Chapter Four
I WAKE UP EARLY THE NEXT MORNING TO THE CROW OF ROOSTERS, Harbour Island’s natural alarm clock, with that pleasant kind of ache that comes from actual productivity.
My legs are sore from squatting to reach low drawers.
My arms ache from lifting boxes, rearranging furniture, moving rugs.
Yesterday was a full overhaul, closets emptied, linens sorted, drawers reorganized.
Milly will be proud. I’ve got bags by the door for donation.
I throw on a short, white sundress and tie my hair up in a loose knot, eager to get some fresh air. I pass by Miss Paige’s porch, where she’s sipping coffee and reading a book. She waves with two fingers, and I wave back, comforted by the rhythm of the familiar.
Arthur’s Bakery sits right in town. The white paint on the pineapple fence is fresh, a popular photo spot amongst tourists.
Espresso and sugar lace the air from halfway down the block.
The screen door shuts heavily as I step inside the air conditioning that’s attempting to keep up with the summer heat.
The glass cases are stocked with cinnamon rolls, donuts, and the infamous fruit pastries that always sell out by late morning.
I’m peering around the customer ordering ahead of me, scanning the pastry case for my favorite Danishes when I hear him say, “Let’s do the rest of the cheese Danishes, as well.”
My head snaps up and I let out an audible gasp. Notebook Guy spins around, startled by the sound.
I feel my face heat as I stare up at him, frozen.
He’s taller than I remembered, and up close, the creases around his deep green eyes crinkle with quiet amusement.
They’re like polished emeralds, bright, intense, mesmerizing.
His sun-kissed skin has that effortless glow, and dark, shaggy waves frame his face.
There’s a trace of scruff along his jawline that’s far too distracting this early in the morning.
Notebook Guy laughs, low, warm, and confident. “Or is that a bad idea?”
“Oh. No, I mean…” I fumble. “They’re one of the best things on the island. You really can’t go wrong with anything here.”
I tack that last part on too fast, too bright.
His eyes crinkle again, charming satisfaction spreading across his face. He knows exactly how off balance I am.
He turns back to the counter. “Actually, I’ll just take two of the cheese Danishes. And throw in four sticky buns, please.”
Meanwhile, my face flushes as I pretend to dig through my purse, hands fumbling like I’m searching for something important instead of spiraling into full blown panic. That’s when I hear it.
“Yeah the system is down so we can only take cash today.” Damn. I don’t have any cash on me. My brain scrambles through my options: stand here like a clueless idiot, ask a complete stranger to cover me, or vanish.
I choose vanish. Quietly, I inch backward toward the door, praying he doesn’t notice me slipping out.
But the screen door betrays me with a loud slam.
I don’t look back. I just walk. Fast. Flustered.
I head toward home, pride left somewhere back on the bakery floor.
A couple minutes later I hear the soft rumble of a golf cart pulling up beside me.
“I thought you said these were the best on the island?”
I glance over. There he is, grinning from the driver’s seat, leaning against the steering wheel, two oversized white boxes sitting beside him.
“Was I just pastry hustled? Why’d you disappear?”
I snort before I can stop myself. So much for salvaging my dignity.
“I wasn’t hustling you,” I say, smiling despite myself. “They really are my favorite. I just forgot cash.” I lift my hands in a helpless shrug.
His grin widens. “Well lucky for you, I’m a generous guy. And…” he nods toward the boxes, “I clearly went a little overboard. My friends won’t miss a few.”
Then he pats the seat next to him, eyebrows raised in invitation. I glance around. It’s not even eight thirty in the morning on a very public street. If this is how I get murdered, at least it’ll be carb adjacent.
“Why not,” I shrug, circling the cart and climbing in. He watches me settle, a smug smile on his face.
“I promise this is strictly breakfast related,” he says, deadpan, pulling the cart off to the side.
“I’m trusting you,” I reply.
“Okay.” He pops open a box with flourish. Inside, golden perfection. “Let’s see if these live up to the hype.”
I pretend to hesitate, then snatch one. He grabs his own and tucks the box between us.
“Moment of truth,” he says, locking eyes with me. He takes a massive bite, flakes falling on his lap, his shirt, one sticking to his eyelash.
He groans. “Okay. You weren’t lying. Totally worth it.”
I dive into mine, messy and unapologetic. “I’d never lie about something this important.”
He brushes crumbs off his shirt, failing miserably. “Let’s just stay here and eat the rest. I’ll tell my friends the bakery sold out.”
I grin, my heart fluttering.
After a beat, I extend a buttery hand. “I’m Lucy, by the way.”
“Noah.” He takes it, grip lingering a second longer than necessary.
“So, Noah,” I say, pulling back, “what brings you to the island? Besides picking up strangers on the side of the road.”
“I’m working with a local musician,” he says. “I’m here for a couple months.”
“You’re a musician?”
“Songwriter. I’m helping Jacob Alistair with his next album.”
My eyebrows lift. “He’s good. He played at a Christmas party I went to last year.”
“He is,” Noah agrees, then looks at me. “What about you?”
I hesitate. “My grandparents had a house here. I’ve been visiting since I was a kid.”
His eyes light up. He throws an arm out, gesturing around us. “You grew up with this? I’m jealous.”
“It’s pretty special,” I admit.
He stares at me intently. “I saw you at Gusty’s the other night.”
“You did,” I confirm with a laugh. “First day back.”
“Some friends of mine are in town this week. We’re having dinner at the house they’re renting tonight. You should come by. There’ll be music, drinks, nothing wild.”
I glance at him, trying to read the vibe. “I’d like that. I could probably come by after dinner. Where’s the house?”
“It’s White Cottage, on the Bay.”
“I know it. It’s next to a family friend’s place.”
Before I can say more, a golf cart rumbles up beside us. Jack.
“Hey Luce,” he calls, smiling, eyes flicking between Noah and me.
“Morning, Jack,” I say lightly, eyeing the bag next to him. “How are you?”
“Good. The boat came in. Finally got the extension cord I needed.” He glances at Noah and nods. “Hey, I’m Jack.”
“Noah,” he replies, offering a smile. “Nice to meet you.”
An awkward pause hovers. I can feel Jack’s curiosity, Noah’s calm, and me, stuck in the middle.
“Well,” I say, rising. “I should head home.”
“I’m going that way,” Jack says, voice a little lower than usual.
I turn to Noah. “Thanks for breakfast. And not murdering me.”
“Anytime,” he replies. “Maybe I’ll see you tonight. Bring a friend if you want.”
“Maybe you will,” I say, stepping off the cart with half a sticky bun in hand.
“See ya later, Lucy,” he calls as he drives off.
I climb into Jack’s cart, brushing pastry flakes off my dress. He pulls away smoothly, glancing over with a crooked smile.
“New friend?”
I laugh, easing into the seat. “Something like that.”
“Did he lure you in with food?”
“One cheese Danish and a sticky bun,” I say, holding up my half-eaten proof.
As we drive home, an uncomfortable silence builds between us. I look over and Jack has an uncharacteristic frown pulling down the corners of his mouth.
I hesitate and then ask, “You okay?”
“Of course. You sharing?” Jack smiles as he leans toward me.
I hold out the sticky bun. He leans in and takes a bite like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“I have a few things to do back at the house this morning before my parents get in. You know how mom likes her palms.”
Every summer Jack, Allie, and I would comb the island for his mother’s vases like it was some sacred mission. Jack hopping out every few minutes to snip a palm frond. There’s no flower shop on the island, so you have to get creative.
“Then you could probably use a little sustenance,” I say as I offer the rest of my sticky bun.
He chews, grinning, and I can’t help but grin back, the tension melting between us.