Jack blinked. "You've got eyes in the back of your head?"
"Ears." Clara glanced over her shoulder. "Old lighthouse. Creaky floors. You're not exactly stealthy." Her gaze flicked to his shoulder. "How's the damage?"
"Sore. I'll live."
"Good. Saves me from having to bury you."
"You have a yard?"
"Figure of speech." She poured coffee, turned, held out a mug. "Milk's in the fridge. Sugar cubes on the counter. I don't use either, but I'm not a monster."
Their fingers brushed when he took the mug. Brief contact, but he felt it like a static shock. Clara pulled back fast, wrapping both hands around her own coffee like she needed the barrier.
Interesting. Clara Hawkins was like a joint he couldn't quite read — something tight and precise on the surface, but with tension underneath that he could feel without being able to name. He wanted to press on it, find where it gave. Which was exactly the kind of impulse he should be ignoring.
"Storm's not letting up," she said, nodding toward the windows. "Might be another day before we can get to town."
Jack sipped his coffee, accepting his fate. It was just a day or two. Gotta love the unexpected twists of fate, right?
Seven years. That's how long he'd been doing this — new town, new job, new temporary bed. Long enoughthat the rhythm of leaving had become more familiar than any place he'd left. The boat had been the latest version of the same impulse: keep moving, keep it light, don't let the roots set.
In hindsight, stupid as shit.
"You okay sharing your space a few more days?" he asked.
"Not ideal, but we're adults. Anything's possible when you know there's an end date."
Ouch. True, but ouch.
"Very Zen," he said.
She shrugged. "It's just true." A pause. "You have someone you can call? You mentioned a sister..."
Josie would absolutely come get him. And he would absolutely not call her. She had kids, a mortgage, a life. He wasn't about to disrupt it because he'd made another dumbass decision.
Plus, he didn't need to see that look on her face. The one that saidWhat the hell is wrong with you, Jack? Get some therapy and figure your shit out.
He'd seen that look plenty.
"I'm a believer that everything happens for a reason," he said instead. "The sea could've taken me,but didn't. So I must be here for something. Maybe there’s something about Beacon’s End that the Universe wanted me to experience.”
Clara laughed—sharp and disbelieving. "Beacon's End is hardly a destination. But far be it from me to question someone's belief structure. I was raised on superstition, so..." She tilted her head. "So no family? Friends?"
“Oh no, I have both. I just don't want to bother them with a situation I put myself in." He gestured around the lighthouse. "Besides, there's something charming about this place. And I'm intrigued by the mysterious Beacon's End. Feels like an adventure."
"Adventure is overrated. Give me a nice, boring routine and I'm happy."
"Forgive me for pointing this out, but there's nothing routine about living in an off-grid lighthouse. That decision feels deliberately daring."
"I have solar. A generator. A cell phone. You make it sound like I'm lighting my way with candles and an old lantern."
"I've been a lot of places," Jack said. "This feels like stepping back in time. I mean—it's a lighthouse. Don’t get me wrong, I dig it, but it’s definitely not youraverage homestead, you know?”
She smiled. "Hate to burst your bubble, but the Coast Guard keeps ships clear of this shore. The lighthouse is just a historical relic with a beautiful view that happens to be owned by my family. I keep the light going for nostalgia, not because I'm saving ships."
"Still pretty cool to have in the family."
"No argument there."
