4. Hadley
Chapter Four
HADLEY
By the time I leave the marina, my entire body feels too aware of itself. Which is ridiculous. I delivered paperwork. That’s it.
A folder of permits. A cardboard drink carrier. A professional errand completed by a professional woman who works in tourism and community development and absolutely does not have unresolved feelings for the man who bought a storm-beaten marina at the edge of Back Bay.
No dramatic declarations.
No kissing.
No reckless decisions against weathered dock railings while gulls screamed overhead like tiny, judgmental witnesses.
Just paperwork and coffee.
And Nolan Pierce standing too close in the late afternoon sunlight, looking like every bad decision I’ve ever wanted to make twice.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel as I pull out of the cracked gravel lot, the tires bumping over potholes left behind by years of salt air, storms, and neglect.
In my rearview mirror, Sweetspire Marina stretches along the water like something stubborn enough to survive out of spite.
The docks are worn silver by weather. The old sign hangs crooked near the entrance, letters faded and chipped.
Beyond it, Back Bay glows beneath the lowering sun, all rippling gold and shifting blue.
I wave at Sam, the man who currently collects the money from the marina tenants in his makeshift shed-turned-office, as he casts a rod out into the bay.
The road curves closer to town, marsh grass swaying on either side as salty air spills through my cracked window.
The breeze carries the faint scent of mud, honeysuckle, and water warmed by spring sun.
It should calm me. Usually, it does. I’ve driven this stretch of road my entire life, windows down, music loud, one hand out in the wind like I could catch the whole bay in my palm.
But my mind stays somewhere back at Sweetspire Marina. Nolan leaning against the office doorway. Coffee forgotten in his hand. That almost-touch.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. Attraction has never scared me. Chemistry comes and goes. Crushes fade. One-night mistakes eventually become funny stories.
Except this doesn’t feel temporary. That’s the part I don’t know what to do with.
Mom forgot her doctor’s appointment last month. I reminded her. Holt called because he couldn’t remember where he’d left fire department paperwork. I found it. Bailey needed someone to cover the bookstore for an hour. I was already grabbing my keys before she finished asking.
Somewhere along the way, helping became instinct. I just never noticed how rarely anyone asked if I needed the same thing.
Nolan looks at me like he might see through all of that, which makes him dangerous in a way I don’t know how to joke my way around.
The town comes into view as I cross the small causeway leading back toward Main Street.
Coral Bell Cove glows this time of evening.
Storefront windows catch the lowering sun.
People drift lazily along sidewalks with shopping bags, iced coffees, and beach chairs tucked beneath their arms. Tourists stop to photograph the lighthouse bookstore while Bailey rearranges a display outside A Page in Time, her dark hair lifting in the breeze as Crew leans against the railing beside her, looking at her like she personally hung the moon and alphabetized the stars.
Kids race past Sweet Gum Café on bicycles while someone sets up outdoor tables near the seafood restaurant. The whole town hums with early spring energy, that hopeful stretch before summer arrives and turns every road crowded, every restaurant waitlist impossible, and every local feral.
I park outside the tourism office and sit there for a minute with my fingers still wrapped around the steering wheel.
I close my eyes briefly, and the marina flashes through my head.
Nolan leaning in the office doorway with sunlight catching the rough edges of him.
His sleeves pushed up. His hair wind-tossed.
His mouth almost curving when I teased him.
His hand lifting toward my face like he forgot for half a second that touching me was a bad idea.
Then stopping.
God. That almost-touch might be worse than if he’d actually done it.
At least a real touch has an ending. Skin meets skin. The moment happens. You survive it, or you don’t.
But almost?
Almost has no ending. It just follows you home. Into traffic. Into grocery stores. Into perfectly ordinary Tuesday afternoons until suddenly you’re gripping a steering wheel wondering what would’ve happened if he’d closed the last few inches.
Heat crawls up my neck despite the fact that I’m alone in my car, safely parked in front of a tourism office decorated with a driftwood wreath and a window display advertising kayak rentals.
I stare through the windshield toward Main Street, where Mrs. Henderson is currently scolding a teenager on an electric scooter with enough intensity to frighten traffic into slowing down.
I let out a breath that doesn’t quite steady me. The memory rises before I can stop it.
Rain tapping against Nolan’s bedroom windows.
Cool dawn light spilling over tangled sheets.
His arm heavy around my waist. My cheek on his chest. The steady beat of his heart beneath my ear.
The quiet, terrifying certainty that if I stayed for coffee, if I saw what Nolan looked like in the morning light with sleep in his voice and warmth still in his hands, whatever happened between us would stop being a reckless night and become something I had to acknowledge.
I’m very good at handling other people’s feelings.
The tourism office smells faintly like printer paper, sea salt, and whatever candle Diane insists on burning near the front desk year-round.
Today, it’s vanilla coconut. Last week, it was pineapple.
Before that, something aggressively labeled Ocean Breeze that smelled like chemically enhanced sadness.
I step inside, balancing my laptop bag, coffee cup, and the emotional stability of a woman who almost let a man touch her cheek beside a marina office and is apparently still processing it like a Victorian scandal.
Diane looks up from behind the front desk with the smile of someone who already knows too much.
“There she is,” she says. “How is our local celebrity?”
I stop halfway to my desk. “I’m sorry?”
She props her chin in her hand. Diane is in her late fifties, has worked for the town longer than I’ve been alive, and knows every piece of information that passes through Coral Bell Cove before the people involved do.
“Walter Greene came in twenty minutes ago talking about how nice the new marina owner is.”
I freeze.
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.” Her grin widens. “Apparently he’s ‘broad-shouldered in a financially reassuring way.’”
A horrified simper escapes me. “That cannot be a real sentence.”
“It absolutely is. I wrote it down.”
“Why would you write that down?”
“For the historical record.”
“The historical record does not need Walter’s marina thirst.”
Diane points a pen at me. “Interesting that you reacted before I said Nolan’s name.”
“I hate this town.”
“No, you don’t.”
She’s right, which is deeply inconvenient.
I dump my bag beside my desk and wake my computer, determined to become the productive public servant I pretend to be.
The tourism office occupies the first floor of an old converted cottage just off Main Street, with pale blue walls, white trim, and framed photographs of Coral Bell Cove through the seasons.
There’s one of Otter Creek Farm in fall, pumpkins stacked near the barn.
Another of Back Bay at sunrise, the water glowing pink.
A photo of A Page in Time at Christmas, wrapped in lights beneath a dusting of snow.
And, tucked near the back hall, a faded print of Sweetspire Hotel and Marina from years ago.
I stand without meaning to and cross toward it.
The hotel rises in the photograph like something from another era, all white siding, broad porches, and dark shutters facing the water.
The marina is full in the picture, boats packed into slips, flags snapping in the wind, people gathered on the dock with sun hats and fishing rods. It looks alive. Busy. Loved.
Every spring the marina hosted the town’s Blessing of the Fleet. Charter captains decorated their boats with flags. Families crowded the docks before sunrise. Kids waved from shoulders while the priest walked the pier offering a blessing over every vessel before the season began.
Mom never missed it. Neither did Dad.
Looking at the photograph now, I realize I’d never questioned why. It wasn’t really about boats. It was the day summer officially began.
Now the hotel is gone. The marina remains, wounded but waiting.
I think of Nolan standing in the middle of it.
This place deserves better than what it’s gotten.
He hadn’t said those words to me today, but I could see them in the way he looked at everything.
Earlier today, he’d crouched beside a warped dock board instead of walking past it.
Ran one hand across the weathered wood. Studied it for nearly a minute.
Not like a man calculating what it would cost to replace.
Like a man trying to figure out whether it deserved saving.
My heart had no business reacting to that. It did anyway.
I return to my desk and open my email before I can mull over Nolan and bones in the same mental sentence for too long.
Mistake.
My inbox is a crime scene.
Summer kickoff planning updates. Vendor approvals.
Two complaints about parking near the boardwalk.
A very dramatic message from someone named Trish who believes the town should host a mermaid parade but has “concerns about shell bra authenticity.” Three separate emails from council members asking whether the marina purchase affects waterfront access.
And one from Diane, sent twelve minutes ago despite the fact that she sits twenty feet away.
Subject: Sweetspire Marina Meeting
I look up.
Diane is watching me over her reading glasses.