4. Hadley #2
“You emailed me from across the room?”
“I wanted a paper trail.”
“For what?”
“For assigning you as tourism liaison to the marina project.”
I stare.
She smiles.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Diane.”
“Hadley.”
“I’m already handling summer kickoff, downtown vendor mapping, the lighthouse author weekend, and the farmers’ market expansion.”
“You’re also the best person for the marina.”
“That feels like flattery deployed as a weapon.”
“It is.”
I lean back in my chair. “Why me?”
Diane folds her hands on the desk.
“Because this isn’t just about dock permits.”
A frown glosses across my lips.
“A marina isn’t one business, Hadley. It’s hotel bookings. It’s restaurant reservations. It’s charter captains buying fuel. It’s families wandering into Bailey’s bookstore because they spent the afternoon on the water.”
She gestures toward the framed photograph of Sweetspire before the hurricane.
“You understand how all those pieces fit together. Nolan knows how to rebuild docks. You know how to bring people back to them.”
The words land harder than expected.
I glance again toward the photograph of Sweetspire before the hurricane.
Diane follows my gaze. “People here still care about that marina. They’ve just gotten used to being disappointed by it.”
“And Nolan?”
“What about him?”
“You think he won’t disappoint them?”
Diane studies me for a moment, and I regret letting anything personal slip into my voice.
“I think Nolan Pierce bought a headache he didn’t have to buy,” she says. “That tells me something.”
“What?”
“That either he’s foolish, sentimental, or exactly the right kind of stubborn.”
I think of his face when he looked out over the docks.
“Maybe all three.”
Diane’s eyes narrow. “Interesting.”
“Stop saying ‘interesting.’”
“Stop being interesting.”
I sigh and open the attachment.
The first document is a preliminary meeting schedule. The second is a list of required permits. The third is a drafted proposal for marina-related events through the summer season.
My name is already typed beneath Liaison.
“Diane.”
“What?”
“You already added me.”
“I believed in you.”
“You trapped me.”
“Both can be true.”
Diane watches me for another second before turning back to her computer.
“One more thing.”
I pause.
“If Nolan’s serious about bringing the marina back, he’s going to need more than permits.”
“I know.”
“Tourism grants. Historic preservation incentives. Storm-mitigation funding. Marketing partnerships.” She begins ticking them off on her fingers. “There’s a surprising amount of money available for projects that keep public waterfronts alive.”
I nod.
“Assuming you know where to look.”
“Exactly.”
Diane smiles.
“That’s why you’re involved.”
I glance back down at the paperwork spread across my desk.
“Because I know where to look?”
“Because you know how all the pieces fit together.”
I should be more annoyed than I am.
Instead, my mind drifts right back to the marina. To weathered docks and salt wind. To string lights reflected in dark water. To families gathering near the slips while music plays from a small stage. To Nolan pretending not to like every idea until I catch him making notes.
A dangerous little flicker of excitement sparks in my chest.
Oh no.
I care.
That’s the beginning of every problem I’ve ever had.
By six thirty, I’ve accomplished enough work to look respectable from a distance and not nearly enough to justify the amount of time I spent staring at marina event forms while imagining Nolan’s face when I suggest dockside movie nights.
He will hate it, which means I must suggest it.
The office empties around me. Diane leaves with a tote bag full of files she absolutely will not read tonight but enjoys carrying for dramatic effect. Jack, the intern, waves goodbye while balancing three poster tubes and a reusable water bottle covered in stickers.
I stay behind, partly to finish the marina packet and partly because going home means being alone with my thoughts. The thoughts that are currently wearing a charcoal Henley and look at me like I’m a problem he wants to solve with his hands.
So.
Work it is.
The sun lowers outside the window, casting the office in soft amber light. I print a preliminary packet for Nolan, add sticky notes to several sections, then start a list of potential community events connected to the marina.
Summer dock concert series.
Kids’ fishing morning.
Local seafood night.
Boat safety demonstrations.
Sunset market.
Marina cleanup volunteer day.
Blessing of the Fleet revival.
I pause on that one.
We haven’t had a Blessing of the Fleet since before the hurricane.
I was still in college the last time. I remember standing on the dock with Holt, both of us sunburned, sticky from lemonade, watching boats parade past while the whole town clapped from the marina rails.
Mom cried because she cries at anything involving community, children, or bagpipes. Dad pretended not to cry and failed.
The memory makes my throat tighten. Maybe Diane is right. Maybe I do remember what this place was. Maybe Nolan doesn’t have to carry the rebuilding alone.
I open another spreadsheet. Estimated visitor attendance. Weekend hotel occupancy. Restaurant traffic. Bookstore foot traffic. Fuel sales. Charter bookings.
If I want the council—and Nolan—to believe these events matter, I need numbers, not just ideas. Tourism isn’t just posters and festivals. It’s proving one good weekend ripples through the entire town.
The stronger those numbers became, the stronger Sweetspire’s case would be for future tourism partnerships and coastal revitalization funding.
One project done well almost always opened the door for the next one.
My phone buzzes beside my laptop.
Nolan
Thanks again for bringing those permit packets earlier.
I stare at the message for a second.
Me
Pretty sure that’s literally my job.
Nolan
Still saved me a trip to town hall.
Despite my efforts, a smile appears.
Me
You’re welcome, Marina Boy.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Appear again.
I hate those dots.
I love those dots.
Both truths can apparently coexist.
Nolan
Actually, I found something you might need.
My stomach does a strange little flip.
Me
That’s ominous.
Nolan
Previous dock permits. From before the storm repairs.
I sit up straighter.
Me
Wait. Seriously?
Nolan
Found them in a filing cabinet nobody has opened since 2008.
I roar in amusement.
Me
Impressive archaeological work.
Nolan
I have many talents.
I feel an unexpected warmth spreading through me.
My phone buzzes again before I can answer.
Mom
You’re going to the marina tomorrow, right?
I smile despite myself.
Me
Probably.
Three dots appear almost.
Mom
Good. Take Nolan lunch.
A burst of laughter escapes me, loud and unrestrained.
Me
Mom.
Mom
What?
Me
He’s a grown man.
Mom
Exactly. Which means he probably forgot to eat.
I shake my head.
Me
You don’t even know him.
Her reply comes almost.
Mom
I know him better than you think I do.
Anybody willing to take that on deserves a decent sandwich.
I glance at the screen, a smile pulling at my mouth.
Me
This is how people accidentally get adopted by our family.
Mom
Accidentally? Sweetheart, we haven’t done anything accidentally since 1987.
Before I have a chance to send my mother back something snarky, Nolan’s next message pops up on the screen.
Nolan
Thought you might want to look through them before I send them to storage.
I stare at the message longer than necessary.
He could scan them.
He could email them.
He knows that.
I know that.
Me
So I need to come back to the marina?
This time, his response takes longer.
Nolan
Depends.
My pulse kicks.
Me
Depends on what?
Three dots.
Disappear.
Reappear.
Nolan
Whether you want the professional answer or the honest one.
Long enough for me to imagine him standing somewhere in the marina office, phone in hand, dark brows drawn together as he decides how much truth to put into a text.
Nolan
Depends how smart you are.
A snort escapes me in the quiet, empty office.
Me
Historically? Mixed results.
Nolan
I remember.
My breath catches.
Again.
Those two words again.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe Nolan, with all his control and restraint and careful silence, has no idea that two simple words can make my skin feel too tight.
I stare at the screen until it dims, then I type carefully.
Me
You keep saying that.
The dots appear almost.
Then disappear.
For a long moment, nothing happens.