Chapter 6 The Harbor Effect （Wesley）
THE HARBOR EFFECT (WESLEY)
The harbor is a postcard.
Snow dusts the fishing boats, strings of lights zigzag between masts, “White Christmas” blares over the loudspeakers. Families huddle around cocoa stands, kids in puffball hats chase each other between vendor stalls. The wind bites through my jacket, tasting of salt and memory.
Six years gone, and Dillingham hasn’t changed a damn thing.
“This is aggressively festive,” Joy mutters, stomping her boots. My scarf’s wrapped twice around her neck. “It’s a Hallmark movie that threw up on itself.”
I grin despite my nerves. “Bristol Bay at Christmas delivers.”
She snorts. “If hypothermia’s your love language.”
The mayor’s on stage now, microphone squealing, mumbling about tradition and community—same speech, different year. I only half listen, scanning faces I used to know by heart.
My dad’s fishing buddies are near the beer tent. Coach Morrison is by the cocoa stand with Mrs. Chen from the grocery store. All of them are watching me, measuring whether I turned out right or wrong.
A few wave. Most don’t. The message is clear: You left us.
“Breathe,” Joy murmurs. “You belong here as much as anyone.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.” She rises on her toes, presses a kiss to my cheek. “And I’m going to make sure they all see it.”
The crowd starts counting down. “Five. Four. Three. Two—”
The harbor tree ignites, gold spilling across the water. Cheers rise, fireworks crackle, the whole town hums with holiday cheer.
And then Joy steps closer.
Without warning, she slides under my arm. Her fingers hook through my belt loop, anchoring herself to me, possessive and daring.
She tilts her head back, eyes glinting through the cold. “Go on,” she murmurs. “Sell it, pretty boy.”
The words land hot, sparking behind my ribs.
“Pretty boy, huh?” I lean closer. “That what you’re going with?”
Her lips curve; we both laugh, our breath mixing. I slide a hand to her waist. She trembles when my palm settles.
“You sure you can handle this performance?”
“With you? Yes,” she whispers.
The world narrows to the inch between our mouths. Cold bites my neck; her warmth ghosts across my lips. We’re about to torch every boundary and break every rule we drew.
I take the last inch.
Her mouth is soft, sweet, too warm for the air around us.
Hunger spikes low; I’m hard and aching from nothing but holding her, smelling her, tasting her.
She sighs into me, and the sound shoots straight to my groin.
My grip tightens at her hip; her fingers twist in my jacket, dragging me closer.
The crowd, the carols, the fireworks—all of it fades until there’s only Joy, my pulse hammering and cocoa on her tongue.
When I finally pull back, she’s flushed and wide-eyed, lips parted like she’s forgotten the script.
“Merry Christmas, Foxy,” I rasp.
She blinks up at me, dazed. “That was…convincing.”
“Yeah.” My throat works around it. Applause swells. A whistle cuts the air.
And then I see her.
Hannah.
Steam curls from the coffee cart behind her, haloing her blonde hair. The one person I prayed would stay home today. The one I knew wouldn’t.
Levi stands at her side—Carhartt jacket, windburned cheeks, work boots caked with salt and snow. That brand of steady small-town forever women here can’t resist. A good man. Dependable. Everything I wasn’t when I left.
And I hate him for it.
Because he was my friend. Is my friend—or was, before geography and Hannah made that impossible. Summers on my dad’s boat, beers after late shifts, hockey talk until dawn. We’d sworn we’d both get out of Dillingham, make something of ourselves.
Then I left for juniors, and Levi stayed. Took a job on Dad’s boat. The job that was supposed to be mine.
Dad had built Bristol Bay Provisions for me and my brothers. Told me so the summer I turned sixteen. You’ll take over someday. Expand it. Make it bigger. I’d nodded, already planning my exit.
When I left, Levi stepped in and learned the business. Ran the boats when Dad couldn’t. Became the son my father actually wanted instead of the one who chose hockey over family.
And then he got the girl too.
He became the bad guy in my story. All he did was be there when I wasn’t, but I was still angry.
Hannah must feel my stare. She always could. Her head turns. Our eyes meet.
For half a breath, the years collapse. Salt wind in her hair. Her laugh against my neck. Sugar cookies on Christmas Eve, her mittened palm in mine, promises we were too young to keep. Then she’s crying in her parents’ driveway, telling me she can’t keep waiting for a boy chasing ice and spotlights.
I need someone who stays, she’d said. Someone real.
I’d driven away knowing I’d never be that for her.
Joy’s fingers tighten around mine, yanking me back to the present. “Is that her?”
“Yep.” My throat goes dry. I manage a grin. “Showtime, Foxy.”
She looks up at me, searching my face. “You okay?”
“No.” The honesty surprises us both. “But I will be.”
Her expression softens. “Then let’s get you there.”
Hannah threads through the crowd, Levi half a step behind her, palm settled low on her back. It used to be mine. The possessive burn in my gut surprises me, not because I want her back, but because seeing them together still stings in ways I don’t want to examine.
If Levi were smug, I could hate him cleanly. Instead, he’s Levi—good guy, steady, the one who stayed. The kind of man Hannah wants.
“Wesley,” she says, polite as a church service. “Back in town?”
“For the holidays.” The words come out a scrape. “You look good, Han.”
“You too.” Her gaze slides to Joy, curiosity sharp in her eyes. “And you are...?”
Joy lights up, pure PR brilliance. “Joy Preston. Wesley’s fiancée.”
Hannah blinks. “Fiancée?”
“Oh, you didn’t know?” Joy tilts her head, all innocence and edge. “We keep forgetting not everyone follows the New York press. It’s been a whirlwind.” She lifts our joined gloves, gives them a little wave. “He proposed. Terrible timing, honestly. He’s impulsive that way.”
She glances at me, and the look she gives me is equal parts performance and dare. “But romantic.”
Levi whistles low. “Congrats, man. Didn’t see that coming.”
“Thanks,” I manage, but Joy’s winding up.
There’s no malice in Levi’s voice. No guilt. He’s genuinely happy for me.
Which somehow makes it worse.
Joy presses a palm to my chest, fingers splayed over my heart.
“He’s impossible when he wants something,” she informs Hannah like we don’t share a past. “Dragged me off in the middle of the day, dropped to one knee on a freezing sidewalk outside Rockefeller Center. My face was numb for an hour.” Her grin turns private, intimate, signaling we have secrets. “Worth it.”
When Hannah looks away, Joy’s expression falters—just a flicker, but I see it. She’s not as steady as she wants to be.
Hannah’s smile tightens. “Sounds…memorable.”
“It was.” Joy’s fingers trail down my chest, stopping just above my belt. Her pulse hammers against my ribs.
She’s nervous. Still performing. And I love her for it.
The realization hits hard, a slapshot to the sternum, sudden and brutal.
I’m in love with her.
Not halfway. Gone. Completely, recklessly, irrevocably gone.
For a girl who thinks this is all pretend.
Fuck.
I almost miss what she says next.
“Have you seen this body?” Joy gestures at me, full showmanship now. “These shoulders? I’m marrying a Norse god who moonlights as a lumberjack. He chops wood. Shirtless. For fun. I’ll never be cold again.”
Levi chuckles. Hannah doesn’t. “Always nice to see hometown boys doing well,” she says, voice taut.
“Isn’t it?” Joy echoes, bright and sharp. Then louder, for the crowd: “And he’s all mine now. Can you believe he was single when I met him?”
Hannah blinks, startled by the display.
I should stop her. Dial it back. But watching Joy fight for me—defend me—does things I can’t name.
Then someone shouts, “Smile, Wesley!”
A flash goes off. Frank Morrison, Coach’s son, has his camera up, waiting for the money shot.
Joy gasps. “Oh my God, yes, perfect lighting!”
Before I can process what’s happening, she grabs my collar, turns my face toward hers, and announces loud enough for half the harbor to hear, “Make it good for the socials, babe!”
Then she kisses me.
Not soft. Not fake. A camera-flash, fireworks, full-tilt Christmas miracle of a kiss that blows the top off my restraint.
Snow melts in her hair. Her mouth is heat and possession, her gloved fingers fisted in my jacket staking a claim. The crowd disappears. Hannah disappears. Everything disappears except Joy—tasting of victory, kissing me like she means it.
I grip her waist, pulling her closer. She makes a sound—half laugh, half gasp—and the kiss deepens until I forget we have an audience.
Until I forget this is supposed to be pretend.
The crowd whistles. The camera clicks. I should be watching Hannah; that was the whole point, right? Make her regret leaving me. But I can’t look away from Joy—flushed, bright-eyed, still pressed against me.
Fuck Hannah. This stopped being about her the second Joy kissed me in that car and I realized I was gone.
Joy pulls back, cheeks pink, eyes gleaming with triumph. “Tag the Defenders,” she tells Frank, breathless. Then, to Hannah, sweet and venomous, “Happy holidays.”
Hannah’s mouth opens in astonishment, then shuts. “I’m glad you’re happy, Wes,” she says finally. “You deserve that.”
Then Levi’s hand finds hers. “Happy holidays, guys.”
They melt into the crowd. I wait for the ache, the regret, the ghost of what we were.
Nothing.
I look down at Joy and realize, I’m free.
She tucks herself under my arm, smug and glowing, while my pulse jackhammers in my throat.
“Foxy,” I murmur, leaning close. “That was one hell of a PR move.”
She grins, wicked and devastating. “You’re welcome, superstar. Consider your image rehabilitated.”