Chapter Seven
Noah: Good morning Lucy
Noah: This is Noah by the way
I sit straight up in bed like I’ve just been given an adrenaline shot.
Lucy: Good morning
Noah: I almost texted you when I woke up but figured 6:23 might read as desperate
Lucy: You’re right, waiting until 8:13 made all the difference
Noah: Exactly. It’s the sweet spot between “I woke up thinking about you” and “Oh hey”
Okay, this is happening. My pulse speeds up as I race to think of a reply.
Lucy: Sorry I didn’t get back to you yesterday. What are you up to?
Noah: Free as a bird. Breakfast?
We make plans to meet at The Landing. I jump out of bed and dart to my vanity, grateful to see it’s a good hair day. I throw on low-waisted pale pink linen pants with a cropped white tank and comfy sandals so I can walk to the restaurant.
Twenty minutes later, I’m passing through the side gate of The Landing on Bay Street. I spot Noah leaning back in his chair with one arm slung over the side. When I reach the table, he stands, pulling out my chair.
“This table okay with you? They have space inside, too.” he asks as he leans in.
“It’s perfect. The porch is my favorite spot.
I love watching everyone go by.” I smile, setting my bag beside me on the chair.
But as I glance around, a small realization hits.
This looks like a date. And okay, fine. I think it actually is one.
In all my years here, I’ve never been on a date on the island with anyone other than Jack.
I scan the porch out of habit, but I don’t recognize anyone.
We order right away, a latte and avocado toast with bacon for me, and a black iced coffee with ricotta pancakes for Noah.
Once the waitress walks away, Noah rests his elbows on the table. “So,” he says, “I know you grew up splitting time. Charleston’s home, and then summers here?”
“Pretty much,” I nod. “Christmases, too. And sometimes Easter. It’s always been like a second home to me.”
His eyes stay on mine, his body still in that way people have when they’re really listening. “And your art, did you always know you wanted to paint?”
I smile. “Always. I was the kid doodling on cocktail napkins at dinner parties and getting sand in my sketchbooks.”
He tilts his head, appraising me with a soft smile playing on his lips. “You have that look of growing up around beauty. I guess you learned how to turn it into your own language.”
My lips twitch into a smile before I can stop them. “That sounds like a songwriter.”
He gives a small, sheepish shrug.
“Right…Nashville. And do you? Love what you do?”
“I do,” his smile is easy. “It’s mostly trying to get people to pay attention long enough to say or feel something true. Which is harder than it sounds.”
I nod. “You make music sound a little like painting. Have you written anything I might’ve heard?”
He considers, then names one of my current favorite songs.
I blink. Hard. “Wait. You wrote that?!”
His ears turn slightly pink as he sips his coffee. “Co-wrote. It’s all teamwork. But yeah.”
“I love that song!” I practically shriek. “It’s on my workout playlist. Sometimes I put it on repeat to help me get through a run.”
He rubs the back of his neck, trying to play it off, but there’s no mistaking the pleased twinkle in his eyes.
“Well, I’ll take that as the highest compliment.” Then his voice gets serious. “That’s what I love about it, honestly. Taking a blank page and turning it into something people can feel. It’s the best kind of high.”
He takes another sip of his coffee, then meets my eyes. “You must get that. With painting?”
And I’m caught off guard. Not by the question itself, but by the fact that he asked it at all. The last couple of guys I went on first dates with could barely manage a follow-up question without cue cards.
I tell him about my studio, the women I share it with, how we share ideas, push each other, swap connections.
“It never gets competitive?” he asks.
“Not at all,” I say, shaking my head. “There’s this really supportive creative community in Charleston. Mostly women, a mix of artists, designers, brand founders. Everyone’s always championing each other.”
His head nods in quiet agreement. “That’s how my writing crew is, too. The best stuff comes from that kind of energy and support.”
I realize I’m leaning in closer than I mean to, caught up in the easy rhythm of our conversation. His laugh is quick, his questions thoughtful, and I keep catching myself fighting a grin that won’t quit. When the check lands, he snatches it before I can even pretend to reach for it.
“Nope,” he says, dismissing my halfhearted protest with a shake of his head.
I sigh, surrendering. “Thank you. Now I owe you breakfast.”
His eyes flick up to mine. “Do you have some time? Want to go to the beach?” His tone sounds casual, but there’s a slight hitch to it, like maybe he was nervous to ask. The invitation catches me off guard, but in the best way.
“I’d love to.”
When we pull into my driveway, Noah slows the golf cart, his eyes sweeping up toward the house with a low whistle.
“Wow,” he says, taking it in. “This is your grandparents’ place?”
“It is,” I say, then pause. “Well…was.” I fiddle with the drawstring on my linen pants. “My grandmother passed away last month. She left it to me.” I glance over at him. “It still feels weird to say out loud.”
Noah turns to me, his whole demeanor softening. “I’m sorry, Lucy. It sounds like you were close?”
“Very,” I nod. “She lived in Charleston, too, so we spent a lot of time together. But I feel better knowing she’s with my grandfather now.”
We ride in silence for a moment as the golf cart rolls over the shell-lined path. Noah doesn’t rush to fill the quiet, which I appreciate.
He drums his fingers on the steering wheel as we stop near my gate. “I’ll run home and grab my suit. I’ll be right back?”
“Sounds good,” I reply.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m just finishing tying the straps of my light pink bikini top when I hear the soft crunch of tires on the drive. I pause, fingers still, suddenly aware we’ll be spending the day like this. I glance out the window.
Noah steps out of the golf cart like someone who’s used to being barefoot. He’s wearing navy swim trunks and the same white terry-cloth polo he wore at breakfast, a towel now slung over his shoulder. I flush, suddenly remembering that we’re about to spend the day half-dressed together.
When I step onto the porch, he looks up, his attention settling on me.
“Let’s grab some waters before we head down,” I say, working to keep my voice breezy as I gesture for him to follow me inside.
In the kitchen, I grab two water bottles and start filling them with ice. Noah leans his hip against the counter.
“This house is incredible,” he says. “All the light, the view. I don’t know how you ever leave.” Noah nods a thank you as I pass him a bottle.
“Thanks. I’m hoping to spend more time here. I’m turning one of the upstairs rooms into a little studio space while I’m here.”
I continue, twisting the lid on my water bottle. “I’ve never painted seascapes before, as an adult I mean. They always felt a little too obvious…” I gesture out the window. “But now, I don’t know. I’ve been feeling it.”
We head outside, passing under the arbor onto the pink, sandy path.
“This is a painting in and of itself,” Noah murmurs behind me, taking in the framed view of the bougainvillea crawling over the arbor with the turquoise water right beyond it.
The breeze curls softly around us as we step onto the beach.
I lead him toward the chairs tucked near the dune, and we drag them under the palapa, tossing our towels over the backs.
I nudge my chair just a few inches closer to his.
If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. We settle in, the sun warm on our skin, and for the next few hours the conversation flows like we’ve done this before.
Noah’s sharp, witty in a quiet way that sneaks up on me. And he’s a great listener.
Also, God help me, he’s hot. When he took his shirt off, I scolded myself to stop staring.
He’s tall with tanned skin, his stomach is toned and lean, and there’s an ease to the way he moves, like someone shaped by late nights, heavy instruments, and hours lost in music, not fluorescent-lit gyms. There’s nothing staged about it.
Just lived-in strength. He stretches his arms above his head, muscles shifting, and lets out a low, satisfied sigh.
“This might be the best way to spend a day off,” he says, eyes closed.
“I thought musicians didn’t have days off?”
He cracks one eye open, smirking. “Everyone needs a day off. I’m calling this a creative reset.”
“Ah. So this is part of your process.”
“Fully sanctioned,” he says, looking over at me. “Beach, good company, maybe a little inspiration…all very necessary.”
I shake my head, smiling. “So if I hear a song one day about a mysterious island girl…”
“You’ll know exactly who it’s about.”
It’s like a brushstroke of color blooming under my ribs.
Hours later, I’m lying on my side, laughing as I tell Noah about my middle school notebooks, pages of dramatic, painfully sincere poems I once believed were masterpieces.
His mouth drops open, amused disbelief flickering across his face. “No way. I have to see these.”
“Absolutely not,” I say, swatting his arm. “They are deeply embarrassing and will never, ever see daylight.”
He leans in closer, eyes glinting. “Come on. I won’t judge. Maybe I could turn one into a ballad.”
I groan. “I’d die if my middle school angst ended up on the radio.”
“I used to spend hours illustrating and decorating the borders,” I confess, peeking out behind my raised hands. “Dramatic flourishes, swirling designs, extremely intense titles in all-caps bubble letters.”
“Bubble letters?” he repeats, delighted.
“With shading,” I add quickly. “I was very committed.”