8. Hadley #2
“What happens if someone sees us?” A hushed gasp escapes my lips before I can catch it.
Nolan glances toward the marina.
“Walter?”
“He’ll probably start planning our wedding.”
The giggle escapes before I can think better of it.
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“Holt?”
His features shift.
The fact that he understands says far too much.
I exhale. “He noticed something last night.”
“Yeah, I figured as much.”
I glance toward the marina workers farther down the dock. “My brothers are insane, by the way.”
“So I’ve gathered.”
“I’m serious. Rowan nearly tackled Crew through a screen door once because he thought somebody flirted with me.”
Nolan’s brows lift. “Did someone?”
“No.”
“Then honestly that feels excessive.”
I shriek brightly despite myself.
Nolan’s voice is low as he says, “I’m not scared of your brothers, Hadley.”
His words shouldn’t bother me so much, yet the calm confidence in his voice makes my chest hurt.
The tension’s thick between us as the marina bustles in the bright afternoon sun, then Nolan holds out his hand.
Not for touching exactly, but for the folder. Still, my pulse jumps anyway when our fingers brush.
The slight contact is enough to ruin me.
“You gonna keep staring at me like that?” he asks.
I blink. “Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to decide whether kissing me would solve your problems or create worse ones.”
My whole body is overwhelmed with warmth. It’s exactly what I’ve been thinking.
“I hate you a little.”
“That’s fair.”
His mouth twitches, and I catch myself staring at him.
And suddenly it hits me again—that Nolan seldom smiles fully around most people. But around me? It happens more and more.
“Lunch,” he says again, more gently this time.
I should say no. I absolutely should.
“Okay.” The word leaves my mouth softly enough to feel dangerous.
Twenty minutes later, we end up seated outside at a weathered picnic table overlooking the marina, while gulls circle overhead and a warm wind moves steadily across the water.
The whole afternoon feels suspended.
Bright sunlight. Salt air. The distant sound of boats moving through Back Bay, and Nolan sitting across from me in sunglasses and rolled sleeves looking unfairly attractive while eating fries.
Neither of us checks our phones. At some point my sandwich disappears without me remembering eating it. The server refills our drinks twice before I notice the time.
“You’ve officially been here long enough for people to start assigning nicknames,” I inform him.
“That sounds threatening.”
“It is.”
He leans back, one arm hooked across the bench behind him, while sunlight flashes across dark lenses. “What’s yours?”
I narrow my eyes. “You think I have a nickname?”
“You grew up in a small coastal town surrounded by emotionally aggressive locals. So yes.”
Fair.
I steal one of his fries before answering. “Hurricane Hadley.”
His brows lift.
“That sounds fake.”
“I wish.”
“Why?”
I sigh dramatically. “When I was fourteen, I accidentally drove Dad’s golf cart into the marina bait tanks.”
Nolan goes completely still.
“You what?”
“It wasn’t entirely my fault.”
“That sentence usually means the opposite.”
I point at him. “There were extenuating circumstances.”
“Such as?”
“Holt dared me.”
“Ah.” He nods solemnly. “Criminal influence.”
“Exactly.”
“And the bait tanks?”
“Destroyed.”
Nolan stares at me for one suspended second, then he laughs. Really laughs. Head tipping back while the sound rolls warm and low across the table between us.
My chest physically tightens. God. That sound is becoming my favorite thing. And every time I pull it out of him, it feels strangely intimate.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” I inform him weakly.
“You drove a golf cart into live fish.”
“I was fourteen.”
“You were chaos.”
“I contain multitudes.”
His eyes stay on me longer than necessary after that, warm enough to make my pulse stumble unevenly.
“I know,” he says.
I look down at my drink because suddenly eye contact feels dangerous again.
“You know,” I say carefully, “you’re a lot different here.”
Nolan stills across from me.
“How?”
I glance toward the marina behind him where sunlight glitters across the slips. “Less…”
“Grumpy?”
A laugh grows and whispers from my chest. “Still grumpy.”
“Good.”
“But lighter, maybe.”
Something unreadable moves briefly across his face, then he leans back again, gaze shifting toward the water.
“This place is different.”
“How?”
He’s quiet long enough that I almost think he won’t answer.
“Nobody here expects me to leave.”
He says the words casually as if staying somewhere long enough to matter still surprises him.
My chest aches.
“Nolan.”
His mouth curves faintly, but there’s no humor in it this time. “Most places I lived growing up were temporary, Hadley.”
The breeze moves between us and a distant gull cries. My heart cracks open in the middle of a marina seafood shack.
I already know parts of Nolan’s history. Lark told me enough after the inn fire for me to understand the broad strokes.
Orphaned young. Foster homes. But hearing him say it himself feels different. More vulnerable. More real.
“I think this town would chain you to a dock before letting you leave now,” I say softly.
That finally pulls another real smile from him.
“Yeah?”
“Absolutely. My mom alone would organize a search party.”
His gaze lingers on me afterward. And there it is again—that warmth, that pull. Like every conversation between us is becoming something impossible to walk back from.
The server reappears, then carries extra hush puppies “on the house,” effectively saving me from spontaneously confessing my feelings in public. Small towns are emotionally exhausting.
We spend another hour there anyway. Nolan tells me about growing up moving between placements in three different states.
About learning early how to read rooms quickly.
About becoming useful because useful kids got kept longer.
The words devastate me because suddenly so many things about him make sense.
“You know what’s funny?” I ask.
“What?”
“You fit here better than half the people actually born in Coral Bell Cove.”
Nolan studies me carefully over the edge of his drink.
“Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Why?”
I pore over the way he’d stopped to straighten a crooked dock sign. About him thanking every contractor by name. About Walter already treating him like he’d always belonged there.
“Because everybody already trusts you.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle first. Then the smile follows. I’m beginning to think I like making that happen more than I should.
That thought follows me all the way back toward the marina afterward. The walk feels slower this time.
At one point, Nolan’s hand settles briefly against my lower back while guiding me around stacked lumber near the dock entrance.
Tiny contact. Still enough to completely derail my nervous system. His hand lingers one second too long before dropping away.
The marina afternoon crowd has grown thicker by the time we return. Tourists wander between slips while locals lean against railings watching repair work with collective small-town interest.
Nolan’s fingers brush lightly against mine as we walk in a way that’s not accidental. Not fully intentional either.
My breath catches. And this time? Neither of us pulls away.