The Marina's First Catch

1. Hadley

Chapter One

HADLEY

By seven thirty in the morning, Sweet Gum Café smells like espresso, butter, cinnamon sugar, and decisions people make before they’ve had enough caffeine to defend themselves.

Tourists cluster near the pastry case in brand-new Coral Bell Cove ball caps, studying the menu board like ordering a latte requires a strategy meeting.

Locals occupy their usual spots with newspapers, crosswords, reusable mugs, and the quiet confidence of people who know no one will ever ask them to move.

At table six, two fishermen argue over tides like their disagreement might influence the moon.

And in the middle of the café floor, directly between the register and the pickup counter, Rook has decided this is the perfect place to die dramatically of neglect.

“Holt,” I call toward the back corner booth, “your dog is becoming a workplace hazard.”

My twin doesn’t look up from his phone. “My dog? Interesting, considering he’s lying on your foot.”

I glance down.

Sure enough, Rook’s adorable head is draped over my sneaker like I’m a pillow he personally commissioned.

“See?” Holt says, lifting his coffee. “He chooses me emotionally and you financially.”

I slide a caramel latte in front of Mrs. Henderson and narrowly avoid stepping on Rook’s ear. “You feed him dry kibble and emotional neglect.”

“Are we doing this again?”

“Did you or did you not forget his birthday last year?”

“Dogs don’t know what birthdays are.”

I gasp loudly enough for table six to go silent. “Rook, did you hear that? We’re calling you illiterate now.”

One of the fishermen snorts into his mug.

Holt raises a brow. “I built him custom stairs so he could get on the bed without jumping.”

“Out of guilt.”

“Out of love.”

“Guilt with a power drill.”

Rook’s tail thumps, clearly enjoying the attention while contributing nothing to his own defense.

This is how mornings usually go when I work the opening rush at Sweet Gum.

Technically, I don’t own the place, and technically, I don’t need the extra shifts now that I work with the town’s tourism and community development office, but Mrs. Pace has let me pick up hours here since I was sixteen.

At some point, the café became less of a job and more of a second living room with better pastries.

I like the rhythm here. The gossip. The way everyone’s stories overlap before eight in the morning. I like knowing who takes oat milk, who pretends to hate whipped cream but always accepts it, and which tourists need directions to the boardwalk after their first cup of coffee.

The bell over the café door jingles, letting in a gust of wind scented with marsh grass, salt water, and blooming honeysuckle.

Lila walks in first, sunglasses pushed into her blond hair and a stack of folders tucked under one arm, looking annoyingly put together for this hour of the morning.

If she weren’t my sister, I would probably hate her on sight, but she’s also got the biggest heart in the world.

Dean follows with Oliver upside down over one shoulder while Evelyn clings to his free hand, chattering at top speed.

“Dean Harrington,” Lila says, grinning. “He has school in twenty minutes. He cannot go in dizzy.”

Dean flips Oliver right side up. “He requested astronaut training.”

“I said pancakes,” Oliver protests.

“Same thing.”

Evelyn releases Dean’s hand and makes a beeline for Rook. “Dog!”

Rook rises from the brink of death.

“Morning, sunshine,” Dean says, Lila trailing him.

“Hadley, can you—”

Lila stops herself before finishing the sentence.

She smiles sheepishly.

“Never mind. You already did.”

I glance down.

Her latte is exactly the way she likes it.

“Occupational hazard,” I tease.

Dean steals a blueberry muffin from behind the counter.

I point at him. “That isn’t free.”

He takes a bite. “I’m investing in local business morale.”

“You’re stealing carbs.”

“I’ll leave a twenty.”

“You say that every time.”

“And every time, I do.”

A few minutes later, Bailey barrels in carrying a stack of shipping boxes against her chest. My older brother, Crew, follows his wife with both hands hovering uselessly nearby.

“She refuses to admit these are too heavy,” he announces.

“They’re books,” Bailey says. “Not concrete blocks.”

“You almost took out a parking meter.”

“It startled me.”

“It was bolted to the sidewalk.”

“Sometimes stationary objects have bad vibes.”

Crew looks at me. “Do you see what I live with?”

“You married a lighthouse bookstore owner. This is your fairy tale.”

Ivy enters behind them, wearing oversized sunglasses and the expression of a woman who has been awake for approximately eight minutes and resents every single one of them.

“I need coffee before anyone speaks to me.”

“Too late,” Holt replies.

She lowers her sunglasses. “You are my least favorite Wright today.”

“You’ll recover.”

“Doubtful.”

This is what my family has become. A collection of love stories that turned into morning traffic at Sweet Gum Café.

Lila and Dean with their kids. Rowan and Ivy making pop-star-meets-strawberry-farmer look completely normal. Crew and Bailey with their lighthouse bookstore chaos. Holt and Lark, still carrying a little firelight in their wake.

And me.

Hadley Wright.

Twin sister.

Daughter.

Aunt.

Professional coffee carrier.

The fun one.

The one who keeps things light, remembers everyone’s favorite dessert, and steps into awkward silences before they grow teeth.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped noticing when I was the first one to refill a coffee, change the subject, or volunteer before anyone else could.

And most days...I didn’t mind.

I love my family fiercely.

That doesn’t mean it never stings to stand inside a room full of sweeping romances and wonder when people will stop seeing me as someone’s sister long enough to notice the woman underneath.

“Hadley?” Lila’s voice pulls me back.

I blink and realize I’m holding a muffin halfway to a plate. “Sorry. Morning brain.”

Holt’s gaze narrows. I ignore him with the dedication of a woman who has survived thirty-one years of twin interrogation.

Bailey drops the boxes near the corner table with a heavy thud. “Oh, by the way, I heard Nolan officially closed on the marina yesterday.”

The muffin slips from my fingers.

It lands on the counter with a soft, traitorous thump.

Nolan.

Nolan Pierce bought the marina?

I don’t know why the news steals the air from my lungs before it reaches anyone else. Maybe because everyone around me simply hears “new marina owner.” I hear “the man I never stopped thinking about.”

Which means he’s coming back to Coral Bell Cove for more than a weekend, more than a consult with Lark, more than a passing appearance I can brace myself through before going home to ruminate over all the things I definitely don’t think about.

Holt’s eyes find mine without pause.

Twin thing.

“Had,” he murmurs.

I grab the muffin and place it on the plate with far too much care. “What?”

Holt watches me over the rim of his coffee cup, dark brows pulled together just so. Most people wouldn’t notice the look. I do. I’ve spent thirty-one years learning the thousand tiny expressions that cross my twin brother’s face before he says what he’s really thinking.

“You good?”

“I’m holding a muffin, Holt. It’s intense work, but I’m managing.”

He doesn’t smile.

That’s the problem with twins. Especially twins like us. There’s no real hiding once the other starts paying attention.

I shift away, grab the towel beside the espresso machine, and wipe down a section of the counter that’s already spotless. Mrs. Pace catches the motion from across the café. One eyebrow lifts, and I pretend not to notice.

“You made the wrinkle.”

I sigh. “I do not have a wrinkle.”

“You absolutely do.” He points vaguely between his own eyebrows. “Right there. It shows up before you start pretending everything’s fine.”

“Good thing everything is fine, then.”

“Hm.”

The sound holds entirely too much skepticism.

I focus harder on the counter even though the rag in my hand hasn’t picked up a crumb in the last thirty seconds.

Across the café, Mrs. Henderson is still arguing about electric scooters while Oliver tries to feed whipped cream to Rook under the table.

Real life continues moving around me in warm, noisy little circles.

Meanwhile, my pulse is suddenly lodged somewhere near my throat over one stupid name.

Nolan.

God.

I haven’t seen him in almost three weeks. Not properly. Just glimpses here and there when he comes into town to meet with Lark about the inn. Passing conversations. Tight smiles. Careful distance.

Like we’re both pretending we don’t remember exactly what it felt like to touch each other.

The rain against his windows. His hand at the back of my neck. The way he looked at me like he was trying very hard not to.

My grip tightens around the towel.

“You’re spiraling internally,” Holt points out.

“I’m literally wiping a counter.”

“You’ve been wiping the same spot since Bailey said marina.”

I stop moving.

Right.

Because Nolan bought the marina.

Officially.

Which means he isn’t just drifting through Coral Bell Cove anymore. He isn’t showing up for a few days and disappearing back to the big city before I can accidentally overthink myself into a stress rash.

He’s staying.

Something low in my stomach flips over hard enough to make me angry with myself.

Bailey, entirely unaware she just detonated my nervous system, starts unpacking books onto the corner table. “I heard he’s already bringing in engineers to look at the docks.”

“That marina needs a miracle,” Crew says.

“It needs someone stubborn enough to love it,” Lila replies absently before taking a sip of coffee.

And my brain betrays me with the image of Nolan standing at the edge of the docks last fall while the wind off Back Bay shoved at his clothes.

He’d been staring out across the water with his sleeves rolled to his elbows and exhaustion carved into the corners of his face, and even then—before I knew what his hands felt like against my skin—I noticed him.