There’s a headline in theCoral Bell Gazettethat reads:
Lighthouse Love Story: Quarterback and Book Witch Brew Up Buzz
I wish I were kidding.
The photo underneath is of me handing Bailey a jar of honey at the farmers’ market. The camera caught her mid-laugh, my head tilted toward her like I’m about to confess a state secret. Which, honestly, isn’t far off.
I set the paper down on the kitchen table like it might explode.
“Good picture,” Mom says, appearing out of nowhere with her mug of chamomile tea.
“Good morning, invasion of privacy.”
She smiles. “You’re welcome. I only bought six copies.”
“Why?”
“For my scrapbook,” she says, completely serious. “And your sister’s kids. And possibly the church bulletin.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Language,” she chides, sipping her tea. “You look happy, Crew. Don’t ruin it with sarcasm.”
“I’m not happy,” I lie.
She raises one eyebrow, that maternaldon’t waste my timelook that’s scarier than any linebacker. “Mmm. So the smiling, glowing, talking-in-complete-sentences thing is just a phase?”
“I’m going to town,” I mutter, grabbing my cap.
“Tell Bailey I said hi!” she calls as I escape out the door.
The day stretches out slow and golden, the kind of early autumn day that looks like a movie.
The horses are restless, the air sharp and sweet with hay dust. I work until sweat darkens my shirt, until the ache in my shoulder feels like something earned.
Still, I can’t stop thinking about her. The way she looked at me yesterday—half exasperation, half challenge, all heart. The way she touched my wrist at the pier. Two seconds, soft and sure, like she was returning the exact weight I’d given her the night before.
I’ve been touched by hundreds of hands—fans, teammates, trainers—but hers is the only one that ever felt like home.
Sawyer pulls up in his truck mid-afternoon, dust pluming behind him. He hops out with two crates of feed and a grin that means trouble.
“You’re famous, and not for football this time,” he says.
“Die.”
He laughs, tossing me a bottle of water. “Seriously, man. My niece texted me the article. Said, and I quote,Crew Wright is in his lover-boy era, and I’m here for it.”
“I hate everything about that sentence.”
“She’s twelve,” he says. “She knows things.”
I flip him off.
He laughs harder. “So, the bookstore girl, huh? The one who wrote you that note in high school?”
“You know about the note?”
“Crew, everyone knows about the note. Half the town cried when they found out you kept it.”
