“Bailey texted me a photo of your rope work from last night. You didn’t embarrass us.”
“Us?”
“The family.” She sips her coffee. “And civilization.”
I ignore the way my pulse perks at Bailey’s name. “She did most of it. I just followed instructions.”
“Growth,” Mom says without looking up, which is both encouraging and rude.
Lila leans her chin on her hand. “So. Are you going to ask her to go to the Bash with you, or are you planning on pining like a handsome barn ghost in flannel?”
“I don’t pine.”
“That’s adorable,” she says. “Tell it to your face.”
“Leave him alone,” Mom says mildly, sliding a plate of scrambled eggs in front of me. “But also, if youaregoing to pine, at least take dessert to share.”
I fork eggs into my mouth to avoid words. Neither woman is fooled.
My phone buzzes on the table. David again. I ignore the first call. The second. On the third, I give in.
“Wright,” he says, voice caffeinated and already disappointed. “I’m sending media to the Bash. Local team with small-town fluff. Smile, hold a pie, pretend you love humanity.”
“I do love humanity,” I say. “I just prefer the parts that aren’t holding microphones.”
“Too late. They’re coming. Be charming.”
“Define ‘charming’.”
“Not the version where you brood and glare like a Regency duke at war with feelings.”
I hang up to preserve the friendship.
“Agent?” Lila asks.
“Saboteur,” I correct.
I escape before they can interrogate me more.
The hours drag until dusk, because that’s what time does when you’re waiting to put your body somewhere your brain already is. I take a long shower that does not fix my personality, stare at my reflection until the man in the mirror looks back, as if he might be the kind who can say what needs saying, then pull on a navy Henley. Jeans. Boots. Jacket. Keys.
At the cove, the park by the marina is dressed up like a memory. String lights zigzag from oak to oak. Booths line the path with homemade jam, carved birds, and Holt’s questionable T-shirts that should require a permit. Kids run feral in tidy shoes. The band on the gazebo plays something that sounds like three different songs at once and, somehow, still works.
People notice me. There’s an initial pop of attention—eyebrows, whispers, a few brave “Hey, man, good to have you back”—and then it settles. Coral Bell Cove gets bored with its own gossip faster than outsiders think. The town wants you to belong more than it wants to punish you for leaving. It’s not a trap; it’s a door you can walk through if you quit being dramatic.
Daisy materializes at my elbow with a pie I’d fight God for. “No touching,” she warns. “That’s for the auction.”
“What if it falls and I heroically catch it with my face?”
“Then I sell you napkins,” she says, shoving a fork into my hand anyway. “Emergency taste test. I need to know if the new crust ratio is illegal.”
I take a bite and see colors. “This is a crime.”
“Excellent,” she says and vanishes in a flourish of apron.
A familiar laugh skates over the noise, and my spine recognizes it before my head finishes turning.
Bailey stands by the cider tent talking to Lila and Ivy, and for a second, I forget the concepts of feet, earth, or weather.
