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I threw my head back and laughed.

These two were trouble.

My favorite kind.

Their laughter carried across the deck, earning a few curious looks from the growing crowd of wedding guests.

The groom's family had started arriving that morning, and if his great-aunts were any indication, the weekend was going to be one hell of a good time.

"Your turn, Heartbreaker," Mrs. Jenson announced.

I studied my cards. "Any chance you'd consider letting me win?"

"Any chance you'll marry me and make an honest woman out of me?"

I grinned. "Darlin', if I thought I could keep up with you, I'd propose right now."

"You couldn't." She dealt the next hand, flicking the cards with a dexterity that mocked her arthritis. "But I'd enjoy watching you try."

The sun had just started to burn off the coastal mist, and everything was glowing—a phenomenon called “the Golden Hour,” which made me think of old movies and the color of butter. The deck was filling up with wedding guests in casual attire, sundresses with cowgirl boots, linen shirts, and hats that made statements. Even the dogs were wearing bandanas.

My brother’s new wife, Felicity, had outdone herself in the role of event coordinator for the wedding weekend. Lockhart Ranch had never looked better.

Neither had I, if the appreciative glances I’d gotten were any indication.

Not that I was keeping track.

Okay, I was keeping track.

A man had to have hobbies.

If you asked anyone in Valentine Bay, they’d say I was right in my element. I was the life of the party, the guy who never met a stranger and told the best stories, the one who never left a dance partner lonely for more than two songs.

For nearly thirty years, I’d been Damon Lockhart, professional flirt, unofficial mayor of a good time, and proud card-carrying member of the Heartbreaker brotherhood—a title given to all my brothers at birth, but one I’d earned in high school and never quite managed to shake.

I could charm a bartender into an extra pour, coax a smile out of the crankiest tourist, and talk my way into—or out of—just about anything.

The opposite sex knew better than to expect commitment. Children under the age of ten treated me like a jungle gym. Women of all ages, including silver-haired foxettes adored me, and their daughters and granddaughters usually ended up smiling. Dogs followed me around like I carried bacon in my pockets.

It was a role I’d slipped into and worn like a favorite leather jacket, even when it stopped fitting right.

Lately, if I was being honest—which I almost never was, even with myself—there was a gnawing undercurrent to all the fun. A restlessness.

There was a joke in there somewhere. I just hadn’t found it yet.

It wasn’t that I’d stopped enjoying people. Hell, I loved people. I loved the laughter, the flirting, the easy way a smile could turn a stranger into a friend.

What I didn’t love was going home alone afterward.

Not that I was short on offers.

Months ago, I’d run into Cassandra Miller at the hardware store. Three minutes of harmless flirting had turned into drinks at the Arrow.

She was beautiful. Funny. Interested.

All the ingredients for a perfectly enjoyable evening.

Except when she kissed me goodnight, I’d felt about as much excitement as I did watching paint dry. Which, for the record, was a damn shame. Cassandra was an excellent kisser.