Chapter 3
Kiera Emmerson
I regret the word as soon as it comes out. I should not spend time with River outside of doing my job. I shouldn’t even eat with him. I should take the dinner plates into the kitchen and clean up, then leave.
But River looks so happy right now I can’t take it back. I stand and follow him down the hallway and into his editing room. He motions to the computer chair in front of his three monitors. “Go ahead. Have a seat.”
I do as he says. His chair is ergonomically designed, made of leather, and I’m surprised how it hugs my back. I take in the center monitor, and the frozen frame of an older man on a fishing boat.
“That’s Captain Joe,” River explains. “He runs charter fishing trips here.”
I settle into the chair and try to ignore how this feels like crossing a line I specifically drew in the sand. Professional, Kiera. This is professional interest in your employer’s work.
River leans over me and clicks play, and Captain Joe’s weathered face comes to life.
His voice is gravelly but warm as he talks about his father teaching him to fish in these same waters fifty years ago.
The way River has framed the shot is beautiful in a way I wasn’t expecting.
The morning light hits Joe’s face just right, and the ocean is stretching out behind him.
“He’s lived here his whole life,” River says quietly. “Never wanted to be anywhere else.”
I watch as Captain Joe describes the way the island has changed over the decades, how the old fishing families have mostly moved away, how the tourists come and go but never really see the place.
There’s something in his eyes when he talks about it—not quite sadness, but a kind of wistful acceptance.
The clip ends, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
“Wow,” I say, and I mean it. “That’s really good.” Something about Captain Joe’s wistful expression sticks with me. “He’s got a certain look when he talks about the island changing. It’s not anger or bitterness - it’s more like... watching something you love grow up and move away from you.”
“That’s so insightful,” River says, sounding impressed. “I hadn’t thought about it like that, but you’re right. I have about fifteen interviews like that. People who’ve been here for generations. You’re brilliant. You put into words exactly what I was going for.”
I turn to look at him. He’s leaning against the edge of his desk, arms crossed, and there’s this intensity in his expression that I haven’t seen before. Like he actually cares about this, not just as a project but as something that matters.
“Why coastal communities?” I ask. “I mean, you grew up in LA. What made you interested in this?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “My dad used to take me to this lake when I was a kid. He grew up there. We’d fish, and he’d tell me about the people who lived around it.
How they all knew each other, looked out for each other.
It was different from LA, where you can live in the same apartment building for years and never know your neighbors’ names. ”
“So this is about community?” I prompt.
“Sort of.” He pushes off from the desk and moves closer, reaching for the mouse. “It’s about the way places shape people, and people shape places. The way history lives in these communities through the stories people tell.”
He’s leaning over me now, close enough that I can smell his soap or cologne or whatever—something clean and woodsy that makes my stomach do this annoying flip thing.
He clicks through to another clip, and I force myself to focus on the screen instead of the fact that his arm is right next to my shoulder.
This one shows an elderly woman sitting on her porch, talking about her grandmother who ran a boarding house for lighthouse keepers.
Her hands move as she talks, animated and expressive, and River has captured it perfectly—the way her eyes light up with the memory, the way her voice softens when she mentions her grandmother’s name.
“That’s Mrs. Morrison,” River says, and his voice is closer than I thought it would be. “She’s ninety-two. She’s lived in the same house her whole life. That porch we’re sitting on? Her grandfather built it. What do you think it would feel like to have connection like that?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I’ve never had anything like that.
Connection. I have Kiki, but that’s different.
And River is clearly passionate about this in a way that’s kind of stunning to see.
He’s not the bored child actor coasting on residuals.
He’s an artist with something to say, and the way he’s talking about these people, this place—
“Here, let me show you something,” he says, and he reaches across to grab the mouse again.
His arm brushes against mine. It’s nothing. Barely contact at all. Just the lightest touch of fabric against fabric, warm skin somewhere beneath. But my entire body lights up like someone flipped a switch.
My heart slams against my ribs. My skin goes hot then cold then hot again.
I’m suddenly aware of the way he’s standing so close I can feel the warmth radiating off him, the way his breath sounds just slightly uneven, the fact that if I turned my head even a fraction, our faces would be inches apart.
And underneath all of that, there’s this pull. This want. This dangerous, terrifying attraction that I absolutely cannot afford to feel. Not for River Stone. Not for anyone. Not after last time.
I jolt to my feet so fast the chair slams into him.
“I should—” My voice comes out strangled. I clear my throat and try again. “I need to clean up the kitchen. The dishes.”
River straightens up, looking confused. “Oh. I can help.”
“No.” It comes out too sharp, and I see him flinch slightly. I force myself to soften my tone even though everything in me is screaming to run. “No, it’s fine. That’s part of the job, right? Cook and clean. You keep working. I’ve got it.”
“Kiera—”
But I’m already backing toward the door, my heart still racing, my skin still tingling from that barely-there touch. “The documentary is really good. Seriously. I’m—I’m impressed.”
Then I turn and practically flee down the hallway. I grab the dishes from the dining room and go back to the safety of the kitchen where I can put my hands in soapy water and pretend my heart isn’t running a marathon.
Professional, I remind myself as I start running water in the sink, my hands shaking slightly as I squirt dish soap onto the plates. This is just a job. He’s just some guy who happens to be attractive and talented and passionate about things that matter. None of that means anything.
Except it does mean something. That’s the problem. I felt something back there. Something I swore I’d never let myself feel again. And that’s exactly why I need to keep my distance, keep this professional, keep every single one of my carefully constructed walls exactly where they are.
Because the alternative—letting those walls down, letting him in, trusting that this time might be different—that’s a risk I’m not willing to take.
Not when I know exactly how this story ends.