“Yeah,” he says, voice low enough to shake something loose inside me. “But you’re mine to get in trouble with.”
And before I can think of a single good reason to stop him, he closes the distance—just one breath, one heartbeat—and his hand finds my waist, warm and sure.
The dock creaks. The wind stills.
He doesn’t kiss me. He just looks at me like everything is about to break open between us, and the world goes silent around it.
Chapter Fourteen – Bailey
The first thing I notice is the smell—salt, coffee, and something sweet baking downstairs. The second is that I slept through my alarm for the first time in… maybe ever.
Sunlight slants through the window, slicing the room into ribbons of gold and dust. I roll over, stare at the ceiling beams, and try to remember how to breathe like a person who didn’t spend last night standing on a dock with her almost-something pressed against her.
Crew Wright kissed the air between us. I let him. And now the entire world smells like the aftermath.
The kettle shrieks downstairs. I throw on the first sweater I find, tug my hair into a knot, and head down the narrow staircase that groans under every step. The lighthouse walls always sound like they’re gossiping—old, wooden, and unashamed.
The kitchen is chaos in its purest form: flour dust on the counter, the oven timer blinking, the cat sitting like an unimpressed supervisor beside a tray of scones left over from yesterday. “You could help,” I tell him. He yawns. Typical.
By the time I pour my coffee, the calm has almost convinced me. Then my phone buzzes.
MOMENT OF THE YEAR: LOCAL BOOKSELLER CAUGHT IN LIGHTHOUSE LOVE STORY?
The headline belongs to theCoral Bell Gazette. The picture—blurry but criminally accurate—shows Crew and me on the dock, the lighthouse beam washing over us like we’d rented a movie crew for the occasion.
“Oh no.”
The cat looks equally horrified.
I scroll past the caption—something about “the hometown hero’s return sparking more than nostalgia.” My pulse is already sprinting. Coral Bell Cove doesn’t do privacy; it does popcorn. By noon, the entire town will have opinions, and by dinner, they’ll have slogans. It was bad enough when everyone assumed, but now there is hardcore evidence. The kind that would be impossible to deny.
The shop bell clangs downstairs. Because, of course, someone would show up early ontodayof all days.
The bell over the shop door clangs again, louder this time—three sharp notes that mean whoever is on the other side isn’t here for browsing.
I wipe my hands on a towel, force a smile, and call out, “We’re open, but only marginally civilized.”
“Good,” a familiar drawl answers. “Civilized sounds overrated.”
Crew’s standing in the doorway with that easy, unbothered posture that saysnothing touches meeven though last night proved plenty does. Ball cap, gray T-shirt that clings in ways gravity approves of, a paper bag dangling from one hand. He smells like early morning and trouble.
“You can’t just appear out of nowhere,” I say.
“Technically, I used the stairs.” He sets the bag on the counter. “Brought muffins. Thought I’d earn points.”
“You brought muffins on the morning the town decided we’re headline news?”
He raises an eyebrow. “You saw it?”
“Front page. They called me a ‘book-loving siren.’ I’m not sure if I should sue or send them cookies.”
“Depends on the cookies,” he says, unwrapping a muffin. “Blueberry. Best bribe I had.”
“Crew.” My voice comes out softer than I mean it to. “This is bad.”
He leans against the counter, all easy shoulders and apology hidden under the grin. “Bailey, it’s gossip. Nobody dies from gossip.”
“Tell that to my blood pressure.”
