Well, joke's on you, Universe. I learned it real well.
Possibly too well.
Which was why there was no way in hell anything about Jack was going to sway her romantically.
Not even that surprise dimple.
Or those warm hazel eyes.
Nope, that shop was closed up tight.
For the foreseeable future.
Possibly forever.
four
Jack woke to thunder and his lungs wouldn't work.
For a moment—horrible, stretched-out moment—he was back in the water. Waves crashing over his head. Salt burning his throat. His fingers slipping off the raft. The certainty that this was it, this was how he died, alone in the Atlantic while his sister wondered why he never called back.
Then his brain caught up. Bed. Room. Lighthouse. Safe.
Not drowning. Just remembering it.
His heart hammered against his ribs. Sweat soaked his t-shirt. Outside, light rain pattered against the windows, but every gust of wind sounded like waves, and the thunder—Jesus, the thunder sounded exactly like being pulled under.
Another boom rattled the lighthouse hard enough to make the windows shake.
"You've got to be kidding me," Jack muttered to the ceiling.
Because this? This wasn't normal. Summer storms in New England were supposed to be quick afternoon affairs—roll in, dump some rain, roll out. Polite. Predictable. Not this full-scale midnight assault that felt personal.
He'd clearly pissed off Mother Nature in a past life. Maybe several past lives. That was the only explanation for capsizing his boat in a "minor summer squall" that turned into the maritime equivalent of a grudge match, and now—three days later—getting hit with what sounded like a nor'easter that had taken a wrong turn off the calendar.
What were the odds? Astronomical. And yet here he was, winning the worst lottery ever.
Jack sat up, forcing air into his lungs. Counted breaths like the ER nurse had taught him after his dad died. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
His hands were still shaking when he finished. So much for that.
Because every crack of thunder sent his brain straight back to those hours in the water. The cold. Theexhaustion. The moment he'd looked at the rocks and thought:That's going to hurt.And thenI'm going to die.
He'd been fine during the day. Totally fine. Fixed Clara's window, made pasta like a functional human being who definitely wasn't traumatized by a near-death experience.
But apparently his subconscious had just been waiting for the right moment to remind him that he'd almost died. And a freak summer storm that had no business existing was the perfect trigger.
"Okay," Jack said to the empty room. "Okay. You're fine. You're not in the ocean. You're in a two-hundred-year-old lighthouse that has survived way worse storms than this. Probably. Hopefully."
Thunder boomed. The whole structure groaned.
"Or maybe not."
Despite being initially grateful to trade the couch for a bed, the walls of the spare room felt too close. The air too thick. The storm too loud, too present, too much like being helpless in the water.
Jack pulled on jeans with shaking hands—annoyed at himself for shaking, which somehow made it worse—and stumbled out into the main room.
That's when he saw the light from the tower.
