Chapter One – Bailey
The first rule of small-town living? Never underestimate a retiree with Wi-Fi.
By seven a.m., half of Coral Bell Cove already knows who ordered the gluten-free donuts, whose cat is pregnant again, and that Crew Wright—yes,thatCrew Wright—is allegedly back in town.
Which is precisely why I’m hiding behind the counter of my lighthouse-turned-bookstore, pretending the espresso machine requires urgent emotional support.
Outside, gulls bicker over a dropped pastry on the boardwalk, and the wind coming off the bay smells like salt, cinnamon, and incoming drama. Inside, the air is all roasted coffee and old paper—the perfume of safety.
I give the copper espresso lever an affectionate pat. “Hang in there, girl. If we survive the gossip cycle, we get a muffin.”
The machine hisses in agreement.
The bell over the door jingles, and Daisy Merritt blows in with the breeze, carrying a basket big enough to feed a football team and energy that could power the lighthouse lantern if it still worked.
“Morning, lighthouse lady!” she chirps. “I brought peace offerings—blueberry, chocolate chip, and one maple pecan you’re going to lie about eating.”
“I don’tlie,” I say, taking the basket before she can drop it. “I practice discretion.”
“Sure.” She pulls off her knit cap, cheeks pink from the chill. “You’re going to need carbs. Everyone’s buzzing about the Wright boy being home. Otter Creek’s basically a reality show right now.”
I freeze halfway to the pastry plate. “Define everyone.”
“Mrs. Winthrop started the rumor, and the hardware-store guys confirmed it. Apparently, Crew’s rehabbing his shoulder out there.” Daisy plucks a chocolate-chip muffin and takes a huge bite. “Poor guy. Still looks disgustingly good, though.”
Of course, he does.
I pour another shot of espresso to hide the way my pulse jumps. “Good for him.”
“That’s it?Good for him?Bailey, you once wrote that man poetry on notebook paper.”
“Correction,” I say. “I wrote a private letter that got stolen, read aloud in gym class, and is now archived in the town’s collective memory like a national tragedy.”
Daisy snorts. “Details.”
“I was sixteen.”
“And still blushing like you’re sixteen,” she sings.
“Out.” I point at the door.
She grins, snags a napkin, and heads out into the crisp air. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Word is he’s staying a while.”
The door closes, leaving me with the whisper of waves and the low creak of the old lighthouse settling. I exhale through my nose, long and slow.
Crew Wright. Back in Coral Bell Cove.
Nope. Not today.
I can’t keep letting myself get worked up. He comes and goes all the time in the summer when it’s a break in his season. I’m just much better at keeping my distance from him during those warm months.
I distract myself by straightening the “Staff Picks” table—Beach Reads for When You Hate the Beach—and the stack of vintage novels near the round window. Early light slides across the shelves, catching on the brass fixtures I polished last night.The sea beyond the glass glitters like one of my best friend Ivy’s sequins.
The bell jingles again.
“Morning, Mrs. Winthrop,” I say automatically.
“Morning, dear.” She totters in wearing her usual floral scarf and enough perfume to stun a man out at sea. “Anything new for a woman of refined taste and questionable morals?”
