20. Hadley
Chapter Twenty
HADLEY
The first time Nolan leaves a toothbrush at my cottage intentionally, I nearly have an emotional breakdown in the middle of brushing my teeth.
Not because it’s dramatic, but because it’s so unbelievably ordinary.
Two toothbrushes sit side by side in the ceramic holder near my sink while soft morning light spills across the bathroom counter.
And without warning, I’m staring at them like they personally revealed state secrets.
“You okay in there?”
Nolan’s voice drifts down the hallway, warm and rough with sleep.
“I’m having a crisis,” I call back.
A quiet laugh reaches me from the kitchen.
“Should I be concerned?”
“Yes.”
“Scale of one to Holt finding out we slept together?”
I choke.
“Why would you even say that out loud?”
Another laugh.
I walk into the kitchen a minute later, wearing leggings and one of Nolan’s marina hoodies, while he stands barefoot at the stove making breakfast like he belongs in my cottage permanently.
Sunlight spills gold through the windows while coffee brews nearby and Rook lies sprawled dramatically across the rug near Nolan’s feet.
The whole scene feels warm enough to ache.
Nolan glances over his shoulder when I enter and smiles.
I move toward him until I’m close enough to slide both arms around his waist from behind.
Nolan stills, then melts. The reaction remains one of my favorite discoveries about him.
This big, emotionally guarded man turns soft every time I touch him affectionately.
He reaches back, hooking one arm around me loosely while keeping the other on the pan.
“Good morning.”
I rest my cheek lightly between his shoulder blades, breathing him in while morning sunlight fills the cottage around us.
“Good morning. You know what Bailey said yesterday?” I ask.
Nolan groans. “That sentence never ends well.”
“She said we already act like we’ve been married for ten years.”
“That’s concerning.”
“Deeply.”
But neither of us sounds upset about it, which honestly feels even more dismaying.
Nolan plates breakfast a minute later while I pour coffee, both of us moving around each other naturally in the tiny kitchen without speaking much.
The intimacy of that almost destroys me more than kissing does sometimes. Just existing together easily. I could do this forever.
Nolan watches me carefully over his coffee mug.
“What?”
I blink once. “What do you mean what?”
“You’re staring at me like you’re plotting.”
Rude. Accurate, but rude.
I smile helplessly down at my coffee.
“It’s nothing.”
“Hads.”
The softness in his voice melts every defense I possess. This man saying my nickname like it means something sacred should honestly be regulated.
I glance back up.
“I think I’m getting used to you,” I admit.
Nolan goes completely still.
The silence afterward stretches just long enough for nervousness to flicker low in my stomach.
He sets his coffee down carefully.
And the look on his face? Pure overwhelming hope.
“Yeah?” he asks softly.
The vulnerability in the single word cracks my chest wide open.
Because Nolan still sounds stunned every time he realizes I plan on staying too.
A single nod from me seems to unlock a floodgate of emotion in his face, so intense that I gasp, unable to take a breath.
Then Nolan says, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to you.”
And just like that, my entire morning becomes emotionally compromised.
By noon, I’ve replayed Nolan saying “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to you” approximately forty-seven times.
Possibly more.
In my defense, the man says emotionally devastating things with the casual confidence of someone unaware he’s actively rearranging my internal organs.
“You’re smiling at shelves again.”
I glance up from the romance section at A Page in Time. Between here, the coffee shop, and my actual job, it’s a wonder I have time to fit in a life with Nolan at all. I just have a hard time sitting still.
Bailey lingers, a stack of inventory sheets in her hands, her tired face reflecting the fatigue of a woman forced to witness too much happiness secondhand.
“I’m working.”
“You stacked the bookmarks.”
Late morning sunlight spills through the lighthouse windows while tourists drift lazily through the bookstore carrying iced coffees and beach bags. Outside, Back Bay sparkles beneath the bright spring skies while music from somewhere downtown drifts faintly through open windows.
Bailey watches me another moment before narrowing her eyes suspiciously.
“What did he say this time?”
I look away. That reaction alone tells her everything.
“Oh no.” Bailey clutches the inventory sheets dramatically. “It was emotional.”
The bell over the bookstore door jingles before I can defend myself further.
Lila walks inside, carrying iced coffee trays, with Oliver clutching her sweater at her hip. Evelyn skips beside them, holding a pastry nearly the size of her face.
Warmth floods through me.
“Favorite aunt alert!” Evelyn announces dramatically the second she spots me.
Lila laughs while handing over coffee.
“You look suspiciously happy,” she tells me.
I narrow my eyes. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Because,” Bailey answers before Lila can, “you’ve been wandering around looking like a woman in a cheesy 1990s romantic comedy.”
I hate everyone here.
Truly.
Oliver reaches toward me from Lila’s side, and I take him, pressing a kiss against his hair while he curls into my shoulder.
The quiet domesticity of the moment settles warmly through me. Lila notices. Her face takes on that unsettling, familiar older-sister look that implies she’s already read my mind.
“Oh,” she says.
“No,” I answer.
Bailey looks between us, then gasps.
“Oh my God, it’s worse now.”
“Stop saying things,” I hiss.
“You had a future thought,” Bailey accuses.
I refuse to answer, but unfortunately my silence apparently confirms everything. Lila smiles over her coffee cup.
“You love him.”
“I really do,” I admit.
Saying it aloud still feels enormous.
Real.
Bailey leans dramatically against the counter. “This is disgusting. I’m obsessed.”
Evelyn points at me while eating pastry. “Does this mean he’ll be our Uncle Nolan?”
The room goes quiet.
Lila glances toward me, single eyebrow cocked in question. “Thoughts, Hadley?”
Before I can spiral further, my phone buzzes against the counter. Every nerve ending in my body reacts.
Nolan
Potential marina investor meeting ran long. Might be tied up most of the afternoon.
The smile lingering on my face fades. Something uneasy flickers low in my stomach.
Bailey notices.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” I say.
Lila watches me too carefully.
“Hadley.”
I glance back at my phone.
Potential marina investor meeting.
The words replay strangely in my chest. For the first time in weeks, a realization presses through all the happiness: Nolan belongs to the marina.
And the marina? The marina might not always belong entirely to Coral Bell Cove.
My fingers tighten around the phone while Oliver rubs his cheek against my hip before darting over to his sister.
“What kind of investor?” Bailey asks carefully.
I shake my head once.
“I don’t know.”
But something inside me twists anyway.
By seven that evening, I’ve reread Nolan’s last text enough times that the words have started to feel more substantial than they probably should.
He sent it hours ago. Since then, nothing.
I tell myself he’s busy. That meetings run late, and Nolan loses track of time whenever the marina is involved.
Unfortunately, logic does very little to quiet the uneasy feeling sitting beneath my ribs since this afternoon.
The marina has become more than a business to him.
I know that.
I also know investors rarely offer money without expecting something in return.
Diane wanders past my office.
“You’re still here?”
“Trying to figure out how many visitors the marina used to bring downtown.”
“For Nolan?”
I looked back at the spreadsheets.
“For the town.”
I spend the next hour pulling up old records: hotel occupancy, sales tax reports, festival attendance, boat registration numbers, and restaurant weekends until my eyes glaze over. Noticing most of the office lights have been turned off, I sluggishly pack my things and head toward my car.
By the time I pull into the marina parking lot with takeout balanced on the passenger seat, sunset burns orange across Back Bay, and the last of the charter customers are heading toward their cars.
The place looks beautiful.
Dock lights flickering on one by one.
Boats moving gently against the restored slips.
Families carrying coolers and beach bags toward Main Street.
This is what Nolan built.
Not alone, exactly, but through sheer determination and more hours than any reasonable person should work.
And suddenly, I understand why the word “investor” made my stomach tighten.
Someone else could look at this place and see only potential profit.
Nolan sees home.
I spot him near the marina office, standing alone beside the railing with both hands braced against the weathered wood.
Even from a distance, I can tell something is wrong.
His shoulders are too rigid.
His head is bowed, gaze fixed on the water, while the whole marina moves around him.
I pull out my phone.
Me
You alive?
Nolan
Barely.
My uneasiness sharpens.
Me
That bad?
Nolan
How I expect all investor meetings to go.
Oh.
My fingers hover over the screen.
There are a dozen questions I could ask, but none of them feel right over text. So I grab the food and walk toward him.
His phone is still in his hand when my footsteps reach the dock. He turns when he hears the boards creak. The tension in his face eases the second he sees me.
“You drove here?” he asks when I reach him.
“Someone has to make sure you eat.”
It never occurs to me not to come. Taking care of people is almost muscle memory now. Sometimes I wonder when it stopped feeling like a choice.
A subtle change flickers across his face. That look he gets whenever I do something ordinary and he reacts as though I’ve handed him more than he knows how to accept. I step close enough for our shoulders to brush. Some of the stiffness leaves his body.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
My brows lift.