“That feels manipulative.”
“It’s information gathering,” Grandma Hensley corrects. “Very different.”
“Here’s what I think,” Amber says, pouring herself more wine. “If Scott is Coastal Quill, then yes, he’s been keeping a secret. But he’s also been showing you who he really is—just through letters instead of conversation. The question isn’t whether he lied. The question is whether you can love both versions. The businessman and the letter writer. The armor and what’s underneath.”
“What if I can’t?”
“Then you can’t, and you move on, and you’ll have your answer.” She shrugs. “But what if you can? What if the man who writes you those beautiful, vulnerable letters is the same man who makes you a chaos column because he wants to make space for you in his carefully organized life?”
“That would be...”
“Romantic,” Hazel supplies.
“Terrifying,” I counter.
“Same thing, honestly.”
Michelle reaches across the island and squeezes my hand. “You know what I think? I think you already know. I think you’ve known for a while. You’re just scared to be right.”
She’s not wrong. But the problem is, I’m not sure I have the courage to ask him about it.
TWELVE
SCOTT
I’m already here, early, sitting on the driftwood log where we had our seagull therapy session, watching the sky shift from black to deep blue to something softer at the edges. I’m nearly half an hour early because apparently I have no chill whatsoever.
The ocean is still dark, waves whispering secrets I’m too anxious to decode. Yesterday in her office, I almost told her everything. Almost kissed her. Almost destroyed my entire carefully constructed double life because she looked at me like I was someone worth knowing.
Footsteps in the sand have me turning.
Jessica is walking toward me, wrapped in an oversized cardigan that’s slipping off one shoulder, her auburn hair loose. She’s carrying two coffee cups like offerings.
She looks nervous. Determined. Beautiful.
“You’re early,” she says.
“So are you.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Me neither.”
She sits beside me on the log, close enough that our shoulders almost touch, and hands me one of the coffees. Her fingers brush mine, sending warmth through me.
We sit in silence for a moment, facing the horizon where the first hints of pink are starting to bleed into the blue.
“So,” she says finally. “Before you say anything, I have questions.”
My heart rate spikes. “Okay.”
“And I need you to be honest with me. Completely honest. Even if it’s hard.”
“I can do that.”
“Can you?” She turns to look at me, and there’s something searching in her expression. Something that makes me think she already knows more than she’s letting on. “Because I’ve been thinking, Scott. About a lot of things. About the letters. About you. About how certain coincidences are starting to feel less like coincidences.”
I should just tell her. Right now. Rip off the bandage.
