. "It's silly."

"If it bothers you this much, it's not." She edged closer. "Tell me."

"I'm overreacting. I know I am." He didn't speak for a long moment. "I can't stand the thought of something happening to you." His eyes flashed to her, then back to the counter.

"It's just a—"

"A scratch, I know." He released his grip on the counter and tentatively took her hand, cupping it in his. "But people near me... they tend to get hurt." His thumb dragged across her wrist, sending tendrils up her arm, over her collarbone and under her rib cage. Eyes drowning in pupils locked onto hers. "I'm bad news."

"No." She covered his hand with hers. "That's not possible."

His chest shuddered. "Bug...Natalie. She's dead because of me."

"Oh, Max." Her hands left his, running up his arms and pressing him into an embrace. His chin landed on her shoulder. "It wasn't your fault."

He gripped her waist, pulling himself into her. "You're wrong."

"No. Emily told me what happened. It was an accident." Her voice pitched higher as he clung to her. "There was nothing you could have done."

His cheek pressed against hers. "You don't understand. She wasn't supposed to be on the helicopter. I begged Finn to add her to the mission. We'd had a fight, and she wasn't talking to me. I thought if we were trapped together in the helicopter, she'd have to listen to my apology."

Tears pricked at the corner of Sophie's eyes. This poor man. He'd been carrying around the weight of this false guilt for over a year, thinking he was the reason his girlfriend had died. After Thomas's death, she'd felt a similar survivor's guilt. Even though she hadn't been in the car, she'd wondered if she'd done something different, would he have survived? If she'd convinced him to not pick up his brother that night. If they'd called a rideshare instead of Thomas getting into the car. If she'd gone with him, would she have noticed the drive veering toward them and been able to circumvent the accident? Worse, if she'd been in the car, could it have been her that died instead of him? For years she'd played out scenario after scenario where her actions could have saved Thomas.

"If I hadn't been so selfish, she'd be alive." His last word came out in a choke. "It should have been me."

Sophie squeezed Max as if to hold him together as he leaned his weight against her, his silent sobs banging against her chest like the lid of a boiling pot. Every ounce of her wishing she could draw the guilt out of him like salt does water in cucumbers, cleansing him of the pain.

His fingers twisted the material of Sophie's sweater. "I just wanted her back."