“Close them.”
I do. Something cool and metallic brushes my wrist—a tiny silver charm shaped like a book, strung on a thin chain.
He fastens it. “For luck.”
When I open my eyes, he’s smiling, shy and smug at once. “Thought you could use some backup magic.”
I touch the charm. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Effective,” he says. “That’s what matters.”
Late afternoon drips gold through the windows. Crew climbs a ladder to hang the newA Page in Timesign, and I stand below pretending not to stare at the way his T-shirt rides up when he stretches.
“Straight?” he calls.
“Steadier than you,” I call back.
He laughs so hard he nearly drops a screw. “You sure about that?”
“Positive.”
The banter fills the empty spaces that fear once occupied. For a few hours, there’s only paint, laughter, and the rhythmic hush of the tide.
When he comes down, streaked with sawdust, he kisses me like he’s rewarding teamwork. “Perfect alignment,” he murmurs.
“You mean the sign?”
“Sure,” he says, eyes glinting. “That, too.”
At sunset, his phone rings. The Nashville number flashes across the screen. I see it before he does, and something inside me twists.
He answers, tone polite, neutral. “Hey, Laramie. … Yeah, I’ve been thinking about it.”
I busy myself with the register, pretending not to listen, though every word lands like a pebble on my ribs.Commentator role.National network.Travel schedule.
When he hangs up, I’m reorganizing books that were already alphabetical.
“Big opportunity,” he says carefully.
“It sounds like it,” I say, not looking up.
“It’s not what I planned,” he adds. “But it could mean stability. Flexibility, even. Half the season here, half there.”
I finally meet his eyes. “And which half has a lighthouse?”
He winces, stepping closer. “Hey. I’m just… thinking.”
“I know.” I force a smile. “Think loud so I can keep up.”
He cups my cheek, thumb tracing the edge of my jaw. “You’re part of every version of the plan, Bailey.”
“Promises are cheap,” I whisper.
“Then let me prove it expensive.”
We cook dinner together—seafood pasta that smells like the ocean itself. He chops garlic with exaggerated skill; I pretend not to flinch when he drops half of it on the floor. We drink wine from mismatched mugs, dance barefoot in the kitchen to old records that skip every third line.
When the song slows, he spins me once and catches me against him. The laughter fades but the closeness doesn’t.
