“She’s leaking,” he says, and his voice, for once, is not cocky or teasing. It’s practical and sure. “Flashing’s loose. You’ll get rot.”
“I have a roofer,” I lie.
“You have YouTube,” he counters. “Let me help.”
“I don’t need—”
“Help rarely arrives because youneedit,” he says, that quiet seriousness back. “It arrives because it wants to make something better.”
I stare at him because that’s not fair, that line. It sinks into me like a nail pulled by a magnet.
He lifts a hand, not touching me, just hovering, palm up like an offer. “I’ll come by tomorrow. Noon. If you don’t want me to, lock the gate and I’ll get the hint.”
Something traitorous in me imagines tomorrow—him on the ladder, tools on the sill, the two of us squinting into the wind like we could muscle fate into behaving. The picture is so vivid I can smell the salt on his sweatshirt.
“Bring your own hammer,” I say, because I am not agreeing to anything except the most mundane thing in the scene.
His grin is relief disguised as trouble. “Yes, ma’am.”
He backs toward the door, like leaving is the hard part. “See you, Book Girl.”
I hold my breath until the bell jingles and he’s gone.
The old man in nautical maps mutters something about “kids these days,” and I realize I’m gripping the counter like it’s the last piece of a shipwreck.
My phone vibrates again.
Lila:B??
Me:He bought two books and offered to fix my roof. I told him to bring his own hammer.
Ivy:I just fainted. Are you okay? Do you need electrolytes? A hype playlist?
Me:I need witness protection.
Lila:Proud of you for not impaling him with a bookmark.
Me:Growth.
Ivy:Send me a pic of the eave. I’ll send you a roofer and a publicist.
Me:No. You know how I feel about that.
I set the phone down and pull in a breath. The register hums softly. The lighthouse settles. Outside, clouds gather like the festival committee.
“High-voltage slow burn is not a sustainable business model,” I inform the espresso machine.
It burps in agreement.
I spend the next hour reorganizing shelves that don’t need it and learning exactly how long ninety minutes can feel. Every sound yanks my attention to the door. Every shadow skimming the window sends my pulse sprinting. It’s ridiculous. I hate it. My bones love it. Somewhere in the middle, I choose to act like I have sense.
Daisy pops back in at closing with a Tupperware of “accidental” brownies. “If you tell anyone I burned the first batch and salvaged them with frosting, I’ll deny it to the grave.”
“Your secrets are safe with me,” I say, then ruin any mystique by slumping dramatically against the counter.
She narrows her eyes. “He came in, didn’t he?”
“Define ‘came in.’”
