2. Nolan
Chapter Two
NOLAN
The marina smells like salt, diesel fuel, old wood, and memories that don’t belong to me.
By the time I pull into the cracked gravel lot just after nine, the morning fog has mostly burned off Back Bay, leaving behind pale blue skies streaked with thin clouds and sunlight sharp enough to glint off the water between the docks.
Gulls circle overhead, screaming at one another like tiny, winged criminals while the weathered pilings groan beneath the tide.
Sweetspire Marina has been standing here longer than most of the buildings in Coral Bell Cove.
And it shows.
The main dock leans slightly to the left in places where the hurricane surge chewed through support beams two years ago.
The faded marina sign near the entrance is missing half the lettering, leaving only EETSPIRE A INA in chipped navy paint.
Rust creeps along the fuel pumps. Several empty slips sit abandoned near the far pier where boats used to crowd shoulder to shoulder during peak season before the hurricane gutted half the waterfront businesses.
Most people see decay when they look at this place.
Too much damage. Too much money. Too much work.
I see possibilities.
That probably says concerning things about me as a person.
The truck crunches to a stop near the old bait shop, and for a moment, I just sit there with one hand resting on the steering wheel, looking out across the water while the engine ticks beneath me.
The marina should feel overwhelming.
Objectively, it is overwhelming.
I finalized the sale of my construction company, Pierce Construction, less than seventy-two hours ago.
Spent six straight hours in conference rooms pretending I didn’t feel like I was watching someone dismantle the last decade of my life piece by piece.
Drove three hours afterward with enough coffee in my bloodstream to qualify as a medical concern.
Then I walked into Sweet Gum Café this morning and promptly forgot how oxygen worked.
So.
Excellent start overall.
I scrub one hand down my face and lean my head briefly against the seat.
Hadley Wright is going to ruin my life. The realization arrives with alarming calm.
Not because she’s reckless. Hadley feels like the opposite of reckless, honestly.
Warm and bright and deeply rooted in a way I’ve never managed to be.
She remembers people’s coffee orders. Notices when someone feels left out in a room.
Carries entire conversations when others get uncomfortable.
She belongs to this town in a way that doesn’t have to be announced.
It’s there in the way everyone greets her by name.
The way Mrs. Pace trusts her with the morning rush.
The way Bailey finishes her sentences without thinking.
Even the café seemed to breathe easier when she smiled.
Some people spend their whole lives looking for a place that fits them.
Hadley wears this town like it was tailored specifically for her.
And six months ago, after one night that still lives in my head with humiliating clarity, she left before sunrise like staying had never even crossed her mind.
I remember waking to cold sheets and an empty bed. After lying there longer than I care to admit, I wonder why the hell it bothered me so much.
It should’ve blurred together by now. One long night stitched together with smoke, adrenaline, and too much bourbon.
It hasn’t.
A knock against my truck window startles me out of my thoughts.
I glance over to find a gray-haired man in a faded windbreaker standing beside the driver’s side door holding two paper cups of coffee.
I lower the window.
“You planning on going inside the place or sleeping in the parking lot?” he asks.
A reluctant smile pulls at my mouth. “Haven’t decided yet.”
“Fair enough.”
He hands me one of the coffees before extending his free hand. “Walter Greene.”
“Nolan Pierce.”
“I know who you are.” Walter nods toward the marina. “Whole town does by now.”
Of course, they do.
Coral Bell Cove runs on coffee, gossip, and weather updates.
Walter settles against the side of the truck like we’ve known each other for years instead of thirty seconds.
“My brother used to keep his charter boat here before the hurricane. I was good friends with the previous owner too.” Walter smiles to himself.
“Friday afternoons, you couldn’t find a parking space. ”
I glance toward the nearly empty lot.
“Really?”
“Fish fry at the restaurant. Kids running up and down the docks. Half the town pretending they weren’t there just for Old Bill’s peach cobbler.”
He chuckles.
“Nobody ever fooled anybody. So I heard you’re fixing the place up.”
“That’s the plan.”
Walter looks out toward the docks for a moment. “Good.”
He says it so simply that it takes me a second to realize he isn’t talking about lumber or permits.
He’s talking about me. Like he already assumes I belong here.
I step out of the truck and take a slower look around while Walter talks about tide damage, tourists, and which docks need replacing first. The marina spreads out in front of us in weathered shades of gray and blue.
The old restaurant building near the shoreline still bears scars from the hurricane—boarded windows, warped siding, sections of the roof patched temporarily rather than properly repaired.
Beyond it, Back Bay stretches endlessly toward the horizon, sunlight dancing across the water while fishing boats drift farther out near the inlet.
It’s beautiful here. Salt has bleached the railings silver. Wind has carved grooves into the pilings. Nothing about this place pretends it hasn’t been through something.
Maybe that’s why it makes sense to me.
I understand this place instinctively. Maybe that should concern me, too.
“Old Bill tried preservation grants after the hurricane. Too much paperwork. Too many deadlines. Eventually he just gave up.”
Preservation grants.
I’d already spent part of last night reading through state historic funding programs until my eyes crossed. Most required matching funds I didn’t have yet or timelines that wouldn’t keep the marina afloat this season.
Still...I made a mental note to dig deeper.
With a solid pat on my shoulder, the older man leaves that little nugget to fester in my mind, along with the rest of the projects I need to get the marina into some sort of working order.
Walter eventually heads toward the bait shop after warning me about three separate town council members and one aggressively territorial pelican named Linda.
Apparently, Linda steals sandwiches. Good to know.
“She stole half my BLT last summer.”
“Half?”
Walter nods gravely.
“Very polite bird.”
I look toward the docks.
“Should I budget for gull protection?”
“Just don’t eat outside.”
“That feels like Linda wins.”
I practically drag my feet down the main dock once he leaves, boots creaking against weathered boards while gulls cry overhead. Water laps softly against the pilings beneath me, carrying the scent of brine and marsh grass through the air.
The marina feels older out here.
Quieter.
I stop near the far end of the dock and look back toward shore.
The Sweetspire Hotel used to sit just beyond the marina entrance before the hurricane destroyed most of it two years ago. Only fragments remain now—pieces of foundation, sections of stonework, the ghost of something that mattered once.
Everyone told me buying this place was a terrible investment.
Too expensive to restore. Too damaged. Too risky.
Maybe they’re right.
Still, I can already see it. Fresh docks.
String lights reflecting off the water at night.
Families crowding the restaurant deck again.
A little girl drops her fishing pole and bursts into tears.
Her grandfather grins instead of getting frustrated.
Somebody rings the bell outside the bait shop because another kid caught their first fish. The dock echoes with applause.
Life.
The idea settles low in my chest with unfamiliar weight.
I spent most of my adult life building things for other people.
Hotels. Office buildings. Luxury homes.
Places I never stayed.
Pierce Construction grew faster than anyone expected, especially once Celeste Carrington, Lark’s mother, started funneling high-end restoration contracts our way through her connections. Bigger projects. Bigger investors. Bigger expectations.
Eventually, I stopped sleeping enough and started measuring my life in deadlines and contracts instead of anything real.
Then the inn fire happened. Then Lark walked away from her family.
Then I looked around one day and realized I was thirty-two years old with a successful company, an empty house, and absolutely no idea what I actually wanted anymore.
So I sold the company. Which still feels insane.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
For one stupid second, I know who it is before I even look.
Hadley.
The mere thought of it sends jolts through my nerves.
I pull out the phone.
No new text. Damn phantom vibrations. Just the thread from earlier still sitting open on the screen. Questionable choices are my specialty.
My thumb lingers briefly over the conversation before I lock the screen again, which is probably for the best. A man should only make so many bad decisions before noon.
A laugh drifts across the marina from somewhere near the fuel dock, and I glance up. Two younger guys are unloading fishing gear from the back of a truck while arguing over bait coolers. One of them waves when he notices me watching.
“You the new owner?”
“Guess so.”
The guy grins. “Town’s been taking bets whether somebody would finally buy this place or let it collapse into the ocean.”
“That optimistic, huh?”
“Oh, people love the marina. They just didn’t think anybody was crazy enough to take it on.”
Fair.
The second guy nods toward the shoreline. “You’ll probably want to talk to Hadley Wright about summer permits if you’re planning events.”
There it is again. Her name. And my attention sharpens in a way that’s becoming embarrassing.
“What kind of events?”
“Dock parties. Seasonal festivals. Live music. She handles a lot of the tourism stuff around town.”
Of course, she does. I can practically picture it.
Hadley moving through crowded summer events with sunlight catching warm chestnut highlights in her hair and a clipboard tucked against her body, chuckling because somebody forgot the permits.
Balancing three conversations. Waving children away from the docks.
The image settles somewhere dangerously close to fondness.
One night. A handful of conversations. A few accidental run-ins afterward. That should not be enough to miss someone.
Yet…
That’s another problem: the Wrights.
Most families would intimidate me less if they came with warning labels.
The thing about the Wright family is that they love loudly. Completely. Without hesitation.
You walk into a room with them and understand that these people would burn the world down for each other. It’s written into the way they move. The teasing. The easy affection. The way they automatically make space for everyone at the table.
Even this morning, Dean had reached over absentmindedly to straighten Evelyn’s sweater while arguing with Crew about football rankings. Lila had stolen half of Dean’s breakfast without asking. Bailey kept leaning against Ivy while they whispered about something probably dangerous.
And Hadley sat in the middle of all of it looking warm and familiar and deeply woven into something permanent.
I don’t think she realizes how beautiful that is. Or maybe she does. Maybe that’s why she ran.
Nobody asks permission to belong. They just...do.
I look away before the thought has time to settle. Some things are easier to admire from a distance.
Everything in my life growing up came with an expiration date attached to it. You learn not to expect people to stay. You definitely learn not to need them. Which made waking up alone that morning feel far more personal than it should’ve.
A truck pulls into the marina lot behind me, tires crunching over gravel. I glance back. Holt Wright climbs out wearing a faded fire department shirt and mirrored sunglasses, carrying two paper bags that smell unmistakably like burgers.
Of course, he brought food. The man’s love language is aggressive meal distribution.
The breeze shifts across the docks, carrying the smell of salt water and fresh-cut lumber from somewhere down the shoreline.
Holt unwraps his burger beside me.
“You know what the old owner used to do every Friday?” he asks.
I glance over.
“No.”
“Free hot dogs.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“For the kids.” He nods toward the empty slips. “Parents would fish. Kids would run around the docks like little maniacs.”
I look out over the weathered marina again. It’s easy to picture. The empty walkways suddenly feel louder. Like they’re remembering something.
Holt takes another bite before speaking.
“Town’s missed this place.”
I don’t answer.
Holt crumples his empty wrapper and looks around.
“Well, good news. The place hasn’t collapsed in the past two hours.”
“Promising start.”
“Don’t sound too excited.”
For a minute, neither of us says anything.
The breeze moves steadily across the marina, warm enough now to carry hints of approaching summer beneath the salt air.
Finally, Holt says, “You’re really doing this?”
I glance around at the docks. The broken railings. The faded signs. The weathered buildings. Then back toward the open water stretching endlessly beyond the slips.
“Yeah,” I say.
A gentle warmth spreads across Holt’s face, softening his features.
“Good,” he says.
And again, unexpectedly, the word lands somewhere deep in my rib cage.
Holt doesn’t move to leave right away.
“You know,” he says, looking out across the empty slips, “most people around here think you’re rebuilding docks.”
I glance over. “Yeah?”
“They’re wrong.”
“What am I rebuilding?”
He shrugs. “A piece of town everybody’s been missing.”
The words settle between us.
I stare back out at the water. “I hope I don’t screw it up.”
Holt looks at me for a long second before bumping my shoulder. “Same.”
“That’s your entire motivational speech?”
“Pretty much.”
I snicker despite myself. “You’re terrible at this.”
“Maybe.” He grins. “But you laughed.”