Chapter Sixteen
Tabby
“W here are we going?” I call over the humming of the boat’s engine.
He picked me up at noon and drove us to the public boat ramp at the wharf, where I helped him offload the navy-and-white Sea Hunt Ultra.
“The old Sandcastle Cove Lighthouse. It’s one of the island’s treasures. I thought you might like to paint it,” he says.
A thrill shoots through me. The lighthouse was on my list of places to visit, but it’s on the other side of the island and not easy to reach by bike or skates. Last night, he told me to bring what I needed, so I packed a bag with my painting supplies and grabbed a fresh canvas.
The salt air whips through my hair as he steers the boat toward the eastern tip of Sandcastle Cove, the old lighthouse rising in the distance like a ghost from another time. The late afternoon sun glows golden over the water, turning the ripples to liquid light. I breathe it all in—the ocean, the sky, the endless horizon stretching beyond us. It’s perfect.
“You’re awfully quiet over there, Trouble.” Anson leans against the console, giving me a crooked grin that makes my stomach flip. “Regretting letting me kidnap you for the day?”
I smirk, adjusting the strap of the tank that covers my bikini top as the wind tugs at it. “Well, you did promise adventure. If this turns into some kind of horror-movie scenario where we get stranded, just know that I will not hesitate to throw you to the killer seagulls first.”
He clutches his chest dramatically. “Wow. Not even there yet, and you’re already planning my demise. You wound me, Tabitha.”
“Call me that again, and I actually might throw you overboard.”
My parents and Quenton are the only people who ever call me by my full name.
Anson laughs, the sound ringing through the air as he cuts the engine. The lighthouse stands just ahead, perched on a rocky outcrop at the northern edge of the island, its white stone tower streaked by time and weather. The place looks like it’s been forgotten by the world, but there’s something almost magical about it, like it belongs to the sea more than the land.
He jumps onto the dock first, tying the boat off with a practiced ease, then turns to me, offering his hand.
I toss my bag over my shoulder and grab the canvas before letting him help me down. The warmth of his palm against mine sends an unexpected thrill through me. He steadies me as I step onto the dock, but he doesn’t let go right away. For a second, we just stand there, hands clasped, the sea breeze tangling in our hair. Then, he clears his throat and tugs me forward.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go explore before the sun sets and we have to fight off ghost pirates or whatever lurks in abandoned lighthouses.”
I follow him up the weathered wooden steps, my sandals clacking against the boards. The lighthouse is even taller up close, the white bricks rough beneath my fingertips as I trail my hand along the outer wall. The old iron door is slightly ajar, its rusted hinges groaning as Anson pushes it open.
Inside, the air is cool and smells like aged wood and salt. A winding staircase spirals up toward the top, disappearing into the shadows. I shrug off my bag and set it and the canvas aside.
“You ready?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows. “Hope you didn’t skip leg day.”
I laugh. “I don’t even have a leg day, but I’ll race you to the top anyway.”
His grin widens. “You’re on, Trouble.”
I take off first, bolting up the narrow stairs two at a time. The iron railing is cold beneath my fingers, and the sound of our footsteps echoes through the tower. Anson is right behind me, and I can hear him laughing as he tries to catch up.
“Don’t trip!” he calls.
“Don’t distract me!” I counter breathlessly.
I reach the top first—barely—and burst onto the observation deck, my pulse racing. The view steals the breath right out of my lungs. The entire island is spread out below us, sand dunes rolling into clusters of windblown oaks and palm trees. The shoreline dotted with homes. The ocean stretching beyond it all, endless and shimmering under the fading sun.
Anson steps up beside me—not even winded, of course. “Worth the climb?”
I nod, my heart still hammering. “Absolutely.”
He leans against the railing, his gaze flicking from the horizon to me. “I used to come here all the time as a kid. My dad would bring me and my friends, tell us stories about shipwrecks and lost treasure. We swore, one day, we’d find one.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “Never did, obviously. But it made the place feel like ours, you know?”
I glance at him, feeling a warmth settle in my chest. “This island, this life—it suits you.”
His expression shifts, something unreadable passing across his face. “Yeah?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
He turns to face me. “It suits you too, you know. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had lived here your whole life; it’s as if you’re meant to stay here with us.”
For a moment, neither of us says anything. The wind dances between us, carrying the scent of the sea, the soft crash of waves against the shore below. Then, Anson smirks, nudging me lightly with his elbow.
“Well, since we’re already up here, I guess we should check for treasure. Maybe some old lighthouse keeper left behind a chest full of gold doubloons.”
I laugh. “Gold doubloons?”
“Maybe.” He grins. “Come on. Let’s look around.”
We search the small room at the top of the lighthouse, running our hands over the web-covered walls, tapping the wooden floorboards like two overgrown kids on a scavenger hunt. Anson even pries open an old storage cabinet, only to find nothing but dust and a very unimpressed spider.
“Okay, so maybe we won’t be rich by the end of the night,” he concedes, brushing off his hands. “But I’d say we’re still winning.”
“Yeah?” I arch a brow. “And why’s that?”
He steps closer, his brown eyes locked on mine. “Because I got to watch you try to wrestle a cobweb like it was a sea monster.”
I gasp, smacking his arm. “I did not!”
“You totally did.” He’s laughing now, backing away as I go to swat him again. “I swear, I thought you were about to challenge it to a duel.”
“Whatever. You’re such a liar,” I say, shaking my head.
“And yet you like me anyway,” he teases, leaning against the railing, watching me with that look. The one that makes my heart do a stupid, traitorous little flip.
I open my mouth to fire back some witty retort, but the words tangle in my throat. Because he’s right. I do like him. More than I should, more than I ever expected to.
“I do.”
And I think I’m starting to be okay with that.
The moment stretches between us, charged and undeniable. His hand brushes against mine, and I don’t pull away.
“You know,” he says, voice softer now, “I like this version of you.”
I swallow. “What version is that?”
He tilts his head slightly. “The one that laughs so easily. The one who races me up a lighthouse and talks about throwing me to seagulls. The one who looks like she actually belongs somewhere.”
Something in my chest tightens, the words hitting deeper than I expected. Because the truth is, I’ve spent so much of my life feeling out of place, trying to fit into a mold that never quite felt right. But here, with Anson, in this lighthouse above the sea, I feel like me.
And it terrifies me.
“Anson,” I start, but I don’t know what I’m trying to say.
He doesn’t let me finish the thought anyway because he tugs me in close and crashes his mouth to mine.
This kiss is different from the one last night; there’s an urgency to it. As I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him back, my body instantly comes to life. I open up to him, and he deepens the kiss, our tongues colliding passionately.
He presses me against the wall of the tower as I weave my fingers into his hair and tug gently. I can’t get close enough. He pulls away from our kiss just long enough to lower his hands to my backside, and he lifts me up, my legs wrapping around his hips.
I moan, and my legs start to tremble as I feel his hardness against me.
“Anson,” I say shakily as he pulls his lips from mine and trails them down my neck to my collarbone.
His head lifts and rests against mine, both of us panting.
“Come on, Trouble. Let’s get you back on solid ground so you can start painting before you decide to throw me to the birds,” he says, stepping back as my feet touch the floor.
I laugh, but as we make our way back down the winding stairs, I know something has shifted and we can’t go back. And I don’t want to.
This isn’t just an adventure; it’s a turning point.
Anson thought of everything. He climbed back aboard the boat and returned with a blanket and a basket filled with cheese, crackers, fruit, and wine.
After the sun sets completely, we return to the wharf and load the boat onto the trailer before heading home.
“Thank you for today,” I say as Anson walks me to the RV, carrying my half-finished canvas.
“You’re welcome. It was fun,” he says as I unlock the door and step inside.
I click on the switch that powers the external outlet, and the entire front of the RV lights up. Pete helped me hang several strings of patio lights from the awning to a couple of maple trees, which I also decorated with solar-powered Chinese lanterns. I even hung a hammock between the trees.
Anson glances over his shoulder at the display and says, “Damn, you’ve managed to make this place feel so homey.”
I shrug and say, “Well, it is home after all.”
He nods as he steps farther inside and sets the canvas on the counter beside the sink. Glancing around the RV, he takes in the other paintings hanging from the cabinets above the sink and the bed.
“Sorry, it’s a bit messy in here right now,” I mumble, embarrassed by the chaotic state of my living space.
“Wow, these are great! You have a good eye,” he compliments, ignoring my comment.
“Thank you.”
“It’s as if you can feel the scene,” he says as he looks over one of the oceanscapes. “What medium do you use?”
“I use a variety of materials. I work with acrylics, and I’ve started mixing in organic elements for texture—like sand, leaves, and other things you wouldn’t normally combine with paint,” I explain.
“That’s incredible,” he says, awe in his voice. “What’s this one?” he inquires, pointing at a canvas hanging above my table.
“Oh, that? It’s nothing,” I reply, quickly rushing to cover the painting I started of him after he dropped me off last night.
The memory of that kiss kept me up, so instead of texting him, like I wanted to, I picked up a brush and began painting him.
“It doesn’t look like nothing to me. Is it a portrait of some kind?” he asks, curious.
“Yeah, it’s something new for me. I sketch caricatures in charcoal sometimes. I actually made some extra money doing that on a beach in Virginia before we made it down to North Carolina. But I typically paint abstracts or landscapes.”
“Well, I liked it,” he praises.
“You think so? I mixed coal ash from the firepit outside with paint to shape the cheek and highlight the eye. It really brought out the depth of the subject’s expressive, relaxed nature,” I say enthusiastically.
“I have no idea what you just said, but what I saw was pretty cool.”
“You want a beer? I got a couple at the market yesterday,” I offer.
“Sure.”
I grab two bottles and hand one to him as I lead him back outside. “My fridge doesn’t get them real cold. I think it needs antifreeze or something. I need to check YouTube on how to add that.”
He chuckles and says, “I believe you mean coolant. We use a similar type of refrigerator on the fishing boat. It’s ammonia-based, which can be toxic, so I wouldn’t recommend trying to do it yourself. If you’d like, I can have our guy come by to check it and replace yours.”
I bite my lip. “Um, I’ll let you know.”
He gives me a stern look. “I mean it, Trouble. Don’t be hardheaded and go messing with it on your own.”
I place my hands on my sides. “Got it. Chemicals bad. No need to mansplain further,” I quip.
He places his bottle on the table between the two rocking chairs under my awning and steps toward me.
“No need to get feisty,” he says as his hands settle on my hips. “I know you’re a self-sufficient woman and all, but that doesn’t mean you can’t accept help when it’s offered.”
“Feisty?” I say as I lift my head to look him in the eye. “You haven’t seen me feisty yet.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
I shake my head as he brushes my hair behind my ear.
Then, he leans in and whispers, “In that case, I look forward to seeing it.”