Chapter Nine – Bailey
If joy had a sound, it would be Coral Bell Cove at festival season. They find a reason to put one on almost every weekend in the fall.
Children laughing. Music drifting. The low hum of gossip dressed as small talk.
It’s the kind of noise that vibrates right through your bones—and the kind of day that feels like it could save you or ruin you, depending on which way the wind blows.
This morning, the wind’s on my side. Probably.
I have three folding tables, two boxes of donated paperbacks, and zero patience for the ninth argument about whether the pumpkin tower should have a theme. (Mrs. Winthrop insists it needs an “emotional arc.”)
The whole town’s out. Booths line the marina. The Wright family’s pie stand smells like heaven. Cider simmers somewhere, and Daisy’s bakery has already sold out twice.
And then there’s me—librarian, book witch, accidental lightning rod of small-town scandal.
I’m halfway through labeling the donation jars when Lila shows up with that look—the one that says she’s about to be unhelpfully supportive.
“You’re glowing,” she announces.
“I’m sweating.”
“You’re glowing and sweating,” she says. “Multitasking queen.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
“I tolerate you.”
She laughs, but there’s affection in it. “You’ve been smiling more.”
“That’s because I’ve been threatening fewer people.”
“Sure,” she says. “And not because someone has been walking you home every night like a romance montage?”
I open my mouth to deny it, but she’s already sashaying away, calling over her shoulder, “You’re welcome for the setup!”
Setup?
Before I can demand clarification, I hear a voice that turns my stomach to static.
“Morning, Book Witch.”
I turn.
Crew Wright stands there, wearing a gray Henley that should be illegal, a backward cap, and a grin that could start wars. He’s carrying lumber on one shoulder, helping Sawyer set up the stage for the evening concert.
The sight of him hits me like gravity. Every inch of him is solid, familiar, and infuriatingly attractive.
“You’re early,” I say.
“Mom said there’d be cinnamon rolls.”
“She lied.”
“Then I’m leaving.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling before I can stop it. “You’re insufferable.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is a bad thing.”
“Nah,” he says, flashing that grin again. “You like it.”
“Prove it.”
His smile turns dangerous. “Challenge accepted.”
By midmorning, the festival’s in full swing. I’ve sold out of bookmarks, misplaced three rolls of tape, and been asked by two separate people whether Crew and I are “official.”
We’re not.
We’re not anything.
Try telling that to the Coral Bell Gazette.
They’ve got a photographer roaming the square like a bloodhound. The poor guy’s been chased off twice by Daisy and once by Ivy, who told him that “consent is sexy, Greg.”
Ivy Quinn has adjusted to small-town life disturbingly well.
Speaking of which, she appears beside my booth in dark jeans and a loose white sweater that probably costs more than my car. She smells like vanilla and fame.
“You look gorgeous,” she says.
“You look like a magazine cover.”
She beams. “Rowan says I’m blending in.”
“In what—Paris?”
“Be nice,” she says, mock pouting. “Anyway, I came to warn you.”
“About?”
“Crew.”
My stomach tightens. “What about him?”
She lowers her sunglasses dramatically. “He’s in a mood.”
“What kind of mood?”
“The kind where he’s smiling too much. He only smiles like that when he’s trying to hide something.”
I fold my arms. “And you’re telling me because?”
“Because I like you,” she says. “And because Lila says you’re pretending not to be in love with him, which is adorable but tragic.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“Sure,” she says. “And I didn’t write a breakup album about my mother.”
“Valid.”
She grins. “Anyway, if you two kiss tonight, I called it first.”
Before I can respond, she’s gone—all sunshine and chaos, leaving me standing there wondering how one person can be both a friend and a human pop-up ad for emotional vulnerability.
Afternoon drifts by in a haze of caramel, conversation, and exhaustion.
Crew shows up again with Sawyer and Rowan, both sweaty and smug from building something tall and dangerous-looking near the bandstand.
“Need help here?” he asks.
“I’m good.”
He ignores that and crouches beside me, picking up a box of books.
I glare. “You can’t help everything.”
He smirks. “You’re welcome to test that theory.”
“Crew.”
He glances up. “Yeah?”
“Don’t.”
He tilts his head. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m something you want.”
He breathes, slow, careful. “That’s because you are.”
My chest tightens. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Then stop looking at me like you want me to.”
My jaw drops. “You’re impossible.”
“Consistent,” he corrects.
“Annoying.”
“Honest.”
We stare at each other, and the air thickens until someone yells, “Pumpkin emergency!” and he laughs, standing.
“Saved by the gourd,” he says, walking off, leaving me melted and muttering curses under my breath.
By sunset, the marina glows under a canopy of string lights. Music spills from the stage, a blend of fiddles and heartache. The smell of cider drifts through the crowd, mingling with laughter and the occasional shriek of a child who lost their balloon.
I’m handing out raffle tickets when I feel him before I see him.
That pull, that awareness, is magnetic, like my body recognizes him before my brain can issue a warning.
“Dance with me.” He appears beside me.
“I don’t dance.”
“You said that last time.”
“I meant it.”
He smiles. “And I meant it when I said I do.”
The band strikes up a slow song, and before I can find an excuse, his hand finds mine. The contact steals my breath. His thumb slides over my knuckles, gentle but firm.
“Crew,” I whisper.
“Bailey.”
“This is a bad idea.”
“Probably.”
He pulls me close, and the rest of the world blurs.
His hand settles on my waist, warm through the fabric of my dress. My other hand lands on his chest—solid, steady, familiar. We move slowly, our steps matching like muscle memory.
He smells like cedar and wood smoke. My heart beats too loud.
“Still think it’s a bad idea?” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
I huff a laugh, but it dies when he leans in—so close that I can feel his breath against my temple.
“I’ve been trying not to want this,” he whispers. “It’s not working.”
My throat tightens. “Then stop trying.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark and searching. “You sure?”
“No,” I admit. “But I want to be.”
Something flickers in his gaze—hope, fear, hunger.
And then, because fate loves irony, Holt yells from somewhere behind us, “Yo, Crew! The cider tent’s flooding again!”
Crew groans, forehead pressing lightly to mine as if he can will the interruption away. “I swear this town has bad timing.”
“Maybe it’s saving us,” I whisper.
He smiles, small and bittersweet. “From what?”
“From doing something we can’t take back.”
He steps back, reluctant, like every inch costs him something. “Too late for that,” he murmurs, before walking toward the chaos.
I stand there, heart racing, every nerve in my body alive with the weight of everything unsaid.
Later, when the festival winds down and the lanterns flicker low, I find him again. He’s alone, sitting on the steps of the gazebo, elbows on his knees, head tipped back like he’s listening to ghosts.
I hesitate, then sit beside him.
“You okay?”
He smiles without looking at me. “Define ‘okay’.”
“Tired. Emotional. Still mildly sticky from cider.”
“Then yeah,” he says softly. “I’m okay.”
We sit in silence, the kind that doesn’t need fixing. The bay reflects the string lights like a second sky.
After a while, he says, “You make it easy to forget how hard things used to be.”
I glance at him. “That’s because I’m amazing.”
He laughs, low and rough, and it does something to me I can’t name. “That you are.”
He turns then, really looks at me, and my breath catches. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Bailey.”
“Yeah?”
He leans in, slow and sure—like he’s giving me time to stop him. I don’t.
Our noses brush. His breath hits mine. The world narrows to that single moment suspended in time—almost, but not yet.
Then a burst of fireworks lights the sky, bright and loud, and he pulls back, laughing softly.
“Even the universe has terrible timing,” he says.
“Or perfect,” I whisper, heart aching.
He looks at me for a long second, like he wants to argue, then shakes his head, smiling. His oversized hand, perfect for his job, runs along my neck and collarbone as if he’s measuring my pulse. “Good night, Bailey.”
“Good night, Crew.”
He leaves before I can say what I really mean.
That maybe I’m tired of waiting. That I’m already his.
That not yet is one heartbeat away from finally.