Buddy: Looking forward to it. Text if anything odd happens—even if you think it’s nothing.
She typed: Bossy.
Deleted it. Typed: Will do.
Outside, the Everglades kept humming. The heat pressed down. The strange message sat in her photos like a bruise. The past crept up like it did every year, reminding her that she could’ve been the one to be a ghost.
Fallon told herself she was fine.
She didn’t believe it. But she could carry it because she had to.
Chapter Five
The Crab Shack’s back room trapped the kind of heat that stuck to a man. Fryer oil lived in the walls. Salt lived in the wood. The faint tinge of lemon mixed with a cleaning agent lingering in the air indicated someone had run a mop earlier, and it did nothing to mask the scent of last night’s fresh catch.
Buddy braced a shoulder under a plastic bin marked TESSA PROJECT—CENTERPIECES and slid it onto the top shelf Fletcher had cleared. The shelf groaned. So did his back.
“Careful,” Fallon said from the step stool, palm up to steady. “If one more starfish sheds, I’m going to cry in front of witnesses.”
“You wouldn’t dare. I know you’re stressed, but everything’s going to be fine. You’ve got this down to a science.” He glanced at her, and a mix of emotions swelled in his gut like a storm brewing over the ocean. The bin settled, but his heart didn’t. He’d sworn off the kinds of feelings that tangled him with women in a way that meant he cared—meant that he wouldn’t have a wandering eye—meant that he’d actually be willing to give a real relationship a shot.
He’d known that Fallon was special the second he’d laid eyes on her, nearly four years ago, the first time he’d set foot in this town. Ever since then, she’d haunted his dreams. He hadn’t been prepared for what moving here would do to him physically, mentally, but especially… emotionally. He stepped back, hands open. “What’s in it?”
“Glass cylinders wrapped in a fishing net and my last nerve.” She hopped down, caught the step with her hand, and straightened. Glitter dusted her hairline like she’d leaned into a constellation and brought some of it home.
Boxes were everywhere: BUNTING, LANTERNS, SIGNAGE, DONATION FORMS. The tub of zip-ties was already half-empty—Fallon organized an event like a crime scene. Everything was bagged, labeled, and placed where it wouldn’t get stepped on.
“The marina took delivery on the stage,” she said, pointing her chin toward the back door where light cut the room into stripes. “Fletcher texted me a picture, which is how I know he read his email for once.”
“Must be love,” Buddy said.
“More like fear. He knows I’ll kick his ass.” Fallon shoved a crate of teal ribbon toward him with the toe of her boot. “Second shelf. And don’t crush the bows.”
“I would never crush a bow. That would be criminal,” He lifted the crate one-handed and slid it in beside a stack of lanterns. “Your theme is dangerously cheerful.”
“That’s the point.” She wiped her brow… and then the side of her face. Only, he could tell the swipe of her forehead was a ruse to remove the tear that had escaped and dripped onto her cheek.
He decided to let that be the end of it—for now. He’d seen grief build shrines. He preferred the way Fallon did it—lamps, pie, a dunk tank to make a town laugh at something that shouldn’t be funny and remember a girl who shouldn’t have been lost. While Fallon tried to bury the idea that she should’ve been the girl to vanish into thin air, never to be seen again.
The kitchen line clattered on the other side of the swinging door. A radio turned low leaked a chorus everyone knew whether they wanted to or not. Someone chalked the daily board: FISH TACOS • CUBANS • KEY LIME PIE (YES, YOU WANT PIE).
“You two redecorating my storage room?” Fletcher leaned in the doorway in his Parks and Recreation uniform, holding a pair of tongs in his hand. The man had the face of someone who’d fought the world to a draw and decided to feed it anyway. He was the heart of the community—the hero who’d returned home with three other SEALs and quite literally saved the town from itself. He, Keaton, Hayes, and Dawson all held different service jobs. They owned Everglades Overwatch, an airboat tour company, and now they were the proud owners of the Crab Shack. They were the glue, the protectors, and trouble, wrapped in one tight-knit group that would do absolutely anything for their neighbors.
“We’re curating.” Fallon crossed the room and gave Fletcher a big bear hug. “It’s different.”
“Mm-hmm.” Fletcher squeezed her shoulder as he stared at all the shelves filled with boxes. “Second shelf will hold if you don’t stack the entire ocean on it. And I put paper down because glitter travels faster than the gossip in this town.”
“Too late.” Buddy swiped at his shirt, and the colorful stuff flew off like fairy dust. “Fallon’s hair is turning pink, purple, and green.”
She swiped her hairline and held up a palm that sparkled.
“Ah, that’s evidence,” Fletcher said.
“Of absolutely nothing.” She laughed.
Baily, Fletcher’s wife, slid in behind Fletcher with a tote tucked under her arm. She had that particular glow of a woman who was tired and fine with it—belly rounding under her soft Crab Shack tee, eyes bright, hair in a messy twist that shouldn’t have looked as good as it did. On her hip—Kendra, two years old and all opinions, a wooden spoon clutched in one hand like a scepter.
“Volunteer hour check-in,” Baily said, tilting the tote toward Fallon. “And if I find glitter in my hush puppies, I’m razing your booth fee to infinity.”
