6. Hadley
Chapter Six
HADLEY
By the second week of marina planning, my morning routine has become embarrassingly predictable.
I am not the woman who stands in front of her closet debating whether a sundress says too much when she is supposedly going to a marina for a professional meeting.
I am not the woman who puts on mascara, wipes it off because it looks like way too much effort, then reapplies it because maybe a little effort is fine.
And I am definitely not the woman currently staring at herself in the bathroom mirror asking why she suddenly cares whether Nolan Pierce notices her earrings.
This is humiliating.
“Get it together, Hadley,” I mutter at my reflection.
Rook, Lark’s dog who wandered over from my parents’ farmhouse sometime before sunrise because apparently we all share custody of a giant emotionally manipulative dog, lifts his head from the bathmat and sighs heavily.
“Don’t judge me. You lick windows.”
His tail thumps once.
I point at him. “Exactly.”
Outside the cottage window, morning sunlight spills across the farm in soft golden bands. Spring has settled fully over Coral Bell Cove this week, bringing warm air, bright green fields, and the kind of breeze that carries honeysuckle through open windows before breakfast.
I take one sip of coffee. Set the mug down. Walk three steps toward the front door. Turn around and pick the mug back up because apparently, I forgot coffee existed.
Rook watches the entire performance with the weary expression of someone questioning my competency.
“Don’t start.”
The cottage feels warm and sleepy in the morning light.
Pale blue walls. White trim. A collection of framed photographs scattered across shelves and countertops.
There’s one of Holt and me at twelve, standing barefoot on the dock behind our parents with matching grins and terrible haircuts.
Another of all the Wright siblings at Rowan’s graduation, arms slung around one another in chaotic formation while Mom cried behind the camera.
I know exactly which floorboard creaks outside the bedroom. Which cabinet door sticks after it rains. Which porch step Dad keeps promising to replace every spring. I could probably walk through this cottage blindfolded.
Nolan doesn’t fit anywhere inside that certainty.
He feels like standing too close to the edge of something life-changing, knowing that if you jump, there’s no climbing back to the version of yourself before.
I lean against the kitchen counter and stare down into my coffee, feeling ridiculous. We slept together once.
One emotional night six months ago after the inn fire, when everyone was exhausted and raw and overwhelmed. Then I panicked and left before sunrise like a woman starring in her own emotionally avoidant indie film.
End of story.
Except apparently not.
Because now every text feels loaded. Every glance lasts too long. Every almost touch leaves me feeling feverish afterward.
Rook rises dramatically from the floor and ambles toward the front window, tail wagging once.
A truck rumbles down the gravel road outside a second later.
My stomach drops.
No. Absolutely not.
I step toward the window anyway because apparently self-preservation is no longer a skill I possess.
It’s only Dad. Relief and disappointment hit simultaneously, which feels like something I should discuss in therapy.
Dad slows near the cottage porch long enough to lower his window. “Morning, bug.”
“Morning.”
“You headed into town?”
“Yeah, the marina.”
One brow lifts. Not suspicious exactly, but close enough that I regret sounding even remotely eager.
Rook noses past my leg and trots toward my SUV, stopping beside the passenger door like he’s already made the decision for both of us.
Dad glances toward him. “You stealing Holt’s dog again?”
“He came willingly.”
“Mm.” Dad smiles faintly. “That’s what dog thieves always say.”
Laughter escapes me, even though I try to hold it in.
His gaze lingered, a flicker of unease crossing his features before melting into a familiar warmth, the kind that felt as natural to him as breathing when he looked at us.
“You look happy this morning.”
The words catch me off guard.
Happy.
I almost ask what gave me away. Instead, I catch my reflection in the side mirror. He’s right. I am smiling.
Then he drives off toward the main farmhouse before I can accidentally confess emotional instability before breakfast.
I stare after the truck for a moment too long.
Happy. The word lingers in my mind uncomfortably. Not because it’s wrong, but because it might be right.
A soft huff beside me interrupts that dangerous line of thinking. Rook looks at me, then at the passenger door.
“You’re incredibly presumptuous.”
His tail thumps once.
“Fine.”
I open the door, and he hops inside like this was always the plan.
The drive to Sweetspire Marina takes less than fifteen minutes from the farm, which unfortunately gives me exactly fifteen minutes to overthink every possible interaction waiting for me there.
Too much eye contact? Suspicious.
Too little eye contact? Also suspicious.
Flirting? Dangerous.
Pretending we aren’t attracted to each other? Apparently impossible.
I grip the steering wheel tighter as the marina finally comes into view beyond the curve in the road. And forget every logical thought I’ve had all morning.
The place looks different already. Not dramatically different. No overnight miracles or sweeping renovations.
But alive.
Several trucks are parked near the western docks.
Fresh lumber sits stacked beside the old restaurant building.
Someone has hauled away sections of broken railing that sat untouched for years.
Orange survey flags mark sections of dock repair while workers move steadily between slips carrying tools, coffee cups, and clipboards.
The team Nolan hired seems to have gotten an early start.
But as I narrow my eyes, looking through the windshield, the marina still looks weathered. Still storm-worn. Still rough around the edges. But now there’s movement here.
Someone is already laughing near the bait shop. A radio plays somewhere inside the restaurant. Fresh sawdust catches the morning light. Nothing is finished, yet everything is moving.
And standing near the main dock with sunglasses pushed back into dark hair and a clipboard tucked beneath one arm is Nolan.
My entire body reacts.
It’s ridiculous.
Absolutely ridiculous.
He’s wearing a faded gray T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders that should honestly be illegal before 9 a.m., worn jeans, and a tool belt hanging low around his waist. The marina breeze moves through his hair while sunlight catches the sharp edge of his jaw.
One of the contractors says something as Nolan passes. Nolan answers without breaking his stride. Another worker waves a clipboard in his direction. He reaches for it automatically. Nobody hesitates around him anymore.
Neither do I.
One of the workers says something to him, and Nolan chuckles before turning toward the parking lot.
Toward me.
As soon as he notices my SUV, his look alters. Not hugely. Most people probably wouldn’t notice it. But I do.
The subtle shift in posture. The sharpened attention. The pause before he starts walking toward me.
Like seeing me matters.
Which is deeply dangerous information for my emotional stability.
One of the dockhands calls something over his shoulder I can’t quite make out. Nolan doesn’t even look over.
“If it’s on fire, tell Walter.”
A wave of laughter sweeps across the dock, and Walter points his hammer at the person.
“You’re buying lunch.”
Nolan grins without missing a beat.
“Only if you stop supervising from the shade.”
I climb out of the SUV, smoothing nervous hands down the linen shirt layered over my sundress.
Nolan reaches me just as the wind lifts loose strands of hair across my cheek.
“Morning,” he says.
His voice does unfair things to me at an hour when I should still have better judgment.
“Morning.”
His gaze flicks briefly over me—not lingering exactly, but enough that warmth crawls up my neck anyway.
“You came.”
The words sound flirtier to my ears than he probably intended.
I lift one brow. “You invited me.”
“Professionally.”
“Sure.”
That almost smile appears again. The dangerous one. Which is enough to feel like victory.
“Right,” he says.
For one suspended second, neither of us moves.
The marina hums around us—dock boards creaking beneath footsteps, gulls calling overhead, distant hammering somewhere near the western slips—but the space between us feels strangely still.
Each time we make eye contact, the world feels like it’s getting smaller.
Rook chooses that exact moment to shove his enormous head out the passenger window.
Nolan blinks.
“You brought the dog?”
“I didn’t bring him. He invited himself.”
Rook barks once like he’s contributing meaningfully to the conversation. Nolan laughs fully this time, low and surprised enough that my chest physically tightens.
Oh. That sound.
I’ve never heard him unleash such a joyful, unrestrained laugh before. Warm enough to slide beneath my ribs and stay there.
Rook decides Nolan is his new favorite person and launches himself from the SUV with all the grace of a falling piece of furniture.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter as the dog barrels directly toward Nolan.
Instead of stepping back, Nolan crouches just before impact, and Rook crashes into him enthusiastically.
Nolan braces one hand against the dock railing to keep from getting flattened while Rook attempts to climb into his lap despite his gangly legs and erratic tail.
“Well,” Nolan says, scratching behind the dog’s ears while Rook pants ecstatically, “this feels aggressive.”
“He has no boundaries.”
“Clearly.”
The sunlight catches Nolan’s face as he looks up at me from where he’s crouched beside Rook, and something low in my stomach flips hard enough to hurt.