12. Salt and Stone
Salt and Stone
Rowan
W ind cut through my jacket as I coasted along Harbor’s End’s narrow back roads, the engine of the Yamaha humming steady beneath me.
Out here, the salt air bit sharper, and the town’s polished veneer gave way to something older—cottages bleached by sun and sea, yards crowded with lobster traps, gulls circling overhead.
A flash of motion in a gravel driveway caught my attention.
A man was bent over a battered boat engine, the rhythmic clang of metal on metal ringing out above the morning quiet.
At first, all I could see was the expanse of his bare back—muscles shifting beneath skin tanned from years on the water, sweat glinting at his shoulders in the slanting sun.
Controlled power, purposeful movement. He looked like he belonged here, like the tide itself had shaped him.
Curiosity slowed my hands on the throttle.
I eased off the road, the crunch of gravel beneath my tires drawing his attention.
I killed the engine and pulled off my helmet, hanging it on the handlebars as I tried to shake the helmet hair back into something resembling normal.
The man straightened up, wiping his hands on a rag, and in that moment I caught his profile: strong jaw, silver hair, eyes a striking blue-gray that sparked a recognition so sharp it almost hurt.
Something about him pulled at me. He was older, weathered in a way that spoke of decades of hard work and harder living. The tattoo of a compass rode above his heart, a pale scar slashing across his ribs, and when his gaze landed on me, it was assessing—unapologetic.
“Need a hand?” I called, kicking down the stand and swinging off the bike, doing my best not to stare.
He looked up, and a glimmer of something—amusement, maybe—flashed in his eyes. “Nothing I can’t handle,” he replied, voice gravelly with the morning chill. “But if you know anything about outboard motors that hate their owners, you’re welcome to try your luck.”
Heat crept up my neck as he studied me—really studied me. Not just the way strangers did when you rolled into town with a hangover and a chip on your shoulder, but like he saw every broken piece I tried to hide. That kind of gaze made me want to stand taller, be someone worth the trouble.
“Rowan, right?” he said. Not a question—more like he’d been expecting me. The way he said my name, slow and certain, sent a nervous thrill up my spine.
“Yeah. That’s me.” I shoved my hands in my jacket pockets, fighting the urge to check my reflection in a bike mirror like a nervous teenager. “And you’re…”
“Kepler Grant.” He held out a broad, calloused hand. “Elias’s father.”
I took it, feeling the strength in his grip, the calluses earned from years at sea. Up close, the resemblance to Elias was impossible to ignore, but Kepler radiated a different kind of energy—rougher, warmer, entirely unbothered by anyone’s opinion but his own.
“Been wondering when you’d show,” he said, eyes softening for a split second before sharpening again. “Suppose you’re not here for engine advice, but I’ll take the company all the same.”
The casual way he said it made my pulse quicken.
He reached for a towel draped over the boat's edge, running it across his chest and shoulders with unselfconscious ease.
I tried not to watch the way the fabric moved over his skin, tried not to notice how the morning light caught the silver in his chest hair.
“Coffee's on if you want some,” he said, nodding toward the cottage behind him. “Looks like you could use it.”
I should have made an excuse and left. Instead, I found myself nodding, drawn by something in his voice that was warm and steady and utterly masculine.
The cottage was exactly what I'd expected and nothing like I'd imagined.
Nautical charts covered one wall, photographs of boats and family filled every surface—more than a few of my mother, which made my throat close up.
The furniture was worn but solid, and the space felt smaller with both of us in it.
Kepler reached for my jacket as I stepped inside, his fingers brushing my shoulder—a touch casual enough to be polite, but lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
He took the leather from my arms, folding it with care before hanging it on a hook by the door.
“You won’t need this for a while,” he said, voice low and rough with an undercurrent I couldn’t quite read.
The gesture felt oddly intimate. I stood there, suddenly lighter, my skin tingling where his hand had been.
“Sit,” he said, already moving into the kitchen to pour coffee into two heavy mugs. I couldn’t help watching the way his muscles moved beneath his shirt as he reached for the pot, how his jeans rode low on his hips .
I sank onto the worn couch, hyperaware of how close we were in the cramped room.
Kepler took the armchair opposite, his presence filling the space between us with something charged and unspoken.
Now that I was still, his scent hit me—coffee, salt air, and a warmth that was undeniably masculine.
It made my head spin, left me feeling both on edge and strangely at home.
“You've been to see her,” he said, and it wasn't a question.
“How do you know?”
“Lilies. Grace at the flower shop mentioned you'd been in.” He took a sip of coffee, and I found myself watching his throat work as he swallowed. “How was it?”
“Hard.” The word came out more honest than I'd intended.
“First time?”
I nodded, shame heating my cheeks. “I couldn't... at the funeral, I just couldn't.”
“Grief makes cowards of us all sometimes.” His voice carried no judgment, only understanding. “The important thing is you went.”
He was being kind, and kindness from attractive older men was dangerous territory for me even under the best circumstances. Especially when those men were sitting half-naked across from me, all weathered strength and patient attention.
“She was happy here,” I said, surprising myself. “At the end, I mean. She found something good.”
“She did. Found my boy, found a place that appreciated what she had to offer.” Kepler leaned forward slightly, and I caught a hint of his scent—something clean and masculine that made my pulse quicken. “What about you? What are you looking for?”
“I don't know. I thought I was just running away from New York, but now...” The words trailed off as I realized I was staring at the way the morning light played across his collarbone.
“Now you're wondering if maybe you were running toward something instead.”
“Something like that.” I took a sip of coffee, acutely aware of his gaze on me, tracking the movement of my throat with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
“Sometimes we don't know what we're looking for until it’s staring us in the face,” Kepler said, his voice dipping lower—almost conspiratorial, edged with warmth. “And sometimes what we want is exactly what we think we shouldn’t.”
The air felt charged, too intimate for comfort. This was Elias's father. The last man on earth I should be imagining this kind of tension with, but there it was—undeniable, unwelcome, and impossible to ignore.
He caught me staring and smiled, slow and knowing. “See something you like, Rowan?”
Heat crept up my neck. I looked down at my coffee, embarrassed by how obvious I was. “Sorry. I didn't mean?—”
“I never said I minded,” he murmured, and before I could process it, he moved to sit beside me, close enough that his thigh brushed mine.
Kepler leaned back, regarding me with a lopsided grin, half amusement, half challenge. “Relax, kid. I’m not proposing.”
I let out a shaky breath, struggling to regain my composure. “Could've fooled me.”
He barked a soft laugh. “If I was, you’d know it.”
I shook my head, half-smiling despite myself. “You always use jokes to defuse things?”
“Most days,” he said, his eyes flicking over me. “It's better than most alternatives. Trust me.”
Against my better judgment, I laughed—raw, unsteady, but real. With Kepler, even the danger of wanting the wrong thing somehow felt a little bit like permission.
“She wouldn’t want you alone,” Kepler said, softer now, but still with that teasing glint. “She’d want you to have people who gave a damn. Even if those people come with terrible jokes and worse cooking skills.”
I raised a brow. “You’re admitting you can’t cook?”
“Oh, I can cook,” he said, smug. “You just might not survive it.”
The corner of my mouth twitched. “Comforting.”
Kepler shifted closer on the couch, his thigh brushing mine, the banter fading into silence thick with things neither of us said. My pulse jumped at the heat of him, the nearness.
“Easy,” he murmured, his hand hovering near my shoulder like he was steadying me. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lied, breathless. But the truth was, I wasn’t fine at all. I was caught between laughter and longing, between the warmth of his jokes and the dangerous pull of wanting him anyway.
Kepler didn't move away. If anything, he settled more comfortably against the cushions, one arm draped across the back of the couch behind me. Not quite touching, but close enough that I could feel the promise of contact.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The air was thick, charged, the silence broken only by the distant call of a foghorn and the tick of the old clock on the mantle.
My skin burned where his body heat radiated toward me, and I found myself studying the way the morning light caught the silver in his chest hair, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
“Rowan.” My name in his voice was a low hum, intimate. “Why did you really come here today?”
I hesitated, hyperaware of the way his thigh pressed against mine, warm and solid. “I don't know. I didn’t even know you lived here. I was just... wandering.”
He shifted slightly, the movement making our legs press closer together. “Sometimes it's easier to stay moving than to let yourself feel what you're really feeling.”