“Already did. It says it’s fine.”
I glare. He takes a slow bite of the muffin and chews like a man with no conscience.
“Do you even care?” I ask.
He swallows, wipes his thumb across his lip. “About what they say? Not really. About how it makes you feel? Yeah, I care a lot.”
The room shrinks. The sound of the ocean outside fades to a pulse that syncs with mine.
By midmorning, half of Coral Bell Cove has stopped byA Page in Timepretending to buy greeting cards while casually mentioning the article. Holt texts“you’re famous now, autograph my beer can.”Ivy sends heart-eye emoji. Lila calls twice and leaves a voicemail that says only, “breathe.”
Crew stays behind the counter like an unofficial bodyguard, helping wrap books, carrying boxes, distracting tourists with football trivia. It’s infuriating how natural he looks here—like the space was waiting for his height, his voice, his habit of humming when he counts change.
When the rush finally dies, I sag against the register. “You have no idea what kind of chaos you caused.”
He shrugs. “I’ve been causing chaos professionally since college. I’m pretty good at cleanup, too.”
“You think this is fixable?”
“Everything’s fixable,” he says. “Except maybe that reheated scone you burned earlier.”
I throw a napkin at him. He catches it one-handed, of course.
He steps closer, voice lowering. “You know what I’m realizing?”
“What?”
“You’re only really mad because you like me and the whole town knows before you got to deny it properly.”
I open my mouth to argue. Nothing arrives. He grins like he’s scored the winning play.
“Crew Wright,” I warn.
“Bailey Hart,” he answers, softer. “Relax. Let them talk. We’ll write our own version.”
The phrase slides under my ribs and lodges there.
By late afternoon, the gossip storm slows. Tourists drift out, locals retreat to dinner plans, and the shop smells like paper and forgiveness. Crew helps me close—stacking chairs, turning signs, pretending not to notice how my hands shake when they brush his.
At the door, he hesitates. “Dinner?”
I blink. “Now?”
“Now,” he says. “Before the next crisis.”
I should say no. I should send him away to preserve whatever’s left of my self-control. But the way he looks at me—open, steady, patient—undoes all the reasons I built.
“Okay,” I hear myself say. “But somewhere the Gazette can’t find us.”
He grins. “I know a place.”
The place turns out to be the back deck of the Wright farmhouse, lit by string lights and a sunset so vivid it looks Photoshopped. Rowan’s on grill duty with Dean, Lila and Ivy wave from the porch with a glass of wine, and the smell of cedar and smoke wraps around us like an embrace.
“This doesn’t count as private,” I murmur.
“It’s family,” Crew says. “They don’t count as witnesses.”
Dinner is loud, messy, and wonderful. Lila tells stories about her kids, Rowan teases Crew about his haircut, and I laugh until my cheeks ache. For a few golden minutes, I forget headlines and fear.
