Servers move between tables with trays of reds, whites, and sparkling options, filling glasses as quickly as they empty. The soft clink of glass against glass fills the spaces between laughter.
The winery glows around us, and little by little, the tightness in my shoulders begins to ease.
I sip my wine and let myself exhale.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur.
Dinner comes first—warm plates, clinking glasses, conversation blending into a low hum that fills the winery. By then, I’ve stopped feeling like every eye in the room is on me, or maybe I’ve just gotten better at pretending they aren’t.
After everyone has eaten, the mayor takes the stage, thanking sponsors and discussing the effort required to keep tourism alive in a small coastal town like this one. One by one, people step up to the microphone, sharing numbers, donations, and plans. The Fleet of Flowers comes up more than once—the wreaths, theceremony, the way the entire community shows up every year to honor those lost at sea.
When volunteers are requested to help with wreath-making, Natalia nudges me.
“Do it with me?” she whispers.
My hand goes up. Hers too.
Sergeant García speaks next, explaining the Coast Guard’s role in the ceremony, and then he formally introduces Finn as this year’s wreath bearer.
The room applauds.
García talks about Finn’s dedication and leadership, and a recent rescue in which he helped save three fishermen after their vessel capsized.
I glance at Finn while they praise him.
His expression barely shifts. He remains calm and humble, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with being admired so openly.
I, on the other hand, am thoroughly impressed.
Then the music starts.
The dance floor fills fast—people looser now, laughter louder, wine flowing freely. Finn stands and offers me his hand, polite and steady, and I take it.
Suddenly, we are swaying together to“Come Away With Me”among strangers who feel like they’ve known each other forever.
His hand rests warm at the small of my back.
And despite the romance of it all, my mind drifts.
To last night.
To my kitchen.
To the sound of Luis Miguel filling the room while I chopped bell peppers, wishing—just for a second—that Aiden might take my hand and pull me into a slow dance between the stove and the counter.
I blink and pull myself back to the present.
This man, who is perfect in every way, steady and handsome, and holding me like I’m the only person here, should be enough.
But somehow… something feels missing.
“Thank you for coming with me tonight, May.”
I look up at him. “Thank you for inviting me. It’s been really lovely.”
His eyes flick briefly to my mouth, and nerves flutter low in my stomach.
“I hate to say this, lass,” he murmurs, “but I have to report at five.”
