Mom beams when she sees Bailey. “Oh good! I was just telling Hadley that I need your advice about shelving the new donations.”
Hadley looks up, grinning. “And I was telling her that what shereallyneeds is more gossip.”
“Please, don’t,” I mutter.
Hadley ignores me. “So, Bailey. Any exciting lighthouse news? New lights? New visitors? Possibly newromantic developments?”
Bailey blushes, pretending to examine the biscuit tray. “Just repairs. And tea.”
“Tea,” Hadley says, nodding sagely. “Right. Nothing says innocent like cinnamon tea at midnight.”
Mom laughs so hard she has to put down the jam knife. “Hadley, you’re awful.”
“I’m efficient,” she says, pouring herself more coffee.
Bailey looks at me, eyes sparkling with amusement and embarrassment all at once. “Your family’s relentless.”
“They’re good at it,” I admit. “It’s a full-contact sport.”
She smirks. “You should warn your opponents.”
“I’m better on defense.”
Her gaze flicks to my shoulder. “Still holding up?”
“Getting stronger.”
“That’s good,” she says softly, and for a second, the whole room disappears—it’s just her and me and the weight of what almost happened last night.
Mom clears her throat loudly. “Crew, the porch rail’s loose. Maybe Bailey could help you fix it while I finish these jars.”
“Subtle,” I mumble, knowing she could ask my brother, Rowan, who pretty much runs the farm with my dad now.
Bailey grins. “Sure, Mrs. Wright. I’m handy.”
Outside, the morning has softened into something golden. The porch smells like sawdust and sugar, sunlight slanting through the pecan trees. I hand her a screwdriver, and our fingers brush—light, familiar, too much.
She kneels beside me, holding the board steady while I tighten the bolts. Every movement pulls us closer. Her shoulder grazes mine; her hair brushes against my arm.
She glances up once, smiling. “You’re distracted.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Being around me?”
“Trying not to kiss you.”
She freezes, then whispers, “Crew.”
“Yeah?”
“Rule two,” she says softly, but she doesn’t move away.
I lean in just enough that she can feel my breath when I speak. “Ask, right?”
Her throat works as she nods. “Ask.”
“Can I?”
