Five hundred and eleven days had passed since he’d seen her last.
    Five hundred and eleven days that had been hollower and duller and at times brutally lonely for him because Britt Bradford hadn’t been physically present in any of them.
    Five hundred and eleven days constituted a streak that, within minutes, would finally come to an end. Because he, Zander Kingston Ford, had returned home.
    He sank his hands into the pockets of his sweat shirt and walked beneath the cherry trees arching over the entrance to Merryweather Historical Village. On this morning in early April, pale pink blossoms covered the branches.
    He catalogued the details of the village the way a landowner might, with proprietary intensity. He knew this village, this town, and this corner of Washington state very, very well. This place, more than anywhere else on earth, had become his home.
    The landscaping around the base of the village’s buildings looked fuller than it had before he’d gone, and a fresh load of gravel had been laid on the walking paths. Everything else was exactly as Zander remembered. The deep green of the lawn that all thirteen historical structures faced. The white trunks of the aspens between the buildings. The pale gray of the clouds rolling in from the Pacific. The wooden sign hanging outside Britt’s chocolate shop that spelled Sweet Art in black letters.
    None of the stores that occupied the buildings would open for another hour. However, he knew that Britt would have arrived in her kitchen at six this morning.
    In his lifetime, Zander had acquired knowledge about many things: technology, writing, adventure sports, travel, history. But he was a true expert at only one subject. The subject of Britt.
    As soon as he’d awakened this morning, anticipation and apprehension had gone to war inside of him. Anticipation, because he was shamefully desperate to see her again. Apprehension, because he’d left Merrywether for several reasons a year and a half ago. But the greatest of those reasons had been her.
    He was halfway across the village on his way to Sweet Art when the shop’s door swung open and two women walked out. One of them was Britt. He would have recognized the natural confidence of her posture even if he’d been twice as far away. She was neither tall nor short. Simultaneously slim and strong. Perfectly proportioned.
    Zander’s progress cut to a halt. His breath stilled in his throat.
    Britt and the other woman paused on Sweet Art’s porch to talk. Britt wore her white chef’s coat with exercise pants. She’d collected her dark brown hair into a knot on the top of her head just like she almost always did when making chocolate.
    The women parted, and Britt turned his direction, back toward her shop. Her attention swept past him, then stopped. Lifting a hand to shield her eyes, she zeroed in on him.
    His heart froze for an instant, then restarted with hard, drumming beats.
    With a whoop of sound, Britt pounded down Sweet Art’s steps and sprinted in his direction.