Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Iwake up the same way I fell asleep, tangled up in Dylan’s arms. His warm breath floats over my head, and his arms are still wrapped around my waist. Sunlight pours in from the window above us and bathes the room in a golden light.
We must have slept in. I don’t think I’ve ever slept so soundly as I did in bed with Dylan last night.
I wiggle for a moment, getting comfortable, and he takes a sharp breath in before giving me a light squeeze and softly whispering, “Morning,” his voice still raspy from sleep.
“Hey, you,” I say, squeezing him back. He brings his hand up to my chin and tilts it up, eyes looking into mine as the edges of his mouth curl up into a grin.
I part my lips, my heart taking over, and as he leans down to meet my eager lips with his, my stomach lets out the loudest gurgle imaginable, startling us both and causing me to erupt in a fit of giggles. “Wow,” I say between laughter.
“Let’s get you some breakfast.” He winks as he rips the heavy, warm comforter off us, exposing our bodies to the chill of the morning. “And a fire,” he adds, noticing the goosebumps dotting my bare skin. His gaze lingers before turning away.
I groan but manage to pull myself off the bed, my feet landing on the floor below me. We head downstairs and into the kitchen, where Dylan pulls out the coffee canister and gets our coffee ready.
“You were right about my car,” I tell him as I pull a carton of eggs out of the fridge. “Oil was low—very low,” I add. “But I took it to a garage, and they fixed it up for me. So, thanks.”
“That’s great, Luce.” He takes the carton from me and places it beside the stove. “Want to help me make breakfast?”
“Uh, are you sure about that?” I cock an eyebrow at him. “I’m not the most amazing cook.”
“Yet,” he simply adds, turning on the element and placing a pan on top of it.
“Yet,” I agree quietly.
Dylan walks me through cracking the eggs into the bowl and mixing them.
“Hold it in one hand and gently tap it against the bowl, like this.” He mimics the action and then takes the egg with both hands and gently breaks it in the middle where the crack is.
The shell splits in two, and the egg pours out into the bowl.
He places the empty shells back in the carton and hands the next one to me.
I tap a little too hard, and instead of one neat crack down the middle, it’s a flurry of cracks on either side, cascading out like little spiderwebs.
“Sorry,” I say, and he shakes his head at me. As I attempt to break it down the middle, tiny pieces of white shell fall and mix in with the egg in the bowl. “Shit,” I say, defeat taking over.
“Hey.” He places a hand on mine and tilts my chin up toward him.
“It’s okay, Luce. It happens. And it’s easy to fix.
Watch.” He takes one of his shell halves and dips it into the egg mixture where the fallen ones are.
As he scoops around the shells, they land in his makeshift bowl, and he easily dumps them out into the garbage under the sink. “Shell attracts shell.”
“Shell attracts shell.” I smile.
Handing me another egg, he says, “Now, try again.”
After we crack a few more eggs, I pour in some cream, add a dash of salt and pepper, and whisk it with a fork until everything is blended and creamy. Sure, in the end, I overcooked the eggs a bit, but they’re not too bad.
“You’re a good teacher,” I tell him as we sit together on the couch, eating our breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast.
He shrugs, holding his plate. “I like to help.”
We clean up after breakfast, and his eyes dart up to the ceiling and then back to me. “I have to run up and check the lens at the top. Did you want to come with me?”
“Um, yeah!” I reply excitedly, curiosity taking over at the chance to finally see a part of his job.
“Great.” He grabs two cloths and an empty spray bottle from under the sink, fills it with soap and water, then motions for me to follow him upstairs.
As he walks ahead of me, I take the opportunity to stare at his ass in his medium-wash jeans that fit him just right.
I wouldn’t call them skinny, but they’re definitely tight enough to hug the muscles in his thighs.
On top, he’s wearing a white T-shirt with a red-and-black plaid flannel, the buttons undone and open. Safe to say, he looks good.
We wind up the black cast-iron stairs, past the bedroom level, past what I would call the attic, despite there still being more to the lighthouse’s tower.
It’s an empty space, filled with boxes and a workbench covered in tools.
Then we make it to the top. As we step onto the last level from the stairs, I turn my head and note that we’re surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows.
I do a full three-sixty, and it’s windows the whole way around.
In the centre of the room, there’s a lightbulb with a glass cover surrounding it.
Dylan walks over to the glass around the bulb. “This is the lens,” he tells me as he begins meticulously spraying it with soap and water and wiping it down with the cloth. “Salt spray can cause it to get a bit grimy and dull, so I usually come up once a day and clean it.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say to him as I take in the intricate glass wrapped around the lightbulb. Sunlight makes its way in, reflecting and refracting off the rings of the lens, creating little rainbows in the small room. “How does it all work?”
He answers as he continues carefully wiping down the lens. “It takes the light from the bulb and turns it into a powerful beam that can be seen miles away. Like it’s magnifying it so ships can see from far away.”
“Wow,” I breathe, fully taken aback by the sheer size of the lens, which stands taller than me. My eyes dart from the glass structure and then to the view surrounding us, open ocean that spans as far as my eyes can see.
“This view never gets old for me,” he says while he puts the spray and wet cloth down by the opening to the stairs, now buffing the glass with his dry cloth.
The way he works so methodically, I’m in awe watching him.
The care he puts into every little aspect of his job, ensuring everyone’s safety, has my heart swelling even more for him.
“Do you have to turn it on and off every night?”
He chuckles as he finishes his task and comes to stand beside me, staring out into the rough Atlantic.
“I never have, but that was how it worked for my dad and any of the older keepers. Now, things are becoming more automated. It shuts off at dawn and turns back on at dusk.” There’s a slight look of concern on his face as his brows knit together.
“A lot of the lighthouses are going that route, it seems. Some have even stopped employing keepers altogether. But if something fails or malfunctions, I can override the system or even switch to a backup if needed. That can only happen when a person is here.”
“Backup?”
“Yeah, another bulb.” He opens up a drawer in a metal table on the side and pulls out an identical bulb to the one that sits in the centre behind the lens.
“Ah, I see.” This is all so interesting. “Does it ever feel like a lot of pressure?” I ask. It must weigh on him that if anything stops working, people’s lives could be at risk.
He rubs a hand over his jaw and brings his gaze to me.
“I mean, yes. But I don’t mind the pressure.
I love what I do. And I’m usually here most of the time, so it’s nothing extra in my day to check on these things and keep an eye on the weather.
I like knowing that boats and ships that pass through are always safe.
I know how dangerous the ocean can be…” His jaw ticks, and the concerned look is back on his face.
I know too, I think, as the secret I’m keeping threatens to sneak out.
I place a hand on his arm, bringing him back to the present.
His mind must be drifting back to Raven and what happened to her.
I’m sure that guilt propels him forward in his duties here and makes him the lighthouse keeper that he is.
“They’re lucky to have someone like you who takes this so seriously. ”
“Thanks, Luce.”
We stand there for several quiet minutes, staring out into the sea, side by side. It’s comfortable and honestly pretty incredible to be this high up, taking in everything. I know this view never gets old for him.
“Hey, question for you.” He turns to face me. “Are there still lighthouse keepers in your time?”
“Um.” My face falls. “No. Sorry.”
“I see. Guess I’m retired,” he murmurs to himself. He gives his head a light shake, getting himself out of his short-lived funk, and grabs my hand in his. “Let’s head back down.”
“Okay.”
The rest of the morning and afternoon is quiet but nice.
It started to rain, so we played cards and read together, curled up on the couch with the fire going.
The lack of technology in Dylan’s time has been a really positive change.
No social media to check, no dinging messages to look at.
It’s felt very peaceful. Like I can really live in the present here.
Which is kind of ironic since I’m currently rooted thirty-two years in the past.
When dinnertime rolls around, Dylan peers up from his copy of The Stand. “What do you want to do for dinner? I was going to suggest pizza, but I’m not sure how you feel about that.”
Mmm. “I could definitely do pizza.” I grin. Pizza was one of those foods we never had much growing up—it was deemed cheap and unhealthy. But anytime I got the chance to sneak a slice, it was heaven. The gooey cheese, smoky pepperoni, fluffy crust. I loved every second of it.
His face lights up. “Great, I know a place in town we can go.”
We make the short walk into Killick Bay and get to the main street that doesn’t feel so new to me anymore.
Dylan walks me farther down the street than I’ve gone before, and we stop in front of an old building with a neon red sign that reads Harbour Slice in capital letters.
There’s a door right underneath the sign and red-framed windows on either side.
As soon as he opens the front door, the smell of mozzarella cheese and oregano takes over my senses, and my stomach starts to grumble.
We head inside and sit down at a booth with squeaky red leather seats and a grey laminate table.
These same booths line the outside of the restaurant, and in the middle of the space are circular tables with red metal chairs.
Each booth has its own hanging light fixture that illuminates the space in a warm, yellow glow.
“This is the best pizza around here,” Dylan says with a smile. “We came here all the time when I was growing up. I think you’re going to love it.”
As I scan the laminated menu, looking at the different variations of pizza they serve, footsteps tread toward the table, and a woman who looks to be in her early to mid-thirties clears her throat.
Turning to Dylan, her smile grows even wider.
“Dylan Hart, we haven’t seen you over here in a while.
” She places a red-manicured hand on his shoulder, and now I’m suddenly the one turning red.
My mouth parts slightly before I clamp it shut, and I poke the inside of my cheek with my tongue as a distraction.
Dylan, who seems to be completely oblivious to her flirting, casually responds with a “Hi, Cheryl, nice to see you too.” Then he looks at me, and his green eyes crinkle as his lips curve into a smile. “This is my friend Lucy.”
Friend. How sick I’m getting of that word.