Thatnot yetis one heartbeat away fromfinally.
Chapter Ten – Crew
Sunlight slants across the kitchen table, catching the crumbs of yesterday’s biscuits and the headline of theGazette:HARVEST FESTIVAL SUCCESS: WRIGHT BROTHERS SAVE THE DAY, BOOK WITCH STEALS HEARTS.
Subtle.
Real subtle.
Mom hums at the stove, spatula in hand, like she isn’t the unofficial PR director for Coral Bell Cove gossip. Hadley’s sitting at the counter, legs crossed, sipping coffee with the kind of smug smile only siblings are genetically programmed to perfect.
“Sleep well?” she asks, knowing full damn well I didn’t.
“Define ‘well’.”
“Define ‘sleep’,” she fires back. “Because I heard you pacing the porch like a ghost all night.”
Mom hides a laugh behind her mug. “He’s been restless since the dance.”
I glare at both of them. “Do you people meet at dawn to coordinate attacks?”
Lila shrugs. “Only on Sundays.”
“Good,” I say. “It’s Saturday.”
She grins. “I’m proactive.”
I try ignoring them, focusing on the paper instead, but the headline’s too much. Bailey’s picture—smiling mid-laugh, eyes crinkled, hair shining under lantern light—sits beside mine. The camera caught something raw, something that looks a hell of a lot like what we’ve both been denying.
And it does something to me I don’t have words for.
“You could just go talk to her,” Mom says, not even pretending she isn’t listening in.
“I have talked to her.”
“Without your usual sarcasm?”
I grunt.
“She’s helping with cleanup,” Hadley offers way too innocently. “At the lighthouse. Something about repairing the donation booth and drying out books that got caught in the cider-flood incident.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re meddling.”
“Call it divine intervention,” she says, hopping off the stool. “Dean and Lila are coming over tonight for dinner. Bring her, or I’ll invite her myself.”
I hate how easily they see through me.
I hate it more that they’re right.
By the time I reach the lighthouse, the sky’s shifted from blue to the gray that means trouble. The air feels heavy, charged—like even the weather’s waiting for something to break.
Bailey’s outside, kneeling beside a stack of damp boxes, hair in a messy bun, sweatshirt sleeves shoved to her elbows. She looks tired, focused, and utterly beautiful.
She doesn’t hear me at first, humming softly under her breath—something old, maybe Fleetwood Mac.
“You know,” I say, “that humming could summon sailors.”
She jumps, dropping a stack of flyers. “Jesus, Crew. You can’t just materialize like that.”
