Chapter Eight – Crew
There’s a headline in the Coral Bell Gazette that reads:
Lighthouse Love Story: Quarterback and Book Witch Brew Up Buzz
I wish I were kidding.
The photo underneath is of me handing Bailey a jar of honey at the farmers’ market. The camera caught her mid-laugh, my head tilted toward her like I’m about to confess a state secret. Which, honestly, isn’t far off.
I set the paper down on the kitchen table like it might explode.
“Good picture,” Mom says, appearing out of nowhere with her mug of chamomile tea.
“Good morning, invasion of privacy.”
She smiles. “You’re welcome. I only bought six copies.”
“Why?”
“For my scrapbook,” she says, completely serious. “And your sister’s kids. And possibly the church bulletin.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Language,” she chides, sipping her tea. “You look happy, Crew. Don’t ruin it with sarcasm.”
“I’m not happy,” I lie.
She raises one eyebrow, that maternal don’t waste my time look that’s scarier than any linebacker. “Mmm. So the smiling, glowing, talking-in-complete-sentences thing is just a phase?”
“I’m going to town,” I mutter, grabbing my cap.
“Tell Bailey I said hi!” she calls as I escape out the door.
The day stretches out slow and golden, the kind of early autumn day that looks like a movie.
The horses are restless, the air sharp and sweet with hay dust. I work until sweat darkens my shirt, until the ache in my shoulder feels like something earned.
Still, I can’t stop thinking about her. The way she looked at me yesterday—half exasperation, half challenge, all heart. The way she touched my wrist at the pier. Two seconds, soft and sure, like she was returning the exact weight I’d given her the night before.
I’ve been touched by hundreds of hands—fans, teammates, trainers—but hers is the only one that ever felt like home.
Sawyer pulls up in his truck mid-afternoon, dust pluming behind him. He hops out with two crates of feed and a grin that means trouble.
“You’re famous, and not for football this time,” he says.
“Die.”
He laughs, tossing me a bottle of water. “Seriously, man. My niece texted me the article. Said, and I quote, Crew Wright is in his lover-boy era, and I’m here for it.”
“I hate everything about that sentence.”
“She’s twelve,” he says. “She knows things.”
I flip him off.
He laughs harder. “So, the bookstore girl, huh? The one who wrote you that note in high school?”
“You know about the note?”
“Crew, everyone knows about the note. Half the town cried when they found out you kept it.”
“That was supposed to be private.”
“This is Coral Bell Cove,” he says. “Privacy is a myth, like cold sweet tea or functional family boundaries.”
I groan, rubbing the back of my neck. “I’m just…trying to be careful.”
“Careful,” he repeats. “That what we’re calling falling in love now?”
“I’m not—”
He holds up a hand. “Don’t say it unless you mean it. But maybe stop pretending it’s not happening. We all see it. I mean, you could have stayed in Nashville for rehab, my man. Why else would you have chosen to rehab at home?”
I look away, out toward the pecan trees. The light filters through the branches, dappling gold over the pasture. “Yeah,” I say quietly.
By sunset, I’m standing at the lighthouse again.
I tell myself it’s because I forgot my thermos from the other night, which is true. Mostly.
Bailey’s outside on the steps, barefoot, hair down, wearing an oversized sweater that looks like something you could live in. She’s holding a mug, watching the horizon turn pink and copper. The sight punches a hole clean through my chest.
She looks over when I step up the path. “You’re stalking me,” she says.
“You make it sound weird.”
“It is weird.”
“I forgot my thermos.”
“You mean this?” She holds it up with a smirk.
“That’s evidence.”
“Of what?”
“That you’re a thief.”
She laughs, low and warm, and I swear the sound changes the air.
I sit on the step beside her, leaving a respectful six inches of space. It feels like both too much and not nearly enough.
She glances sideways. “You know, if you keep showing up here, people are going to think you like me.”
“I do like you.”
Her mug pauses halfway to her mouth. “You’re supposed to deny it.”
“I’m bad at lying,” I say. “Ask anyone.”
Her lips twitch. “You’re infuriating.”
“You’ve mentioned.”
We sit there, side by side, watching the tide roll in. The waves lap against the rocks, steady and patient. It smells like salt and cinnamon again, or maybe that’s just my memory playing tricks.
After a while, she says, “You didn’t have to come.”
“I wanted to.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“I know,” I say softly. “But it’s honest.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. “You scare me, Crew.”
I nod. “You scare me, too.”
Her laugh is a breath. “At least we’re consistent.”
The wind picks up, tangling her hair. Without thinking, I reach out and tuck a strand behind her ear. My fingers graze her skin, light as a whisper.
She stills.
“Crew,” she says, voice barely audible.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t.”
I drop my hand. “Okay.”
But she doesn’t move away. She just looks at me—eyes wide, pulse flickering at her throat—and every bit of her body language says don’t stop, but don’t rush either.
Her voice wavers. “You can’t keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Making it impossible to breathe.”
I swallow, throat tight. “Guess we’re both out of practice.”
She huffs out a laugh, shaky and soft. “You’re impossible.”
“You love impossible.”
“I used to,” she whispers. “I don’t know if I can again.”
“Then don’t yet,” I say. “Just…sit here with me. That’s enough.”
Her eyes meet mine. For a heartbeat—one single, suspended second—it feels like gravity tilts. Her hand brushes mine on the step, fingers grazing, hesitating.
Neither of us pulls away.
The contact is light. Barely there. But it’s everything.
When she finally stands, she looks dazed. “You should go before the town writes another article.”
“Let ’em,” I say quietly. “They’ll never get the good parts right anyway.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling as she goes inside.
I stay on the steps a while longer, staring out at the water, every nerve in my body humming with her.
When the light sweeps over the bay, I look up and whisper, “I’m trying, B. I really am.”
The following morning, the farm smells like coffee and the kind of trouble that comes dressed as peace.
I wake early, mostly because I didn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face — the way her breath hitched when my fingers brushed her hair and the war playing out in her eyes.
When I finally gave up and came downstairs, Mom was already in the kitchen, flour dusting her hands like snow. “Morning, handsome,” she says, without looking up. “Someone dropped off books for me.”
My brain short-circuits. “Books?”
“From Bailey,” she says casually, shaping biscuit dough. “Said she thought I’d like the new collection for the community library drive. Sweet girl. Smart.”
“She’s—yeah. She is.”
Mom glances at me. “You gonna stand there grinning, or are you gonna grab the butter?”
I move on autopilot, reaching for the butter dish while trying not to picture Bailey standing in this kitchen, sunlight on her hair, her laughter echoing off the walls.
Mom hums. “She didn’t stay long. But she looked happy.”
“Happy’s good,” I say, too quickly.
“Mm-hmm,” she says, and I know that tone—the one that means she’s storing information for later use. I escape outside before she can weaponize it.
The morning’s sharp, the air smelling like dew and pecans and hay. Horses flick their tails lazily, and the world feels too still for the noise in my chest.
I’m elbow-deep in feed when I hear footsteps behind me.
“Morning, Wright.”
I freeze. Then turn.
Bailey stands there, holding a paper bag and wearing that same oversized sweater, jeans cuffed at the ankles, hair tucked behind her ears. She looks like autumn showed up just to compete.
“Didn’t know we offered delivery,” I say, trying for easy.
“Your mom forgot her receipt,” she says, holding it up. “And she bribed me with biscuits.”
“Classic.”
“She said to tell you to stop sulking and come eat.”
“I’m not sulking.”
She smirks. “You’re literally hiding in a barn.”
“Working, because it’s the best kind of therapy,” I correct. “It’s different.”
“Sure it is.”
She sets the paper bag on a hay bale and glances around. “This place is beautiful. Always has been.”
“Yeah,” I say, watching her instead of the view. “It is.”
She catches me looking, blushes, then crouches to pet the barn cat weaving around her ankles. “Hey there, handsome,” she says softly.
The cat purrs, traitorous bastard.
“You’re clearly his type,” I say.
“He’s clearly everyone’s,” she counters. “You could learn from him.”
I laugh. “I’m not licking anyone to say hello.”
“Your loss,” she says, straight-faced. It hits me right in the ribs—that mix of humor and heat she wields without trying.
We end up walking toward the house together, and it feels domestic in a way I didn’t realize I missed.
So much better than her running in the opposite direction whenever she saw my face.
The smell of biscuits pulls us into the kitchen, where Mom and Hadley are in the middle of some covert operation involving jam jars and chaos.
Mom beams when she sees Bailey. “Oh good! I was just telling Hadley that I need your advice about shelving the new donations.”
Hadley looks up, grinning. “And I was telling her that what she really needs is more gossip.”
“Please, don’t,” I mutter.
Hadley ignores me. “So, Bailey. Any exciting lighthouse news? New lights? New visitors? Possibly new romantic developments?”
Bailey blushes, pretending to examine the biscuit tray. “Just repairs. And tea.”
“Tea,” Hadley says, nodding sagely. “Right. Nothing says innocent like cinnamon tea at midnight.”
Mom laughs so hard she has to put down the jam knife. “Hadley, you’re awful.”
“I’m efficient,” she says, pouring herself more coffee.
Bailey looks at me, eyes sparkling with amusement and embarrassment all at once. “Your family’s relentless.”
“They’re good at it,” I admit. “It’s a full-contact sport.”
She smirks. “You should warn your opponents.”
“I’m better on defense.”
Her gaze flicks to my shoulder. “Still holding up?”
“Getting stronger.”
“That’s good,” she says softly, and for a second, the whole room disappears—it’s just her and me and the weight of what almost happened last night.
Mom clears her throat loudly. “Crew, the porch rail’s loose. Maybe Bailey could help you fix it while I finish these jars.”
“Subtle,” I mumble, knowing she could ask my brother, Rowan, who pretty much runs the farm with my dad now.
Bailey grins. “Sure, Mrs. Wright. I’m handy.”
Outside, the morning has softened into something golden. The porch smells like sawdust and sugar, sunlight slanting through the pecan trees. I hand her a screwdriver, and our fingers brush—light, familiar, too much.
She kneels beside me, holding the board steady while I tighten the bolts. Every movement pulls us closer. Her shoulder grazes mine; her hair brushes against my arm.
She glances up once, smiling. “You’re distracted.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Being around me?”
“Trying not to kiss you.”
She freezes, then whispers, “Crew.”
“Yeah?”
“Rule two,” she says softly, but she doesn’t move away.
I lean in just enough that she can feel my breath when I speak. “Ask, right?”
Her throat works as she nods. “Ask.”
“Can I?”
Her eyes meet mine, dark and searching. “Not yet,” she says, voice trembling.
I nod, step back, and swallow the ache in my chest.
She smiles faintly, like she’s grateful and wrecked at once. “Good answer.”
We finish the porch in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s charged and alive—the kind of quiet that hums with the promise of something that hasn’t happened yet but will.
When she leaves, she touches my arm as she passes—a small, deliberate thing that undoes every ounce of composure I have left.
I watch her walk down the drive, her sweater catching the wind, her hair gleaming in the sunlight.
Mom leans out the kitchen window, waving like she’s in a parade. “Nice work, honey!”
I look up. “We fixed your rail.”
“I meant with Bailey,” she says, smiling. “Pace yourselves.”
I groan and drop my head back, but I can’t stop the grin.
That night, when the farm has gone quiet and the air smells like woodsmoke and distant salt, I sit on the porch with a beer and stare out toward the lighthouse.
The light sweeps across the bay, steady and sure, just like her.
I whisper into the dark, “Not yet,” and for the first time, waiting doesn’t feel like punishment.
It feels like hope.