7. Nolan
Chapter Seven
NOLAN
By noon, I’ve accomplished almost nothing productive.
Objectively, work is happening all around me.
Crews are replacing sections of railing along the western slips. Two electricians are arguing over wiring diagrams near the fuel dock. Someone finally hauled the broken refrigeration unit out of the old restaurant building after three separate attempts and one deeply concerning amount of swearing.
The marina is moving.
I sign the same delivery receipt twice before Miguel slides the duplicate back across the clipboard.
“Try again, boss.”
I blink down at it.
Right.
Apparently, my brain has spent the better part of the morning somewhere around Hadley Wright’s smile instead of the marina.
So excellent leadership on my behalf.
I stand near the service shed pretending to study a materials invoice while workers move steadily across the docks around me.
Sunlight flashes off the water in bright fractured ribbons, warm enough now that the whole marina smells like salt, sun-heated wood, diesel, and the faint sweetness of funnel cake drifting over from a food truck parked near the public beach access road.
Summer is creeping closer. You can feel it in Coral Bell Cove before you fully see it.
The town starts waking up differently this time of year. More boats in the slips. More traffic near Main Street. Music drifting from open restaurant patios at night. Locals pretending not to complain about tourists while secretly loving the energy they bring.
Hadley had walked me through all of it earlier while we moved between docks, with permit paperwork spread across a clipboard she barely looked at because she had the entire town memorized.
“This section here usually gets temporary vendors during peak weekends,” she said, pointing toward the eastern side of the marina while the breeze pushed loose strands of hair across her cheek.
“Food trucks along the outer gravel lot. Local seafood booths near the restaurant building if you reopen it in time.”
“Reopen it in time,” she said.
Not if.
When.
I hadn’t even noticed the difference until after she drove away. She already started talking about this place like failure wasn’t an option.
I scrub one hand down my face and glance toward the parking lot again.
She left almost forty minutes ago. My brain has apparently decided that’s unacceptable.
“Boss.”
I look up. One of the dock workers—Miguel, mid-thirties, permanently amused look—leans against the stack of lumber beside me, holding a tape measure.
“You planning on marrying that invoice or actually signing it?”
I blink once.
Right.
Work.
“Sorry.”
Miguel smirks. “Distracted?”
“No.”
The look he gives me says liar in at least four languages. I sign the invoice anyway.
Miguel takes it without moving. “You and the pretty brunette always stare at each other like that?”
I go completely still.
“That’s not happening.”
“Mm.”
“I’m serious.”
“Sure.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’ve known me for less than two days.”
“Yet I already know when you’re full of shit.”
Fair. Yet still deeply annoying.
Miguel glances toward the marina entrance where Hadley’s SUV disappeared earlier. “Town girl?”
“Born and raised.”
“That explains it.”
“What does?”
“She looks at this place like it matters.”
The words catch unexpectedly low in my chest because he’s right. Hadley doesn’t walk through the marina like someone handling permits. She moves through it like someone carrying memories.
Every time she pointed something out this morning—the old festival setup area, the dock where fishing tournaments used to start, the best spot for sunset concerts—her whole face softened.
She loves this place too. Not the way I do. Not as a project. Not as something to rebuild. But as something already woven into her life.
Miguel heads back toward the western slips, leaving me alone with entirely too much awareness pressing beneath my ribs.
I look out across the marina again and picture Hadley standing there from earlier.
Sunlight catching in her hair. Clipboard tucked against her chest. Giggling as I tease her about zoning restrictions.
Christ. I barely survived that musical sound.
This morning, she’d already handed Walter another cup of coffee before he asked. She thanked three volunteers by name. Paused to ask Miguel’s daughter how her softball tournament went. Noticed the new carpenter limping before anyone else did.
She moves through people the way some folks move through familiar rooms. Like paying attention is simply second nature.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Hope flashes through me before I can stop it.
Pathetic.
I pull it out anyway.
It’s not Hadley, but Holt.
Holt
Mom says you’re coming to dinner tonight.
I stare at the message.
Then type back.
Me
Your mother invited herself into my schedule?
Holt
Correct.
Me
Is saying no an option?
Holt
Technically yes. Emotionally no.
A snort escapes me.
That sounds exactly right.
Over the past six months, I’ve learned the Wright family operates less like a normal family unit and more like a coordinated emotional ambush.
One minute someone offers you pie.
The next thing you know, you’re being absorbed into Sunday dinners against your will.
Me
I have work.
Holt
Mom said, and I quote, “That poor boy needs a real meal.”
Jesus Christ.
Me
I’m thirty-six years old.
Holt
Doesn’t matter. She’s already decided you’re underfed.
Me
This town is terrifying.
Holt
See you at six.
I stare at the screen for another second before locking it again.
Dinner with the Wrights. The idea should make me uneasy. Instead, something warmer and more complicated settles beneath my sternum. Because despite how overwhelming they can be, there’s something addictive about the way that family loves each other.
It’s impossible not to notice when you grew up the way I did. Most of my childhood was built around temporary spaces and conditional affection.
Claire never asks who’s staying for dinner. She asks how many extra potatoes to make. That tiny difference keeps following me around.
By four o’clock, music drifts from somewhere near the bait shop while charter boats move through the inlet farther out on the bay. Several locals wander through the docks to “check progress,” which mostly seems to mean offering unsolicited opinions while bringing baked goods.
I’ve now received ham biscuits, blueberry muffins, a suspicious amount of banana bread, and one casserole I’m afraid to identify.
Apparently, buying the marina means the town collectively assumes I can’t feed myself.
Not entirely inaccurate.
Walter Greene reappears sometime after three, carrying a folding chair and enough confidence to imply he plans to supervise me recreationally.
“You look tired,” he announces.
“Good afternoon to you, too.”
“You sleeping here?”
“No.”
“Hm.”
I’m beginning to hate “hm” as a sound.
Walter taps one of the weathered pilings with the toe of his boot as he looks out across the slips.
“See that post?”
I follow his gaze toward a thick support piling near the end of the dock.
“Old Bill carved kids’ heights into it.”
I glance closer. From here, I can just make out shallow knife marks climbing the wood. Initials. Dates. Some so faded the salt had nearly erased them.
Walter smiles to himself.
“Half the town’s kids are probably on there somewhere.”
“You left it?”
He gives me a look.
“Son, the council talked about replacing it after the hurricane.”
He chuckles.
“You’d have thought they suggested bulldozing the lighthouse.”
My eyes drift back to the old piling.
It’s just a piece of weathered timber.
Except...
It isn’t.
It’s proof that this place has been collecting people’s lives a lot longer than I’ve been standing on these docks.
Walter settles near the dock office like a retired king overseeing his kingdom. “You inviting folks for the summer kickoff?”
“I’m still figuring out logistics.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I twist my gaze toward him. Walter’s face shows no guilt. Dangerously innocent.
“Hadley mentioned a few ideas earlier.”
“There it is.”
I narrow my eyes. “There what is?”
“That look.”
“What look?”
“The one where your entire face changes when somebody says Hadley Wright.”
I blink once. Then twice.
“Absolutely not.”
Walter grins.
Oh no. No, no, no.
Not him, too.
“You locals are invasive.”
“We’re observant.”
“You’re nosy.”
“That too.”
I scrub one hand over my jaw and look out toward the water instead of engaging further.
Walter wanders off looking entirely too pleased with himself. Which probably means I’ve already lost whatever game he thinks we’re playing.
Also concerning, considering Hadley’s brothers remain blissfully unaware.
For now.
The thought sobers me unexpectedly because eventually Holt is going to figure it out. And once Holt knows? Rowan and Crew won’t be far behind.
I’ve seen the way those men love their sister. Protective doesn’t fully cover it. The Wright brothers look at Hadley like she’s something precious enough to level cities over.
Which honestly? Fair.
But still deeply inconvenient for me personally.
Walter eventually wanders off toward the fuel dock after delivering several deeply unwanted opinions about marina signage and the proper way to grill shrimp skewers for large public events.
I spend another hour reviewing contractor schedules while the afternoon sun shifts warmer over the bay. The marina begins to quiet again around five thirty as workers head home one by one, trucks disappearing from the gravel lot as evening settles over the water.
The dock lights flicker on just as the sky begins turning gold.
I lock the office door and pause near the main dock.
This is already my favorite time here. The marina breathes differently at sunset. The bay glows amber beneath the fading light while gulls wheel overhead in lazy circles. Wind moves steadily across the docks, carrying salt, warmth, and distant music drifting from downtown.
For one suspended second, I can actually picture the future here.
String lights overhead.
People laughing near the restaurant deck.