Chapter Fourteen – Bailey
The first thing I notice is the smell—salt, coffee, and something sweet baking downstairs. The second is that I slept through my alarm for the first time in… maybe ever.
Sunlight slants through the window, slicing the room into ribbons of gold and dust. I roll over, stare at the ceiling beams, and try to remember how to breathe like a person who didn’t spend last night standing on a dock with her almost-something pressed against her.
Crew Wright kissed the air between us. I let him. And now the entire world smells like the aftermath.
The kettle shrieks downstairs. I throw on the first sweater I find, tug my hair into a knot, and head down the narrow staircase that groans under every step. The lighthouse walls always sound like they’re gossiping—old, wooden, and unashamed.
The kitchen is chaos in its purest form: flour dust on the counter, the oven timer blinking, the cat sitting like an unimpressed supervisor beside a tray of scones left over from yesterday. “You could help,” I tell him. He yawns. Typical.
By the time I pour my coffee, the calm has almost convinced me. Then my phone buzzes.
MOMENT OF THE YEAR: LOCAL BOOKSELLER CAUGHT IN LIGHTHOUSE LOVE STORY?
The headline belongs to the Coral Bell Gazette. The picture—blurry but criminally accurate—shows Crew and me on the dock, the lighthouse beam washing over us like we’d rented a movie crew for the occasion.
“Oh no.”
The cat looks equally horrified.
I scroll past the caption—something about “the hometown hero’s return sparking more than nostalgia.
” My pulse is already sprinting. Coral Bell Cove doesn’t do privacy; it does popcorn.
By noon, the entire town will have opinions, and by dinner, they’ll have slogans.
It was bad enough when everyone assumed, but now there is hardcore evidence.
The kind that would be impossible to deny.
The shop bell clangs downstairs. Because, of course, someone would show up early on today of all days.
The bell over the shop door clangs again, louder this time—three sharp notes that mean whoever is on the other side isn’t here for browsing.
I wipe my hands on a towel, force a smile, and call out, “We’re open, but only marginally civilized.”
“Good,” a familiar drawl answers. “Civilized sounds overrated.”
Crew’s standing in the doorway with that easy, unbothered posture that says nothing touches me even though last night proved plenty does. Ball cap, gray T-shirt that clings in ways gravity approves of, a paper bag dangling from one hand. He smells like early morning and trouble.
“You can’t just appear out of nowhere,” I say.
“Technically, I used the stairs.” He sets the bag on the counter. “Brought muffins. Thought I’d earn points.”
“You brought muffins on the morning the town decided we’re headline news?”
He raises an eyebrow. “You saw it?”
“Front page. They called me a ‘book-loving siren.’ I’m not sure if I should sue or send them cookies.”
“Depends on the cookies,” he says, unwrapping a muffin. “Blueberry. Best bribe I had.”
“Crew.” My voice comes out softer than I mean it to. “This is bad.”
He leans against the counter, all easy shoulders and apology hidden under the grin. “Bailey, it’s gossip. Nobody dies from gossip.”
“Tell that to my blood pressure.”
“Already did. It says it’s fine.”
I glare. He takes a slow bite of the muffin and chews like a man with no conscience.
“Do you even care?” I ask.
He swallows, wipes his thumb across his lip. “About what they say? Not really. About how it makes you feel? Yeah, I care a lot.”
The room shrinks. The sound of the ocean outside fades to a pulse that syncs with mine.
By midmorning, half of Coral Bell Cove has stopped by A Page in Time pretending to buy greeting cards while casually mentioning the article. Holt texts “you’re famous now, autograph my beer can.” Ivy sends heart-eye emoji. Lila calls twice and leaves a voicemail that says only, “breathe.”
Crew stays behind the counter like an unofficial bodyguard, helping wrap books, carrying boxes, distracting tourists with football trivia. It’s infuriating how natural he looks here—like the space was waiting for his height, his voice, his habit of humming when he counts change.
When the rush finally dies, I sag against the register. “You have no idea what kind of chaos you caused.”
He shrugs. “I’ve been causing chaos professionally since college. I’m pretty good at cleanup, too.”
“You think this is fixable?”
“Everything’s fixable,” he says. “Except maybe that reheated scone you burned earlier.”
I throw a napkin at him. He catches it one-handed, of course.
He steps closer, voice lowering. “You know what I’m realizing?”
“What?”
“You’re only really mad because you like me and the whole town knows before you got to deny it properly.”
I open my mouth to argue. Nothing arrives. He grins like he’s scored the winning play.
“Crew Wright,” I warn.
“Bailey Hart,” he answers, softer. “Relax. Let them talk. We’ll write our own version.”
The phrase slides under my ribs and lodges there.
By late afternoon, the gossip storm slows. Tourists drift out, locals retreat to dinner plans, and the shop smells like paper and forgiveness. Crew helps me close—stacking chairs, turning signs, pretending not to notice how my hands shake when they brush his.
At the door, he hesitates. “Dinner?”
I blink. “Now?”
“Now,” he says. “Before the next crisis.”
I should say no. I should send him away to preserve whatever’s left of my self-control. But the way he looks at me—open, steady, patient—undoes all the reasons I built.
“Okay,” I hear myself say. “But somewhere the Gazette can’t find us.”
He grins. “I know a place.”
The place turns out to be the back deck of the Wright farmhouse, lit by string lights and a sunset so vivid it looks Photoshopped. Rowan’s on grill duty with Dean, Lila and Ivy wave from the porch with a glass of wine, and the smell of cedar and smoke wraps around us like an embrace.
“This doesn’t count as private,” I murmur.
“It’s family,” Crew says. “They don’t count as witnesses.”
Dinner is loud, messy, and wonderful. Lila tells stories about her kids, Rowan teases Crew about his haircut, and I laugh until my cheeks ache. For a few golden minutes, I forget headlines and fear.
When everyone drifts inside for dessert, I stay out under the string lights. Crew joins me, two beers in hand.
“Peace offering,” he says.
I take the bottle. Our fingers brush, causing a jolt to race up my arm.
“Still mad?”
“Less mad,” I admit. “Mostly overwhelmed.”
He leans on the railing beside me. “We can still take it slow. No one needs to dictate the speed at which we do anything.”
I look at him, the way the light cuts across his face, how the edge of a smile lives there even when he’s serious. “Crew, nothing about you is slow.”
He laughs quietly. “Fair.”
The silence after stretches long enough for the crickets to claim it. He murmurs, “I meant it, you know. About writing our own version.”
I meet his gaze. “Then start the first line.”
He reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear again. “Chapter fourteen,” he says. “Where we stop pretending.”
My breath catches.
The light flickers. The night holds its breath.
We don’t kiss that night, but we do linger too long on the farmhouse porch, talking about nothing. Crew’s hand brushes mine whenever he gestures, and every time, it feels like punctuation in a sentence we’re still learning to write.
When he drives me home, the cab smells like pine, and the radio murmurs old songs we both know. The kind that pretend they’re about heartbreak but really mean hope.
He stops at the lighthouse gate and kills the engine. The silence between us is tender, humming.
“Tomorrow?” he says.
“Tomorrow,” I whisper.
He nods, starts to get out like he’s going to open my door, then thinks better of it. His restraint feels louder than any kiss could.
When I climb the steps, I glance back once. He’s still there, truck lights soft against the fog, watching until I vanish inside.
The following morning, gossip still buzzes around town, but softer now—like background static. People have other things to do: bake, fish, live. Maybe that’s what forgiveness sounds like in a small town.
I shelve new arrivals, then scribble “Lighthouse Love” on a display chalkboard because leaning into the joke hurts less than hiding from it. Crew shows up halfway through the afternoon, carrying two coffees and a grin that could undo the weather.
“You renamed a display after us?” he asks.
“Branding,” I say. “We’re trending.”
He laughs, then sets the coffees down and slides one toward me. “Guess we'd better give them something to talk about.”
“Crew—”
He shakes his head. “Not that. Not yet.” He glances around the shop, the shelves glowing in late light.
Before the dinner hour hits, Crew runs out for a bit, then reappears with two more coffees and a tool belt slung low like temptation disguised as competence. He looks like he belongs on a hardware calendar, and I should be arrested for noticing.
“What are we fixing?” he asks, already halfway to the back door that sticks when the humidity sulks.
“Door,” I say. “And my reputation.”
“Door first,” he says, because he loves me with triage.
He kneels, tests the frame, and runs a thumb along the warped edge. “You know, if we shave a hair here and add a shim, it’ll stop rubbing.”
“I adore when you talk lumber to me,” I say flatly. He grins without looking up, the corner that means I’ve been caught liking him.
We work shoulder to shoulder. He holds the door, and I hold the shim.
His forearm brushes my upper arm, and my entire nervous system writes poetry I refuse to publish.
The sound of the plane shaving the edge is clean, satisfying—curl after curl of wood peeling away like the door is sighing out its stubbornness.
“Try it,” he says.
I tug the handle. The door swings as smooth as a promise.
I clap. He bows like a magician.