3. Nolan
Chapter Three
NOLAN
By late afternoon, the marina comes to life again. Not fully. Not the way I imagine it will someday with packed slips, music drifting over the water, and tourists crowding the docks carrying paper baskets of fried shrimp and earning sunburns they’ll regret later.
But enough.
Enough that I can almost see it.
The tide has shifted since this morning, carrying darker water into the inlet while sunlight eases over Back Bay, gold spreading across the surface in long, fractured ribbons.
The breeze coming off the water smells like salt and diesel and warm wood baking beneath the sun.
Somewhere near the bait shop, old country music crackles through a radio while gulls circle overhead screaming like tiny criminals.
The marina is still rough around the edges. Several dock boards need replacing entirely. The electrical lines along the western slips are outdated, and the old restaurant building remains one hard storm away from becoming driftwood.
I crouch, pressing my palm against one of the warped boards beneath my boots. Solid. Older than it looks. Worth saving.
I straighten.
Maybe that’s true of more than just the marina.
Holt left about an hour ago after helping me inspect the southern dock supports and eating two burgers like a man preparing for winter migration.
Somewhere between discussing electrical permits and replacing fuel lines, he’d started talking about Coral Bell Cove’s summer festival schedule with enough enthusiasm that I’m beginning to suspect the entire Wright family was genetically engineered to emotionally adopt people against their will.
The strange part is that I don’t entirely mind it.
That realization lingers uncomfortably while I climb down from the service ladder near slip 12 and wipe grease from my hands with an already ruined rag.
Most of my adult life fits inside moving boxes.
Apartments.
Hotels.
Jobsites.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped unpacking everything.
It made leaving easier.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket.
I pull it out, pulse kicking once when I see the screen.
Still pathetic. The message isn’t from Hadley. It’s from my real estate agent in Richmond forwarding final escrow documents with three additional questions I no longer have the mental capacity to answer today.
I stare at the screen for a moment before locking it again and shoving the phone back into my pocket.
The sun hangs lower now, warming everything in amber light as I walk toward the old marina office.
The building sits near the center dock beneath a faded Sweetspire Marina sign that probably hasn’t been updated since the early nineteen-nineties.
Inside, the office smells faintly like mildew, coffee grounds, and old paperwork.
A rusted ceiling fan turns lazily overhead while stacks of outdated boating permits cover half the desk.
I drop into the worn office chair and lean back with a slow exhale.
Water knocks against the pilings outside. Wind rattles loose metal somewhere near the fuel station. The old ice machine hums unevenly in the distance.
Still, compared to Richmond, the quiet here feels almost startling.
No traffic.
No sirens.
No construction noise echoing between buildings.
Just water and weather and space to think too much.
Which is unfortunate. Because once my brain has room, it circles back to Hadley Wright.
Again.
I scrub one hand over my jaw and stare out the office window toward the docks.
I walked into Sweet Gum Café expecting awkwardness, maybe. A polite conversation. Some version of distance that would make existing in the same town manageable.
Instead, she looked at me like she’d forgotten how to breathe for half a second, then she remembered my coffee order.
Once my brain has room, it circles back to Hadley Wright.
Again.
This morning should not have affected me as much as it did. She remembered my coffee order, and for some reason, that really got to me.
Most people remember my company. Or the projects. Sometimes the truck. Rarely me.
Hadley remembered the coffee. Then again, Hadley notices everyone. That’s just who she is.
Maybe that’s why being noticed by her feels different.
A truck door slams somewhere outside, and I glance up, then freeze.
Hadley’s little white SUV pulls into the marina lot near the office. For one completely irrational second, my heart stops functioning properly.
She climbs out a moment later wearing jeans, boots, and a soft blue sweater pushed halfway up her forearms. Her hair is twisted into a loose knot that’s already falling apart from the wind off the bay, strands lifting around her face as she looks toward the docks.
Sunlight catches her. It always seems to. Like the universe personally enjoys making my life difficult.
She pauses long enough to wave at Walter across the lot. He tips his coffee toward her without breaking stride.
I stay seated for exactly three seconds before standing again because suddenly remaining still feels impossible.
What the hell is she doing here?
The answer becomes clear when she reaches back into the SUV and pulls out a thick folder and a cardboard drink carrier.
Professional, of course. My disappointment at that realization feels deeply unreasonable.
She spots me standing in the office doorway and stills. Even from this distance, I see it. That same flicker from this morning.
Awareness.
Memory.
Then she starts walking toward me across the gravel lot.
The wind catches the edge of her sweater as she approaches, carrying the scent of vanilla and sea salt ahead of her. It swirls the loose strands of her hair. She tucks them behind one ear without looking away. she looks even prettier outside the café.
“Hi,” she says when she finally reaches the office steps.
One word. Still enough to drag every memory from that night back to the surface.
“Hey.”
Her eyes flick briefly toward the marina behind me before returning to my face. “I brought permit paperwork.”
“Very romantic.”
The corner of her mouth twitches before she can stop it.
Small victory.
“You really know how to sweep a guy off his feet.”
Hadley lifts one eyebrow.
“Nothing says romance like municipal paperwork.”
“I’ve dated worse. I also brought coffee,” she says, lifting the carrier. “Which feels more emotionally supportive.”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“How bad the coffee is.”
She gasps as if I’ve personally insulted her ancestors. “Excuse me? I work at Sweet Gum.”
“Exactly. High standards.”
Hadley narrows her eyes at me before stepping up beside the office doorway. Up close, I catch details I missed earlier in the café. Tiny freckles scattered across her nose. Gold flecks in her eyes. The faint flush spreads beneath her skin while she looks at me.
She’s nervous, too.
“Mrs. Pace made it herself,” she says. “So if you hate it, keep the criticism internal.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You won’t.”
“No.”
A snicker slips out of her unexpectedly, low and warm and real enough that something in my heart physically tightens.
Christ. This woman is going to destroy every ounce of peace I have left.
Hadley holds out one of the coffees. Our fingers brush when I take it.
Her breath catches.
Neither of us moves.
For one stupid second, I’m back in that rental house with her hair sliding across my chest and her smirk against my skin.
Hadley clears her throat first and steps back onto safer conversational ground.
“Lark mentioned you’re hoping to open portions of the marina before peak summer season.”
“Trying to.”
“You’ll need temporary event approval if you want live music or food vendors.”
“I figured.”
“I brought the applications.” She lifts the folder. “And contact information for local licensing people.”
“You came prepared.”
“I like spreadsheets and organization more than is probably healthy.”
“That’s…concerning.”
“Says the man who bought a collapsing marina for fun.”
A smile threatens unexpectedly. I haven’t smiled this much around someone in a long time. The sudden understanding startles me, making me look away toward the docks for a moment.
Bad idea because the second I create distance, my brain fills it with memory instead.
Barefoot Hadley in my rental kitchen six months ago, wearing my T-shirt. Hadley giggling against my mouth. Hadley asleep beside me before dawn with one hand curled loosely against my chest. Then waking up alone.
The warmth drains from me so fast that Hadley notices.
Her features relax, losing their sharp edges.
“Nolan.”
Just my name. Quiet and careful.
I look back at her. The concern in her eyes feels entirely too intimate.
“You okay?”
Funny question coming from her.
I almost say it.
Instead, I take a slow sip of coffee and lean one shoulder against the office doorway. “Long week.”
Hadley studies me for another second.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re okay every minute.”
Man, those words packed a punch.
I let out a quiet breath. “I sold the company three days ago.”
She blinks. “That’s...a lot.”
“Yeah.”
I look out toward the docks.
“Feels like everybody congratulates you when you sell something successful.”
I chortle once.
“Nobody asks if you’re grieving it.”
The breeze shifts between us again, stronger this time, carrying warmth off the docks and pushing loose strands of hair across her face. Without thinking, I reach toward her. My fingers stop inches from her cheek.
Hadley stills completely.
So do I.
The entire world seems to pause right there on the marina office steps. With a slow ascent, her eyes meet my own. Heat crashes through me hard enough to feel violent.
One touch. That’s all it would take. One touch and I already know exactly how this ends.
My hand drops back to my side before I can do something incredibly stupid. Hadley exhales like she forgot to breathe for a second there.
Neither of us speaks. The tension stretches warm and aching between us while the marina creaks around us.
Finally, Hadley says, voice quieter now, “You really love this place already, don’t you?”
I glance out toward the water.
The docks.
The weathered buildings.
The open bay stretches endlessly beyond the slips.
“Yeah,” I admit.
Her eyes stay on me a second longer. Like she’s waiting for me to say something else.
Even when I don’t, she seems to understand anyway.