At First Play (Coral Bell Cove #3)

Chapter One – Bailey

The first rule of small-town living? Never underestimate a retiree with Wi-Fi.

By seven a.m., half of Coral Bell Cove already knows who ordered the gluten-free donuts, whose cat is pregnant again, and that Crew Wright—yes, that Crew Wright—is allegedly back in town.

Which is precisely why I’m hiding behind the counter of my lighthouse-turned-bookstore, pretending the espresso machine requires urgent emotional support.

Outside, gulls bicker over a dropped pastry on the boardwalk, and the wind coming off the bay smells like salt, cinnamon, and incoming drama. Inside, the air is all roasted coffee and old paper—the perfume of safety.

I give the copper espresso lever an affectionate pat. “Hang in there, girl. If we survive the gossip cycle, we get a muffin.”

The machine hisses in agreement.

The bell over the door jingles, and Daisy Merritt blows in with the breeze, carrying a basket big enough to feed a football team and energy that could power the lighthouse lantern if it still worked.

“Morning, lighthouse lady!” she chirps. “I brought peace offerings—blueberry, chocolate chip, and one maple pecan you’re going to lie about eating.”

“I don’t lie,” I say, taking the basket before she can drop it. “I practice discretion.”

“Sure.” She pulls off her knit cap, cheeks pink from the chill. “You’re going to need carbs. Everyone’s buzzing about the Wright boy being home. Otter Creek’s basically a reality show right now.”

I freeze halfway to the pastry plate. “Define everyone.”

“Mrs. Winthrop started the rumor, and the hardware-store guys confirmed it. Apparently, Crew’s rehabbing his shoulder out there.” Daisy plucks a chocolate-chip muffin and takes a huge bite. “Poor guy. Still looks disgustingly good, though.”

Of course, he does.

I pour another shot of espresso to hide the way my pulse jumps. “Good for him.”

“That’s it? Good for him? Bailey, you once wrote that man poetry on notebook paper.”

“Correction,” I say. “I wrote a private letter that got stolen, read aloud in gym class, and is now archived in the town’s collective memory like a national tragedy.”

Daisy snorts. “Details.”

“I was sixteen.”

“And still blushing like you’re sixteen,” she sings.

“Out.” I point at the door.

She grins, snags a napkin, and heads out into the crisp air. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Word is he’s staying a while.”

The door closes, leaving me with the whisper of waves and the low creak of the old lighthouse settling. I exhale through my nose, long and slow.

Crew Wright. Back in Coral Bell Cove.

Nope. Not today.

I can’t keep letting myself get worked up. He comes and goes all the time in the summer when it’s a break in his season. I’m just much better at keeping my distance from him during those warm months.

I distract myself by straightening the “Staff Picks” table—Beach Reads for When You Hate the Beach—and the stack of vintage novels near the round window.

Early light slides across the shelves, catching on the brass fixtures I polished last night.

The sea beyond the glass glitters like one of my best friend Ivy’s sequins.

The bell jingles again.

“Morning, Mrs. Winthrop,” I say automatically.

“Morning, dear.” She totters in wearing her usual floral scarf and enough perfume to stun a man out at sea. “Anything new for a woman of refined taste and questionable morals?”

I smile. “Plenty. How steamy are we talking today?”

“Moderate,” she says primly. “Enough to feel alive but not enough to alarm my cardiologist.”

I hand her a paperback. “Widowed heroine, brooding neighbor, lots of lingering glances.”

She beams. “Perfect. Oh, did you hear? Crew Wright’s back for an undisclosed amount of time! Isn’t that wonderful?”

My jaw tightens behind a professional smile. “That’s the word on the street.”

“He’s such a nice boy.”

“Sure.”

She squints at me. “You used to tutor him, didn’t you?”

“Briefly. Until he discovered that doodling football plays in the margins doesn’t count as active reading.”

Mrs. Winthrop chuckles. “Some people take longer to learn their lessons. Don’t let yours slip by twice, dear.”

Before I can reply, she wobbles out again, leaving a cloud of flowery perfume and unsolicited wisdom behind her.

I lean against the counter and let the quiet settle back over me.

My phone buzzes.

Lila: Rumor mill says my brother’s back in town. Have you seen him yet?

Me: Not unless he’s disguised as a seagull.

Lila: :D Give it time. Mom’s already planning a “welcome home” dinner.

Ivy: Tell her to livestream it. I need content.

Me: I need bleach for my brain.

Lila: Come on, B. It’s been years. Maybe closure time?

Me: I have closure. It’s alphabetized under “never again.”

Ivy: I’m not privy to the entire story there, but what if “never again” has abs?

Me: …Blocking you.

Ivy: You love me.

Me: Unfortunately, yes.

I lock my phone, but the grin won’t quite fade. That’s the thing about Lila and Ivy—one is my ride-or-die and the other is literal pop royalty married into the Wright circus. Between them, privacy is extinct.

Still, their teasing hums in my chest like background music as I start shelving the new arrivals.

The wind outside shifts, rattling the glass panes. Leaves skitter across the boardwalk. Somewhere down by the marina, someone tunes a guitar, and the faint notes drift up the hill.

The lighthouse hums with it all—the rhythm of home.

I brush dust from the highest shelf, balancing on the step stool, and whisper to the books, “We’re not thinking about him.”

The books, traitorous as ever, don’t answer.

The coffee pot lets out a low, sputtering growl that sounds almost judgmental. I glance over at it from the ladder and sigh. “Don’t you start, too.”

It bubbles back at me like a gossiping aunt. Typical. Everyone in Coral Bell Cove has an opinion—even my appliances.

I climb down, pour what’s left into a chipped lighthouse mug, and take a cautious sip. Bitter. Strong. Exactly how I like it. The mug’s chipped handle fits perfectly against my thumb, and the taste grounds me better than any meditation app ever could.

The day hums along like it has every morning since I opened A Page in Time. There’s comfort in the routine—the creak of the old floorboards, the way the salt air sneaks through the cracks in the windows, and the faint cry of seagulls diving near the pier.

Normal. Predictable. Safe.

Until the universe inevitably laughs and reminds me that safe doesn’t exist in Coral Bell Cove.

A thud against the door nearly makes me spill my coffee.

“Delivery!” someone shouts, followed by something heavy scraping against the entry.

I hurry over to yank the door open and find Grayson from the post office wrestling a box half his size up the steps.

“You’re gonna give yourself a hernia,” I warn.

He flashes a grin. “Probably. But then you’d have to read to me while I’m recovering.”

“Not unless it’s your eulogy.”

He laughs and drops the box with a groan. “It’s from Nashville. Must be one of those book bundles Ivy ordered for you.”

I crouch to check the label. Sure enough—From: Ivy Quinn-Wright. She’s made it her personal mission to keep the kids’ corner of my store stocked with her favorite titles.

“Thanks, Grayson. How’s your mom’s knee?”

“Better. She’ll be back to stalking Mrs. Winthrop’s Facebook posts any day now.”

“Glad to hear it. Send her my love—and tell her to stop commenting heart-eye emojis on every photo of my dog.”

He tips his hat and wanders off, whistling.

I drag the box inside, slice the tape open, and start unpacking. Children’s books, bright and colorful, tumble out like confetti—Goodnight Lighthouse, The Little Seagull That Could, and a stack of Ivy’s latest picture book about following your dreams. She always includes a note written in gold ink.

For Bailey’s littles, who already know stories make the world brighter.

My throat tightens. Ivy might be a pop star, but her heart is pure.

I tuck the books under my arm and head to the reading nook. The space is small—two beanbags, a round rug, and a shelf shaped like a sailboat—but it’s my favorite corner of the shop. Kids come here to escape. So do I.

I start arranging the books, lost in thought, when the bell jingles again.

“Tell me there’s coffee,” says a familiar voice.

Daisy’s back, holding a steaming cup of her own and looking far too pleased with herself.

“I thought you were baking,” I say.

“I was, until the fryer exploded. Minor incident. The fire department from the town over says it builds character.”

“Should I even ask?”

She waves her hand. “Don’t. But while we’re talking character, do you want to know who I just saw down at the docks?”

“No.”

“The rumors are true. Crew. Wright.”

I glare. “Why do you insist on ruining my digestive system before lunch?”

“Because I care,” she says sweetly. “And because if I have to suffer through my mother asking if I’ve ‘found Jesus or a boyfriend yet,’ you have to suffer too.”

“Trade you.”

“Tempting, but no.”

She leans against the counter, eyes gleaming. “You remember that sweatshirt you used to wear? The Stallions one?”

“Vaguely. It probably died of embarrassment years ago.”

“He’s wearing the same one.”

My stomach flips. I busy myself with loading a spool of receipt tape into the printer. “Coincidence.”

“Sure, honey.”

She finishes her coffee, clearly enjoying herself. “Anyway, he’s back. Word is he’s trying to ‘reset.’”

I snort. “He can reset all he wants. I’m staying powered down.”

“Fine. But if you’re gonna hide from him, at least wear something cute. Makes avoidance look classy.”

When she finally leaves, the shop feels too still again.

I blow out a breath and glance around. The midday light slides across the worn wood floors, turning them the color of honey. A couple of tourists wander past the windows, their laughter carried by the wind.

I wish I could freeze this—just the quiet, the scent of salt, the murmur of pages turning.

Instead, my mind drifts back to the first time I ever saw Crew Wright.