Chapter Twenty-six – Crew
The glow from the lighthouse cuts across the room in measured rhythm, steady as a pulse. Every sweep paints her skin in light and shadow. Bailey’s asleep, tangled in the sheet, the cat perched like a tiny sentinel at her feet. It’s peaceful—the kind of peace that makes a man superstitious.
My phone screen still burns against the nightstand.
Laramie: Don’t celebrate yet. We found something in the grant files. Call me first thing.
Laramie doesn’t use words she doesn’t have to. Don’t celebrate yet means the ground’s about to move.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling, running through possibilities. Fraud. A clerical error. Someone claiming the lighthouse belongs to the town, not her. Or worse—someone trying to tie her name to mine again, twist it into another narrative.
I roll onto my side and watch her breathe. The way her lips part slightly with every exhale, the curl of her fingers against the pillow. She trusts the quiet. She trusts me.
I promised her ordinary.
But ordinary keeps coming with asterisks.
The sun rises early, and so does the restlessness. I slip out of bed, careful not to wake her, and head downstairs. The floorboards creak, but the sound feels familiar now—like the house acknowledging me.
Coffee first. Thinking later.
By the time Bailey pads down in one of my T-shirts, hair messy, eyes half-closed, the pot’s half-empty, and my nerves are worse.
“You’re awake early,” she mumbles, grabbing a mug.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
She blinks at me over the rim. “I saw the text. I’m sorry.”
I nod.
Her shoulders tighten. “You think it’s bad?”
“I think Laramie doesn’t spook easy.”
Bailey sets her cup down. “She said to call her first thing. It’s barely six.”
“Then we’re first.”
She presses the speaker icon before I can protest. The phone rings once. Twice.
Laramie answers, voice too sharp for morning. “Wright.”
“We’re both here,” Bailey says.
I add, “What did you find?”
“The grant came from the foundation, yes—but the matching-fund clause? That was added later. A supplemental file uploaded by a secondary reviewer.”
Bailey frowns. “Meaning?”
“Meaning someone piggybacked the legitimate approval with a condition that doesn’t exist. Someone inside the process inserted a fake clause designed to make you default.”
I grip the counter. “To disqualify her?”
“Exactly,” Laramie says. “And if you default, the lighthouse goes to the backup preservation entity—Sanford Coastal Media.”
I swallow. “David.”
“Or the people above him,” Laramie says. “Follow the letterhead, and you’ll see a holding company three layers deep. I’m sending you the documents now.”
My phone buzzes with the email. It’s all there—stamps, signatures, falsified dates. Someone’s been playing chess while we’ve been playing checkers.
Bailey’s voice shakes. “Can we fix it?”
“Yes,” Laramie says. “But quietly. Public filings could take months. If you push too hard, they’ll counter with injunctions. Let me work some angles first.”
Bailey nods, even though the agent can’t see her. “Do what you need to. Just… tell me if it’s going to cost us more than the lighthouse.”
Laramie’s silence says enough.
After the call, Bailey leans against the counter, staring at the charm on her wrist. The one I gave her.
“You okay?” I ask.
She laughs, short and tired. “Define ‘okay’.”
“Breathing.”
“Barely.”
I take the mug from her hand, set it aside, and pull her against me. “We’ve beaten worse.”
She presses her face into my chest. “You make it sound like a game.”
“No,” I whisper. “Like a promise.”
For a long time, we just stand there, the coffee cooling between us.
By midmorning, the shop is open, but Bailey isn’t behind the counter. She’s upstairs with the files spread across the floor, tracing timelines, matching fonts, cataloging inconsistencies.
Lila drops off pastries and war-grade caffeine, then takes one look at Bailey’s expression and says, “Whoever did this should start running.”
I man the register. I’m not built for stillness, but today, I hold it because she needs it. Customers come in whispering encouragement, dropping cash into the donation box, and promising to write letters to the foundation.
By noon, the cat is judging us from the railing, and Bailey is muttering code sections under her breath.
I crouch beside her. “Eat something.”
She points at the stack of papers. “Not until I figure out who typed this fake clause. There’s a watermark that doesn’t match the rest of the file.”
“You’re terrifying.”
“Flattering won’t distract me. I watch a lot of True Crime.”
I lean closer. “It might.”
Her lips twitch. “You’re insufferable.”
“But effective,” I say, stealing a bite of her pastry. “You taught me that.”
She shakes her head but finally sits back, exhaustion replacing adrenaline.
We take a walk at sunset because Lila insisted on “airing the conspiracy brain.” The town feels different now—proud, protective, a little dangerous in its unity. Every porch we pass waves, every window glows. Coral Bell doesn’t just root for you; it circles the wagons.
Bailey’s quiet beside me, hands buried in her jacket pockets. I reach over, threading my fingers through hers.
“You’re somewhere else,” I say.
“I’m in three places at once,” she admits. “Past me is terrified. Present me is furious. Future me is trying to remember how to sleep. My grandfather is probably rolling over in his grave.”
“Let me help with that sleeping one.”
She glances up, a spark returning to her eyes. “You offering to read me a bedtime story?”
“Only the spicy chapters,” I say.
She laughs, full-bodied this time, and it sounds like hope.
The late rain that rolls in after midnight is lazy, with more wind than rain. Bailey lights candles in the kitchen, the flames flickering against the old brick. We make tea because pretending to be civilized is easier than acknowledging how close the fear sits beneath the surface.
She’s wearing one of my hoodies, sleeves swallowing her hands. The hem hits just above her thighs, and I’m halfway to forgetting every rational thought I’ve ever had.
She catches my stare. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“Just cataloging,” I say. “For posterity.”
“Posterity, huh?” She steps closer, eyes teasing but soft. “You always this poetic when you’re about to do something stupid?”
“Only with you.”
I set my mug down, reach for her, and the world narrows again.
This time, there’s no rush, no interruption, no crisis banging on the door. Just us. Her breath, my heartbeat, the thunder rolling miles away like an approving drum.
I kiss her slowly with reverence. She answers like she’s been waiting all day to remember what it feels like to be wanted without conditions.
Within my large hands, I gather her wrists and pin them above her head and against the arm of the sofa while my mouth assaults her neck.
“I love your skin.”
“Crew,” she whimpers, squirming against me. My hips cushion her legs, pinning her in place.
“What do you need, sweetheart?”
“I… I need your hands and mouth… everywhere.”
“Take off the hoodie,” I command, ripping the athletic pants from her legs as my gaze is glued to her glistening center. I place my hands on her thighs, holding her legs apart as she sits up to remove her top.
Her breasts bounce as they’re freed from her lacy bra. She tosses the delicate material onto the floor next to her pants and hoodie.
My eyes dart up from her pussy to her breasts, triggering a growl from deep within my chest.
“Fuck. Baby, I’m so hungry for you. I… I can’t promise I’ll be gentle with you.”
Lifting her hand, she softly runs her fingers through my brown hair. I do very little to fight back the animalistic purr that sounds from my throat.
“Shit, I don’t deserve you,” I confess as I bend forward and latch onto a nipple while one of my hands slips between her legs.
Rapidly, my body goes up in flames as I pay special attention to her most sensitive areas. I grow needier with each passing second. My name is an unrecognizable groan from Bailey’s lips.
My mouth climbs up her legs toward her cunt as she quakes against my lips.
“Now, be a good girl, and let me make you come.”
Our kisses grow frenzied, and our hands wildly stroke bare skin. It’s both too much and not enough.
I slip a hand between her legs, running my finger back and forth along her wet slit. It’s already coated in her arousal, but grows wetter with each pass.
Her breaths become pants as I continue swirling around her clit until she’s quivering. Against my lips, she cries out, her orgasm crashing over her like a tidal wave.
“God, you’re gorgeous when you come,” I say as I pull my hand free, still yearning for more.
As she settles back down, I move until my face is between her legs. I lap at the wetness, murmuring to myself how much I enjoy indulging in her.
While Bailey’s lost in her own pleasure, I pull back and slip a condom onto my cock. The large erection points toward Bailey like a stiff mast as I lean over her. I press my lips against hers, rock my hips back, and then surge into her.
“Oh!” she cries out as my cockhead runs across the spot most women aren’t sure actually exists.
Raising one of her bent legs, I glide my cock over the sensitive spot again.
“Crew,” she whispers, clawing at his back.
“Fuck, Bailey, I can feel you tightening around me. You’re so fucking snug. I’m not going to last much longer.” I nearly growl as she shifts a hand between her legs. “That’s it. Touch yourself. Make yourself come.”
As I sit up on my knees to give her more room to work her fingers, I plunge in and out of her tight sheath. Beads of sweat run down the sides of my face and chest.
“Shit, sweet girl. I can feel you,” I pant as she rocks her hips against mine. “Take what you need.”
Suddenly, flashes of pleasure rocked across my spine. Bailey’s back arches not long after from such a powerful release.
“Yes.” My moan only drags out her orgasm further.
After a few more pumps, I grunt with my own orgasm, joining her in a well-sated heap on the couch.