My gaze slides back to the boxes.
There aren’t many of them.
There never are.
Moving every few months growing up taught me the difference between things you need and things that weigh you down.
Nothing’s worth getting attached to.That’s always been my motto. The only rule that’s never changed.
The house smells good.
I huff out a laugh.
“That’s not a reason to stay.”
Ocean.My fox says, convinced this alone is a compelling argument.
I lean my head back against the edge of the couch and stare up at the ceiling fan. “Since when are you into swimming?”
My fox ignores the question.
These neighbors bring food.
A reluctant grin pulls at my mouth. That one actually gives me pause.
The day I moved in, I hadn’t even finished unloading the handful of boxes from the back of my truck before Crescent Cove’s official welcome wagon rolled up my driveway complete with an actual polished and gleaming bright red wagon overflowing with enough food to feed a small army.
Mayor Wren had been the one pulling it. His husband walked beside him carrying a plate heaping with watermelon wedges.Mrs. Abernathy trailed behind them like a tiny but fierce gray-haired general, while Neve, editor-in-chief of the Crescent Cove Chronicles—which explained the pen tucked behind her ear—balanced three more covered containers and a notepad.
My fox practically blacked out from happiness.
Meanwhile, the four of them launched into a pitch about community involvement, summer traditions, and how the Frosting Queen competition needed a tie-breaking judge.
I’d been halfway through a loaf of fresh baked sourdough before I realized they were asking me to do something. My enthusiastic agreement to be involved had left my mouth before my brain fully processed the ask.
That was the best chowder.
“You’ve got me there.”
My phone rings, vibrating across the coffee table. Gran’s face glows up at me from the screen, loosening the restlessness building behind my ribs enough for me to take a full breath.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite troublemaker,” I say with a smile.
Gran’s delighted laugh fills the cottage. “And my favorite grandson. Though I’ll deny it if you ever tell your cousins.”
Wrinkles crease around her eyes as she smiles. Silver curls puff around her face like soft storm clouds, framing rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes. She’s always reminded me of Cinderella’s fairy godmother. If instead of bibbidi-bobbidi-boo, she hustled her grandchildren at card games and knew when they were lying before they’d even opened their mouths.
Even now, hundreds of miles away, she squints at me for all of three seconds before asking, “Why are you sitting there staring at boxes instead of unpacking them?”
“How do you even know that I found a place?”
“Emmeline told me. Although, she and West will never be able to plan a trip to visit with how often you move about.”
“My cousin is a traitor.”
Gran’s laugh warms my heart. “She also said you used that Pack Lark charm to talk your landlord into a month-to-month rental instead of investing any kind of time or energy into this new town.”
“Emme talks too much.”
