22. Nolan
Chapter Twenty-Two
NOLAN
Three days after I finally tell Hadley the truth about the marina finances, I make a dangerous mistake.
I start pretending everything is under control again. And unfortunately? The panic keeps growing anyway.
By Wednesday afternoon, the marina office feels too small for the pressure it’s under.
Paperwork covers nearly every surface. Repair estimates. Insurance follow-ups. Revised dock stabilization quotes. Investor proposals printed on paper too expensive for the kind of soulless ideas written across them.
Luxury expansion.
Private membership slips.
Corporate oversight.
Every phrase turns my stomach.
Outside the windows, sunlight spills across Back Bay, flashing bright against the restored slips and dock lights while tourists wander the marina like this place hasn’t become a financial storm cloud hovering directly over my head.
Usually the marina calms me. Today every thought circles back to the same ugly facts.
The inspector wasn’t wrong. The west docks won’t survive another hurricane season without major structural work.
Every week I wait, the repairs become more expensive.
Every storm forecast feels like a countdown. And every investor in town knows it.
And worst of all?
I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do.
For the first time in my life, my uncertainty is affecting the people I love. Hadley. The town. Every worker who believed in this place because I told them it had a future.
“You’re staring at the same page again.”
I glance up.
Miguel stands in the office doorway, holding a receipt folder with the appearance of a man seconds away from offering unsolicited emotional commentary.
“I’m working.”
“You’re intimidating the paperwork.”
He steps inside and sets the folder on the edge of my desk, eyes drifting over the proposals before I can flip them closed.
A subtle shift flits across his face.
“Investors again?” he asks.
I lean back in my chair and scrub one hand down my jaw.
“Meeting tonight.”
Miguel whistles low under his breath.
“The fancy dinner one?”
“Unfortunately.”
He studies me for another second. “Hadley know?”
Immediate guilt hits hard enough that I look away first.
Because yes.
And no.
She knows enough to worry.
Not enough to understand how bad this is becoming.
“She knows I have a meeting.”
Miguel gives me a look.
I hate that look.
Everyone in this town has developed a variation of it recently. The “you are emotionally stupid, and we’re all aware” look.
“She know what’s really on the table?” he asks.
I close the proposal folder carefully.
“Nothing is on the table yet.”
“That sounded fake.”
Fantastic.
Now even my employees can tell.
I stand too fast, needing movement before the office walls close in completely. Outside, clouds begin gathering over Back Bay, darkening the far edge of the marina. The air feels heavy in that specific coastal way that means a storm is building somewhere beyond the horizon.
“I told her the finances are complicated,” I say.
Miguel exhales through his nose.
“That’s not the same thing.”
”No,” I gasp out before I can control my voice. “It’s not.”
Silence drops hard between us, and immediate regret follows.
Miguel doesn’t flinch. He watches me, which makes the guilt worse.
I drag both hands down my face and exhale.
“Sorry.”
He nods once. “You’re allowed to be stressed.”
That almost makes me laugh. Allowed. Like stress waits for permission. Like fear hasn’t already moved into my chest and started rearranging furniture.
“I’m fine,” I mutter.
Miguel’s brows lift just as my phone buzzes on the desk.
Miguel folds his arms.
“Your phone’s been buzzing all morning.”
I glance toward the desk.
“Mostly Wrights.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“That’s either really good or really dangerous.”
“I’m honestly not sure yet.”
The corner of my mouth lifts despite myself.
Holt had texted before seven asking if I needed help replacing dock boards.
Crew wanted to know if I had enough volunteers for Saturday.
Claire had heard I’d skipped dinner and informed me—in a message containing three heart emoji and zero room for negotiation—that I was expected at the farmhouse that evening.
I hadn’t realized when they’d started feeling less like Hadley’s family and more like mine.
I glance down at the screen and see the one name I was hoping for the most: Hadley.
A warmth spreads through my chest so fast it almost hurts.
Hadley
You eating lunch today or surviving on coffee again?
God. This woman. Even while I’m drowning in all of this, she still reaches for me in tiny, careful ways.
Me
Coffee is a food group.
Hadley
It absolutely is not.
Me
Bold claim.
Hadley
Crew says I’m supposed to bully you into protein.
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
Miguel points at my face. “There. That. Tell her the truth.”
I glare at him.
He lifts both hands and backs toward the door. “I’m leaving before you fire me.”
Coward.
The second he’s gone, I stare down at Hadley’s text again.
I should tell her. Not everything maybe. But more. Enough that she doesn’t have to stand outside my fear guessing at the shape of it.
I know that I should.
I know it because she told me exactly that three nights ago while rain hit the apartment windows and I finally admitted the marina might not survive without outside money.
She asked me for honesty.
Partnership.
Room beside me when things got hard.
And still, here I am, deciding which pieces of the truth are safe enough to hand her.
I type three different responses.
Delete them all.
Me
Investor dinner tonight. Might run late again.
Again.
I hate the word the second I send it. Lately there’s been a lot of again.
Late again.
Busy again.
Meetings again.
Sorry again.
None of it is intentional, but it’s still enough to create distance.
Hadley’s response takes longer this time.
Hadley
Okay. Let me know how it goes.
My chest tightens. That question mark hurts more than it should.
I can feel her carefulness through the screen. Her restraint. The way she’s trying not to push too hard when all I’ve done lately is make her feel like pushing is necessary.
Me
I will.
I stare at the message afterward, knowing it’s too little. Knowing I might not. Knowing part of me is already preparing to carry the meeting alone before it even happens.
Outside the office windows, the clouds gather darker over Back Bay.
And for the first time since Hadley and I fell in love, the future between us stops feeling guaranteed.
By eight that night, the storm finally rolls into Coral Bell Cove hard enough to rattle the restaurant windows.
Thunder shakes the glass while rain lashes sideways across Main Street, scattering tourists beneath awnings and sending waitstaff rushing to pull outdoor chairs beneath the patio roof.
The investor dinner takes place in a private room at one of the nicer restaurants near the waterfront.
White tablecloths. Expensive wine. Polished people using words like opportunity and optimization as if they aren’t talking about carving the soul out of the marina I’ve spent months putting back together piece by piece.
I sit at the end of the table with my hand wrapped around a glass of water I haven’t touched in twenty minutes.
Richard Hale keeps talking.
He’s good at that.
Smooth voice. Tailored suit. Smile sharp enough to draw blood if you look too closely.
“We understand your concern about maintaining local identity,” he says, sliding another packet across the table toward me. “That’s why we’ve adjusted the proposal language.”
Local identity.
As if community is a branding issue.
As if Walter’s folding chair and Mrs. Henderson’s threats over dock lights and kids fishing off the slips can be preserved inside a bullet point.
The thought makes my jaw tighten. Richard notices. Men like him make money by noticing pressure points.
“The reality,” he continues, “is that emotional attachment won’t protect you from another major storm season.”
The words land like a fist beneath my ribs, and I hate him for saying it.
He isn’t wrong. Passion doesn’t drive pilings into the bay.
It doesn’t reinforce bulkheads. It doesn’t keep the water out.
But I refuse to believe the only way to save this place is to hand it over to people who’ll strip away everything worth saving.
Richard folds his hands.
“Three years ago, we acquired a marina outside Wilmington.”
I don’t answer.
“Same situation.”
He slides a photograph across the table: new docks, restaurants, full slips.
“Locals hated us at first.”
He shrugs.
“Now they’re booking weddings there.”
His gaze holds mine.
“Sometimes preserving something means changing it enough to survive.”
The storm outside slams harder against the windows, rattling the glass in its frame.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Hadley.
I know it without looking. That’s how deep she is in me now. My body recognizes her before my brain catches up.
“How many local businesses are still there?”
Richard hesitates.
“Some.”
“How many?”
Now we’re getting somewhere. Richard isn’t evil. He’s simply measuring success differently.
I pull the phone out beneath the table.
Hadley
Still at dinner?
I type back with one hand.
Me
Still here.
Hadley
Everything okay?
I stare at the question too long.
No.
Nothing feels okay.
The marina is vulnerable.
The numbers are worse than I admitted.
These investors want pieces of the place I’m terrified of losing, and somewhere across town, the woman I love is probably worrying because I still haven’t figured out how to let her stand beside me without feeling like I’m handing her weight she never asked to carry.
My thumb trembles just above the keys, a cold sweat beading on my brow.
Me
Sorry.
Immediate regret.
Hadley deserves an answer.
Before I can fix it, Richard says my name.
I lock the phone and look up.
“We need to know whether you’re seriously considering partnership,” he says. “You’ve built something remarkable, Mr. Pierce. The question is whether you’re willing—or able—to finance the next phase on your own.”