Me:So am I.
Lila:Then maybe try again, minus the public humiliation.
I stare at the last message until the screen goes dark. Try again.
The idea sits heavy in my chest.
I think about the way Bailey’s eyes softened when she laughed, how the wind played with her hair, how every muscle in me wanted to reach for her and didn’t.
There’s a rustle at the end of the porch. Shadow, the old barn cat, hops up beside me. He head-butts my arm, demanding attention.
“Hey, buddy.” I scratch behind his ears. “You ever screw up so bad you start measuring time by it?”
He blinks at me, unbothered. Typical.
“Didn’t think so.”
The cat curls up, purring, and I stare out toward the faint glow of town. Somewhere beyond those trees, the lighthouse stands—steady, stubborn, shining through the dark.
Kind of like her.
I drain the last of the beer from the bottle beside me and set it on the railing. My shoulder throbs, and my chest feels heavier than it should be.
Tomorrow, I’ll tell myself it was just a roof. Just a favor.
But tonight, under the wide Virginia sky, I know better.
Chapter Three – Bailey
The pigeon is back.
He plants himself on the sill like a judgmental gargoyle and stares at me through the round lighthouse window while I try to drink coffee without reviewing last night like it’s game film. The espresso machine hisses. The ocean sighs. The pigeon blinks slowly—as if to say,So. You let him on your roof, and now you’re surprised there are feelings.
“Don’t,” I warn, pointing my mug at him. “Not before caffeine.”
He doesn’t care. Coral Bell Cove birds are fearless. They know things.
I set the mug down and do the thing I do when life feels like it’s trying to test me: I move. Lamps on. Front door cracked just enough for salt air and small-town rumors to slip inside. Rugs straightened. Display tables fluffed like throw pillows. I take out the day’s cash envelope, stack the fives, and—because the register has a personality—tap the front panel twice like a bribe.
The lighthouse creaks the way it does when the temperature drops. Early fall has its own soundtrack here: wood settling, gulls arguing, water slapping the jetty in a rhythm that says storms are rehearsing offstage. Somewhere down the hill, a delivery truck backfires.
Normal. Familiar. The routine slides over me like a favorite sweater and almost—almost—mutes the memory of a warm palm on my waist.
The bell rings and Daisy herself barrel-rolls in, cheeks flushed, braid half unraveled, carrying a bakery box like an offering to a vengeful goddess. “Okay,” she announces without preamble, kicking the door shut with her heel. “The group chat isunhinged, Mrs. Winthrop is high on espresso, and I have at least three customers who asked whether yourromance sectionhas a resident consultant whoknows her stuffwhile wiggling their eyebrows like caterpillars. Tell me everything.”
I adopt my most professional tone. “Good morning. How lovely to—”
She flips the pastry box open. Steam rises—maple pecan, glossy and indecent. “A bribe for the truth.”
“Daisy.”
“You’re glowing,” she says, like a detective revealing the murder weapon. “Which is actually rude before nine.”
“It’s my lamp.”
“It’s your feelings.”
I reach into the box, break a muffin in half, and talk around a mouthful of forgiveness. “He fixed a tarp.”
