The kettle clicks in the kitchen. I didn’t remember setting the timer. The ghost of routine, I guess.
I move through the motions: mug, sugar, coffee strong enough to count as an apology to my nerves. The steam swirls as I step onto the porch. The world is wet and quiet. The dock across the way gleams darkly in the light.
I sip my coffee and watch the gulls argue over breakfast. For once, I let the quiet stay. I don’t fill it with what-ifs or why-nots. I just breathe until the caffeine catches up to my courage.
By ten, the lighthouse smells like fresh scones from Daisy’s bakery next door and new paperbacks. The shop door creaks open every few minutes—locals grabbing beach reads, tourists hunting postcards, and the occasional teenager looking for the romance section and pretending not to blush when I point it out. Normal. Familiar. It helps.
Lila texts around eleven.
Lila:You alive or did the storm sweep you into a Hallmark movie?
Me:Define alive.
Lila:Staring at the horizon like it owes you money?
Me:Maybe.
Lila:Good. Tell crew I said hi. And by hi, I mean if he hurts you, I’m hiding frogs in his truck.
I snort into my latte. The store cat glares, unimpressed.He already lives dangerously,I think, and type nothing back because she’ll hear my smile through the screen anyway.
Ivy calls next because, of course, she does.
“Are you glowing in puppy love bliss?” she demands, no greeting, all drama.
“I’m working.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“I’mglowingfrom caffeine and stress.”
“Lies. Spill.”
“Ivy—”
“I’m your sister now by unofficial decree, which means I get updates. Did he kiss you again?”
I groan. “You’re impossible.”
“So he did,” she sings. “Good for you, lighthouse Barbie.”
“I will block you.”
“You won’t,” she says, smug. “Because you love me and because I’m right.”
I lean against the counter, smiling despite myself. “He’s… different this time.”
“Good different?”
“Scary different,” I admit. “Like he’s not just visiting anymore. Like he’s thinking of staying.”
There’s a pause. Then her voice softens. “Maybe you should open up and let him.”
I don’t answer. Because maybe I should. And maybe that’s what terrifies me most.
By afternoon, the sky starts to shift again—one of those gray-blue moods that rolls in from nowhere. I light a candle that smells like cedar and sea salt, put on the playlist Crew made last month for the kids’ story hour (mostly old country songs and one Taylor Swift track he swore was an accident). The melody curls through the shop, low and sweet. Every lyric feels like a secret note addressed to us.
I busy myself with restocking—fiction first, then travel guides. Anything to keep my hands moving. The bell over the door chimes every now and then. Familiar faces, easy smiles. Coral Bell Cove at its finest: small, nosy, loyal.
