Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Saturday morning greets me with warm sun and blue skies. August is one of the nicest months out here, I’m learning. Barely any rain and warm temperatures without getting too humid. The wind can certainly still have a chill even in the summer, but all in all, it’s a pretty enjoyable time of year.
After lounging around for the morning with a coffee and the latest Audrey Quinn romance book, I decide to get dressed and get out of the house.
I pull my hair back into a slick bun—no need to shower now—and some high-waisted jean shorts with a black short-sleeve button-up blouse that I half tuck in.
The French tuck is a bit millennial, but I saw it done on TikTok, and it didn’t look half-bad.
I slip on my chunky Ugg sandals and my favourite pair of sunglasses and head out the door.
When I get in the car, without even thinking, I start the thirty-minute drive to the place and the person who has been consuming my every waking thought.
I park my car and walk up the gravel path, taking in the smell of the salt air and the coast surrounding me.
The lighthouse sits on the edge of a rocky cliff.
The stones closest to the sea are smooth, polished by years of crashing waves battering against them.
I reach the faded red door and listen. Nothing.
No footsteps, no deep, muted voice. Just quiet, outside of the wind and waves around me.
I knock a few times and wait, but hear nothing.
Feeling brave—and curious—I open the door and walk inside, closing it behind me.
The mild shock from the door handle greets me, as usual.
I sneak into the main level of the lighthouse and take in my surroundings without distraction.
Off-white paint covers the concrete walls, and black cast-iron stairs curve upward toward the next level.
Behind the stairs, there’s another door.
It’s painted the same colour as the walls and blends into the space.
Must be why I never noticed it before. Hooks on the wall and a black rubber mat lie beside it.
The yellow rubber boots are missing.
To an outsider, it might look like I’m trespassing, but our exchange last time made me feel a bit more welcome around him.
Like maybe a small part of him has enjoyed my random visits.
And if you think about it, this main level isn’t the living quarters, so technically, I’m only visiting his work, not his home.
Maybe I should have been a lawyer; I can justify my way out of anything.
Pausing, I listen. Rain beats against the side of the lighthouse.
I glance at one of the two windows in front of me and see raindrops plastered on the cloudy glass.
A shiver runs over my body; I should have packed a sweater.
I need to be better at preparing for how fast the weather shifts here.
Even if it’s warm, always bring a sweater!
I don’t even have one in my car. I walk over to the hook where the clipboard is and scan the title, my head crooking to the left with confusion at what I’m reading.
EMERGENCY PROCEDURES — LIGHTHOUSE STATION
Location: Killick Point
Date Updated: March 12, 1993
Why does it say 1993? Has nothing changed since then?
I think back to what happened in 1993 and wonder if it’s a nod to Dylan Hart.
Maybe he was the last person to update the procedures.
Though I remember seeing the mystery lighthouse keeper with a clipboard in his hand when we first met.
Was it the same one? Based on how serious he was about safety and storms, it doesn’t seem like him to have a safety manual that is over thirty years out of date.
Before I can look any closer, the hidden door opens, and in walks a soaking wet lighthouse keeper.
In a dark green rain jacket with the hood up, covering most of his face, he ducks slightly as he steps through the frame.
I find the missing rubber boots on his feet, and he’s holding a pair of binoculars and a tool kit.
His emerald-green eyes spot me, and he sighs, almost like he’s not surprised to see me here.
“Why do you always show up during the worst weather?” He takes off his dripping wet jacket and hangs it on the hook by the door, slipping out of his boots and placing them on the mat to dry.
“In my defence, it was sunny when I showed up.”
He tilts his head at me, clearly confused. “It’s Saturday,” he sighs, but there’s the slightest hint of a smirk forming. “I should have known you’d pop by. How long have you been here?”
“Not that long, maybe about five minutes.”
He shakes his head, water droplets flying off his wet strands of hair, and moves toward the cast-iron stairs. “Well, you’d better stay. There’s a storm moving in fast from the southwest. It’s not safe out there.” He walks up the stairs, pausing to wait for me to follow.
“Why were you outside, then, huh?” I ask, ready to spar and not even sure why.
“It’s my job?” He lets out another exasperated sigh. I must get under his skin. I like that. “I was doing a visibility check.” He holds up the binoculars. “I need to check the ocean conditions, cloud cover, and horizon visibility. It was easier to do it outside today.”
“And what do you do with that information? Store it in that big old brain of yours?”
“No, I’ll write it in my weather log.” That must be one of the many notebooks he has upstairs.
“Why don’t you use a computer? Don’t you get Wi-Fi here?”
“Wi-what?” His brows knit together as he looks at me. He must not get out much.
“Never mind.” I follow him upstairs, the warmth from the wood stove in the living room making its way over to me as soon as I get onto the second level.
“Coffee?” he asks, turning left into the kitchen and pulling out a bag of beans from the cupboard.
“Sure.” I walk over to the couch and take a seat, watching him as he goes about adding the beans and water to his ancient coffee maker. He’s in a navy T-shirt, and I can’t help but notice the definition of his arms and shoulders as he handles things in the kitchen.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee overpowers the smell of the wood stove, and I lean back into the couch and get comfortable.
He grabs two red ceramic mugs from the cupboard to the left of the coffee maker.
He pulls down the sugar from up high, adding two spoonfuls to one of the cups.
After putting the lid back on, he opens the fridge and grabs a mason jar with some kind of liquid in it.
I assume milk, at first, but then notice that it has the slightest tinge of orange to it.
He places it on the counter and pours us each a cup of coffee.
Then I watch as he unscrews the lid from the mason jar, gives the liquid a mix with a spoon, and adds a hearty splash to what I am assuming is my coffee.
Walking over to me, he places it on the end table to my left.
“Gimme, gimme,” I say jokingly as I take a sip and am immediately swept away by hints of cinnamon and sweet pumpkin flavour. “Oh my god, this is amazing. Did you buy a pumpkin spice creamer? What brand is this? I need to get it!” I look at him, waiting for his answer.
“I still don’t know what that is,” he starts.
“But I heard the words ‘pumpkin’ and ‘cream’ come out of your mouth, so I got some canned pumpkin and whipping cream and tried to make something.” He pauses, a small blush creeping across his cheeks.
“In case you came back.” He clears his throat before adding, “I couldn’t take any more whining from you. ” A grin appears as he says it.
I am in awe right now. I can’t believe he went to the trouble on the off chance I’d be back here. “This is better than any creamer I’ve ever bought. Thank you, mystery man.”
“Dylan,” he responds calmly.
“Hmm?” I ask after swallowing my second sip of the delicious and sweet coffee with creamer that should be bottled and sold at every store.
“My name.”
I almost choke on my third sip. His name is what? “Your name is what?” I repeat out loud this time.
“Dy-lan,” he enunciates slowly, that smirk growing wider on his lips as he does. He finds this amusing.
“You’re joking?” I place my coffee on the table beside me and stare at him, eyebrow cocked.
“Why would I joke about my name?” He looks and sounds truly confused once again by my reaction.
“I just can’t get over the odds.”
“The odds of what? Can you please elaborate a little more for me?” He walks over to the matching lounge chair and sits down.
“Your name is Dylan,” I start.
“Yes.”
“The same name as the old lighthouse keeper.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“And you don’t find that strange?” He quirks his mouth to one side before taking another sip of his coffee.
“No, it’s a common name.”
“Okay. Well then.” I curl my legs up on the couch and stare up at the mystery lighthou—Dylan. Stare at Dylan. “I’m Lucy.”
“Nice to officially meet you, Lucy.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-two, how about you?” There’s that smirk again. It grows into a wider smile, flashing his very white teeth. For the first time, I notice when he grins that he has two slightly longer canines peeking out, giving him the kind of smile that feels equal parts charming and troublesome.
“Twenty-five. This past May.”
“I see.” He gets up and walks over to his desk, grabbing a notebook from the coffee table on his way. “You distracted me, Lucy,” he says as he sits down and pulls a pencil out of an old cup.
I feel my stomach erupt in butterflies at those words. Could I be distracting to him?
I think I’d like to be.
“How so?” I crane my neck to see what he’s doing.
“I almost forgot to write in my log.” Oh. I hear the scratching of his pencil on the paper as he jots down his notes from memory.
“Well, we can’t forget that.” I pick up my coffee once more and sip it while listening to the sounds of the wind and rain on the windows.
The fire roars in front of me, and for a moment, I forget that it’s August and that it was warm and sunny out when I first arrived.
I shiver, wishing I weren’t in shorts and a short-sleeved blouse.
Even with the fire, there’s still a bit of a chill in the air. Must be from the concrete walls.
While I’m staring into the fire, a rather large and rough hand comes into my peripheral view, holding a black hoodie. He offers it to me, and I take it, noting the little Nike swoop stitched in the top corner. When I place it over my head, his scent takes over me.
Irish Spring bar soap—the pine needle and citrus smell is oddly comforting.
“Thanks,” I murmur. Leaning back on the couch, I close my eyes for a moment. I was up early this morning, and this space is so calm, and the couch is so comfy. I drift off, the rain and crackling fire acting as a soundtrack to my sleep.