Chapter Thirteen – Bailey
The morning after a storm always feels like the world pressed a reset button.
The air tastes new, and the daylight forgives everything.
I wake before the alarm, tangled in sheets that smell faintly of salt and smoke.
The lighthouse hums around me—old wood stretching, pipes murmuring, the bay whispering against the rocks below.
Somewhere out there, a gull laughs like it knows secrets.
Somewhere out there, he’s probably already awake.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling beams, the ones Grandpa carved initials into back when this house was still half storage, half home.
The grain runs straight and sure, just like his handwriting.
For a second, I imagine adding mine next to his—B.H.
—then realize I’m already thinking like someone who plans to stay.
That’s the dangerous part: how quickly hope starts unpacking its boxes once you open the door.
The kettle clicks in the kitchen. I didn’t remember setting the timer. The ghost of routine, I guess.
I move through the motions: mug, sugar, coffee strong enough to count as an apology to my nerves. The steam swirls as I step onto the porch. The world is wet and quiet. The dock across the way gleams darkly in the light.
I sip my coffee and watch the gulls argue over breakfast. For once, I let the quiet stay. I don’t fill it with what-ifs or why-nots. I just breathe until the caffeine catches up to my courage.
By ten, the lighthouse smells like fresh scones from Daisy’s bakery next door and new paperbacks.
The shop door creaks open every few minutes—locals grabbing beach reads, tourists hunting postcards, and the occasional teenager looking for the romance section and pretending not to blush when I point it out. Normal. Familiar. It helps.
Lila texts around eleven.
Lila: You alive or did the storm sweep you into a Hallmark movie?
Me: Define alive.
Lila: Staring at the horizon like it owes you money?
Me: Maybe.
Lila: Good. Tell crew I said hi. And by hi, I mean if he hurts you, I’m hiding frogs in his truck.
I snort into my latte. The store cat glares, unimpressed. He already lives dangerously, I think, and type nothing back because she’ll hear my smile through the screen anyway.
Ivy calls next because, of course, she does.
“Are you glowing in puppy love bliss?” she demands, no greeting, all drama.
“I’m working.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“I’m glowing from caffeine and stress.”
“Lies. Spill.”
“Ivy—”
“I’m your sister now by unofficial decree, which means I get updates. Did he kiss you again?”
I groan. “You’re impossible.”
“So he did,” she sings. “Good for you, lighthouse Barbie.”
“I will block you.”
“You won’t,” she says, smug. “Because you love me and because I’m right.”
I lean against the counter, smiling despite myself. “He’s… different this time.”
“Good different?”
“Scary different,” I admit. “Like he’s not just visiting anymore. Like he’s thinking of staying.”
There’s a pause. Then her voice softens. “Maybe you should open up and let him.”
I don’t answer. Because maybe I should. And maybe that’s what terrifies me most.
By afternoon, the sky starts to shift again—one of those gray-blue moods that rolls in from nowhere.
I light a candle that smells like cedar and sea salt, put on the playlist Crew made last month for the kids’ story hour (mostly old country songs and one Taylor Swift track he swore was an accident).
The melody curls through the shop, low and sweet.
Every lyric feels like a secret note addressed to us.
I busy myself with restocking—fiction first, then travel guides. Anything to keep my hands moving. The bell over the door chimes every now and then. Familiar faces, easy smiles. Coral Bell Cove at its finest: small, nosy, loyal.
When the last customer leaves, the clock reads six thirty. Dusk is already licking at the edges of the water. I close the register, straighten a stack of bookmarks, and tell myself not to check my phone.
He hasn’t texted today. Not once. It shouldn’t sting, but it does.
Maybe he’s busy. Maybe Rowan dragged him into another farm emergency. Maybe—
No. I promised myself no maybes today.
I pull on a sweater and head down to the dock with a book and the leftover scone from Daisy’s that no one bought.
The boards creak under my weight, familiar music.
I sit at the edge, legs swinging above the water, the pages fluttering in the breeze.
The smell of rain lingers—sweet, clean, almost electric.
I read three paragraphs without understanding a word.
Behind me, the lighthouse hums. The beam flickers once, twice. The bay answers in silver ripples.
I tell myself I’m fine and that I don’t need him to show up. That the calm in my chest isn’t just waiting for the sound of his truck.
I even believe it—for maybe thirty seconds.
Because that’s when I hear it.
Gravel crunching. A low engine idle. Then silence. My heart trips. I don’t turn right away. I tell myself it’s anyone—a tourist lost, a delivery, a ghost. But then his voice drifts down the path, low and certain.
“Couldn’t stay away.”
The words ripple through me like warm water meeting cold skin. I close the book, pulse pounding, and turn.
Crew stands at the top of the dock, half silhouetted against the dying light.
His hair’s damp, shirt clinging in a way that should be illegal, jaw shadowed, eyes locked on me like he’s memorizing the way I breathe.
He’s carrying a takeout bag and that small, infuriating smile that says I thought about this all day.
He steps closer, boots thudding against wood, every one of them a heartbeat I can feel in my ribs.
“I was going to wait till tomorrow,” he says, voice rough. “But waiting’s never been my thing.”
I try to speak. The words tangle. “You—You didn’t have to come.”
“I did.”
He sets the bag on the railing, hands sliding into his pockets like he’s trying not to touch me too soon. The air between us hums. The bay hushes, listening.
“I missed this,” he says quietly. “Missed you.”
My throat goes dry. “It’s been one day.”
He smiles, slow, dangerous. “Longest damn day of my life.”
The wind lifts my hair. He reaches out before he can stop himself, tucking a strand behind my ear, fingertips trailing against my skin. I forget how to breathe.
He steps closer. Close enough that the space between us feels like it’s about to catch fire.
“Crew—” I start, warning, pleading, everything at once.
His eyes drop to my mouth. The world holds still.
“Tell me to go,” he whispers.
I don’t. Can’t.
Lightning flickers far out over the bay, quiet and harmless. It’s the time of year when storms linger. The lighthouse beam cuts across his face, then mine, painting us in alternating light and shadow.
He exhales, slow and steady. “Guess that’s a no.”
I try to look away. I fail spectacularly. “You’re trouble.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice low enough to shake something loose inside me. “But you’re mine to get in trouble with.”
And before I can think of a single good reason to stop him, he closes the distance—just one breath, one heartbeat—and his hand finds my waist, warm and sure.
The dock creaks. The wind stills.
He doesn’t kiss me. He just looks at me like everything is about to break open between us, and the world goes silent around it.