I smile. “Plenty. How steamy are we talking today?”
“Moderate,” she says primly. “Enough to feel alive but not enough to alarm my cardiologist.”
I hand her a paperback. “Widowed heroine, brooding neighbor, lots of lingering glances.”
She beams. “Perfect. Oh, did you hear? Crew Wright’s back for an undisclosed amount of time! Isn’t thatwonderful?”
My jaw tightens behind a professional smile. “That’s the word on the street.”
“He’s such a nice boy.”
“Sure.”
She squints at me. “You used to tutor him, didn’t you?”
“Briefly. Until he discovered that doodling football plays in the margins doesn’t count as active reading.”
Mrs. Winthrop chuckles. “Some people take longer to learn their lessons. Don’t let yours slip by twice, dear.”
Before I can reply, she wobbles out again, leaving a cloud of flowery perfume and unsolicited wisdom behind her.
I lean against the counter and let the quiet settle back over me.
My phone buzzes.
Lila:Rumor mill says my brother’s back in town. Have you seen him yet?
Me:Not unless he’s disguised as a seagull.
Lila::DGive it time. Mom’s already planning a “welcomehome” dinner.
Ivy:Tell her to livestream it. I need content.
Me:I need bleach for my brain.
Lila:Come on, B. It’s been years. Maybe closure time?
Me:I have closure. It’s alphabetized under “never again.”
Ivy:I’m not privy to the entire story there, but what if “never again” has abs?
Me:…Blocking you.
Ivy:You love me.
Me:Unfortunately, yes.
I lock my phone, but the grin won’t quite fade. That’s the thing about Lila and Ivy—one is my ride-or-die and the other is literal pop royalty married into the Wright circus. Between them, privacy is extinct.
Still, their teasing hums in my chest like background music as I start shelving the new arrivals.
The wind outside shifts, rattling the glass panes. Leaves skitter across the boardwalk. Somewhere down by the marina, someone tunes a guitar, and the faint notes drift up the hill.
The lighthouse hums with it all—the rhythm of home.
I brush dust from the highest shelf, balancing on the step stool, and whisper to the books, “We’re not thinking about him.”
The books, traitorous as ever, don’t answer.
