“I’m fine,” he says, and Daisy flicks the edge of his cap.
“Men are never fine,” she says. “Okay, children. Be adorable on your own time. Some of us have capitalism to perform.”
She vanishes into the crowd, leaving the two of us with one maple bar and too much air. I break it in half and hand him the bigger piece. He looks at it, then at me. “Rule two says I should ask, but…can I lick the sugar off your lip?”
Heat detonates low in my stomach. He’s teasing. He has to be. My mouth betrays me and curves. “Absolutely not.”
“Worth a try,” he says, his grin quick and private, and takes a bite like he didn’t just weaponize food.
We’re three steps from freedom when a local news camera materializes. The reporter—bangs, blazer, relentless—plants herself in our path. “Bailey! Crew! Quick question for the Harvest Minute—how does it feel to be Coral Bell Cove’s favorite love story?”
I choke, swallowing air. Crew’s jaw ticks. He schools it into a smile before I can sayrun.
I beat him to the mic. “Feels like a town with great pie and poor boundaries,” I say, nice as a church lady holding a knife behind her back.
The reporter blinks. Crew bites back a laugh. “We’re just here for fruit,” he says. “And honey.”
“And basil,” I add, because why not. “And discretion.”
The camera guy bites his lip like he wants to clap. The reporter pivots to a safer target (Mrs. Winthrop, who isalwaysa quote machine), and we slip away toward the end of the pier where the wind is louder than people.
We stop by the railing. The sun glints off the bay in hard, pretty shards. For a second, the noise falls off the edge of the world.
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“For not…selling us. For not feeding the rumor mill.” I twist the honey jar in my hands. “It’s not that I’m ashamed. I just—”
“Want what’s yours to be yours,” he finishes. “Me, too.”
We stand in that soft agreement, the closest thing to quiet we’ve had all day. A gull screams profanity in the middle distance. A kid drops a strawberry and wails like it betrayed him personally. The market roars back to life. I look at Crew’s hand on the rail—big, scarred, careful—and realize I’m the one who breaks our no-touch détente first.
“Crew,” I say, voice steady. “Can I—”
He looks at me like he heard the rulebook rustle. “Where?”
I slide my fingers over his wrist—light, brief—and feel the jump of his pulse under my fingertips like a secret. “Here,” I say, barely above a whisper. Two seconds, the way I allowed him last night. I let go before I change my mind. “Thank you. For the honey.”
His eyes go softer than I’m ready for. “Anytime,” he says, and it lands like a promise he didn’t mean to make out loud.
We head back into the chaos because real life always wins. Ivy texts a photo of our joined shadows with the caption:Tell me you’re not in love without telling me you’re not in love.I text back a single pumpkin emoji because I refuse to be bullied by pop royalty before lunch.
By the time I lug my bags up the lighthouse steps, the day has worn me down to the necessary parts. I unload fruit, rinse basil, and set the honey by the kettle like a dare. The shop bell rings twice with late stragglers. I recommend a thriller to a man who wants to be scared and a historical to a woman who wants to be seen. I hold a baby for a minute while a mom digs for her wallet and try not to cry when the baby sighs like the ocean.
When the door finally clicks shut, and the sign flips to CLOSED, the quiet comes back—the good kind this time. I take the honey down from the shelf, unscrew the lid, and let the scent float up—warm, floral, stubborn. I dip a fingertip and taste it, sweet and golden, and think about a boy who didn’t defend me and the man who is learning how.
I make tea and take my mug to the porch. The light sweeps the water. Somewhere across the bay, in a farmhouse I know too well, another light turns on. I don’t need to see him to know he’s there. I feel it—the same way you know when a storm has chosen a direction, the same way you know a book is going to end happily, even when it’s still making you work for it.
“Okay,” I say to the horizon, to the rules, to myself. “Okay.”
I don’t text him.
I don’t need to.
Tomorrow is soon enough, and for the first time in a long time,soonfeels like something I can live with.
Chapter Eight – Crew
