I close my eyes, let the sound of the waves pull me under, and pretend I don’t want what I want.
But I do. God help me, I do.
Saturday mornings in Coral Bell Cove smell like peaches and audacity. The farmers’ market unspools along the marina in tidy rows—pop-up tents like little circus hats, strings of pennants doing their best against the wind, and everyone pretending they didn’t read the town thread speculating aboutthe quarterback and meover breakfast.
I tell myself I’m here for apples and honey. I tell myself I’m not scanning the crowd for six foot two in a navy Henley that did dangerous things to my judgment last night. I tell myself a lot of lies before 9 a.m.
Lila appears at my elbow with a smirk. “Hydration, sarcasm, and the knowledge that Holt is selling T-shirts that say LIGHTHOUSE LOVE with your face on them.” She hands me an iced coffee like a peace offering.
I choke. “Tell me you’re kidding.”
She points. Holt waves from three stalls down, wearing his own merch. It’s…a caricature. My hair looks like a shampooad, and Crew’s jawline could cut rope. Daisy is in his space, swatting him with a tea towel. “He printed six,” Lila says. “We’ll burn them at noon.”
“Make it eleven.”
We weave through the booths. Everybody has opinions. The high school principal pretends not to stare and then asks if the library can host an author talk “with…ambience.” Two teenagers in Wright jerseys take a selfie and whisper, “Do you think they’ve kissed?” One of them sees me looking and mouths, “Sorry,” with the terrified sincerity of a child who’s seen a ghost.
I laugh because the alternative is moving to a cave.
We stop at Sawyer’s produce stand. He tips his cap. “Book witch. Heard you’re keeping dangerous company.”
“I keepexcellentcompany,” I say. “Gala apples, please.”
He bags the apples like he’s defusing a bomb. “Remember, the town can smell a story from three coves away.”
“I hate you all.”
“You don’t,” he says easily, passing me the bag. “You love us so big it makes you mean.”
Lila plunks peaches into her basket. “Speaking of mean love, my brother is—oh.” She breaks off, smile tilting. “Never mind. He’s already here.”
I don’t turn. Don’t need to. My skin tells me before my eyes do—the little electricity that wakes up under my ribs. I face the basil instead, because I am strong and mature and definitely not rattled by a man who can make a crowd vanish just by looking at me.
“Morning, Bailey,” Crew says, voice warm enough to melt butter but somehow not my spine. I turn, and there he is: jeans, T-shirt, a baseball cap shading eyes that still find mine without asking permission. He’s holding a paper bag and a bundle of sunflowers.
“Morning,” I say, proud that my voice doesn’t crack. “Running errands for your mother?”
“Two kinds,” he says. “The ones she asked for and the ones she’ll pretend she didn’t.” He holds out a small jar. “For your tea. Local honey. For medicinal purposes.”
“Bribery,” I say, taking it anyway. Our fingers brush. One second. Maybe less. My stupid heart files it under Evidence.
Sawyer, traitor to all privacy, clears his throat like a gong. “Quarterback, you gonna help me load up the empty crates or are you just here to buy flowers and make my customers swoon?”
Crew sets his bag down and reaches for the crate. His shirt pulls just enough to be rude. Daisy, who sidles up beside me quietly, makes the face of a woman who still enjoys the art of flirtation. “Unhelpful,” I hiss.
“What?” she says.
“Haul that to the truck.” Sawyer nods at Crew. “And try not to flex about it.”
“I’m not flexing,” Crew says, flexing.
I should leave, but of course I don’t. We migrate down the row together like the tide decided we were a matched set. Holt intercepts us and attempts to put a LIGHTHOUSE LOVE shirt over my head. I duck. Crew takes it across the chest like a bodyguard and glares until Holt backs away, muttering, “Art isn’t appreciated in my lifetime.”
Daisy pops up between us, flour on her cheek, a tray I missed earlier balanced like a miracle. “Taste test,” she declares. “New maple bars. Bailey first.”
I bite, and my eyes roll back in my head. “I hate you.”
“You love me,” she says, then turns to Crew with a brand-new tone that makes me narrow my eyes. “And you—how’s the shoulder? Do I need to fight Marcus for you?”
