He shook his head, already moving toward the door. “No. No. It’s late, Viv. Let me go assess. I’ll call you as soon as I know more.”
“Please,” she said, touching his arm. “Let me help.”
He covered her hand briefly with his, squeezing once. “I will. But I have to go. Now.”
She nodded, forcing herself to step back. “Okay.”
He kissed her forehead quickly, firmly. Then he was gone, out the front door in what felt like a blur.
Vivien stayed frozen in the quiet kitchen, her thoughts no longer on what she might have lost, but on the man she cared for racing into the night to get to his son.
She stood there for a long moment, hands pressed together, whispering a silent prayer for Connor—and for Peter—before turning off the lights and letting the house go dark around her.
The flashing lights came down the highway out of nowhere, making Tessa Wylie sit up in the passenger seat of the F-150, the post-party euphoria evaporating at the unsettling sight and sound.
Red and blue lights blared against the dark line of palms along 98, bouncing off the glossy hood of the truck and reflecting in the windshield. Dusty pulled over to let an ambulance barrel past them, siren screaming, followed closely by another, his hand instinctively reaching for hers.
“Eesh,” he whispered.
Tessa leaned forward, craning her neck as they passed the intersection. Police cruisers clustered, lights cutting through the humid night. A handful of people stood off to the side, silhouettes frozen in confusion and shock.
“Well,” she murmured after they passed, so grateful it wasn’t them. “Someone’s Fourth of July definitely didn’t end with sparklers and watermelon.”
“Yeah. Those aren’t the kind of fireworks you want to remember.” He sighed heavily, not for the first time in this car ride, she realized.
They drove on, the road humming beneath the tires, the night air rushing in through the open windows. Tessa rested her elbow on the door and let her fingers trail against the breeze that carried the scent of salt and smoke and celebration.
She glanced at Dusty, who was quiet and definitely deep in thought.
It wasn’t…them, was it? She didn’t think so.
Yes, they were dancing around the nature of their relationship, which was intensified by their recent decision to co-buy a beach house. They didn’t live together, but they shared a two-unit home, so they saw a lot of each other.
By a lot, she meant daily, nightly, and any chance they got. Each day, she was getting to know this man better.
He looked relaxed at first glance, posture easy, one arm resting casually near the window. But she could read him well enough now to sense something was humming beneath that calm exterior. Something heavy.
They turned off the main road and onto their street, a narrow strip running parallel to the beach. The houses here were a mix of Old Florida charm and newer renovations, some pastel bungalows, weathered rentals, and the occasional modern rebuild rising confidently above the rest.
And then there was the little fixer-upper they called home. Two homes, actually. Hers on the top floor, his below.
The beach house sat a little higher than the neighboring homes, pale against the dark, windows glowing softly. They’d had a quick closing and moved in a week ago, which was a minor miracle, considering that a few weeks before that, they’d ended their brief romantic relationship.
Tessa had made it clear that, at fifty and single for her entire life, she wasn’t in a relationship for kicks. Not anymore. Tessa Wylie was done with flings and fun—she wantedforever.
But the only love Dusty had ever known—his wife, Nicole—had died after years of illness. He’d been drained by caretaking, broken by loss, and ready for those flings and fun.
Rather than accept that, she’d done the unthinkable—at least for Tessa. She’d insisted that it be her way or the highway.
He’d taken the highway…and then made a U-Turn.
She smiled faintly at the memory of their not so coincidental meeting to see this house—thanks to Lorna, their mutual real estate agent. She’d brought them back together in an empty living room, keys heavy in their palms, the sound of the Gulf drifting faintly through open windows.
The beach-facing house they’d both dreamed about individually was available—but only if they pooled their resources and agreed to share the cost. That decision had been kind of a no-brainer. But them? As a couple? Wanting different things?
She could still hear his voice, low and sincere, as he’d taken her hand.
I’m going to say it again, Tessa. I’ve missed you.
