His eyebrows rose. “For what?”
“For assuming. For thinking...” I struggled to find the words. “When I saw you at the marina and you said you owned this place, I was surprised. I couldn’t reconcile thesuccessful businessman with the boy I remembered. That was wrong of me. Unfair.”
Something shifted in his expression, the careful guardedness softening slightly. “Tessa?—”
“No, let me finish.” I took a breath. “When we left, my parents said things. About you not having direction, about Dove Key not offering real opportunities. I believed them because it was easier than admitting I was scared. Scared of choosing between love and ambition, scared of making the wrong choice.” I gestured around the beautiful space he’d created. “But they were wrong. And I was wrong for not being braver.”
For a long moment, he was quiet, his blue eyes studying my face. When he spoke, his voice was softer than it had been all morning. “Your parents weren’t entirely wrong. I didn’t have direction back then. I was eighteen and angry. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life beyond playing guitar and hanging out with you. I had ambition, but no direction.” A small smile touched his lips. “It took me a while to figure out that I could build something here. Become a success with my own two hands. That staying didn’t mean settling.”
The admission hung between us, honest and vulnerable in a way that made my throat constrict. I thought of all the years I’d spent justifying my choice to leave, telling myself I’d made the only reasonable decision. But looking at him now, I had to wonder what might have happened if I’d had the courage to make a different choice. I’d had a scholarship to the University of Miami as well as UC San Diego. Maybe we could have made it work if I had only been a couple of hours away instead of a couple of thousand miles.
“You really have built something. You should be proud.” I inhaled the delicious scents permeating the air,needing to lighten the suddenly heavy atmosphere. “Please tell me you have food that matches the quality of the beer.”
His grin was answer enough. “I might be able to come up with something. Hold that thought.” He disappeared through a set of double doors and returned a few minutes later with two plates that smelled heavenly. “Fish tacos courtesy of Chef Braden. Dig in.”
We settled at a high-top table near the windows. The food was as good as the beer—fresh dorado with a cilantro-lime crema that tasted like sunshine, wrapped in tortillas clearly made from scratch.
“So tell me about the Scripps project,” he said between bites. “What exactly are you hoping to accomplish here?”
I launched into an explanation of the research, the bleaching patterns we’d observed, and the early intervention strategies we were testing. As I talked, his face registered strong interest. His follow-up questions showed he was clearly understanding the scientific implications.
“The water temperature data you’re collecting correlates with the brewing industry in a way.” He took a quick sip of beer. “I mean, we’re both dealing with temperature-sensitive biological processes.”
An easy smile lifted my lips. “You’re right. There are similarities. Coral polyps are incredibly sensitive to temperature fluctuations, just like yeast. A degree or two can mean the difference between healthy growth and catastrophic failure.”
“Exactly.” He leaned forward, animated. “In brewing, we call it the danger zone—temperatures where wild bacteria can outcompete your yeast and ruin the entire batch. Coral has its own version.”
We fell into an easy rhythm of conversation, trading stories about temperature monitoring and quality control,about the challenges of working with living systems that could be derailed by the smallest variables. It was the kind of shop talk that would have bored most people to tears. But for us, it was a bridge—a way to connect our very different worlds through a shared understanding of precision and passion.
The afternoon light shifted, casting longer shadows through the windows, and I realized we’d been talking for nearly two hours. The flow of conversation, the way he listened and responded, and the complete absence of the awkwardness I’d expected all felt dangerously like coming home. The brewpub crowd had thinned noticeably, and a Hispanic woman behind the bar in a Tidal Hops staff shirt watched us curiously.
“I should probably get back,” I said reluctantly as I stacked the empty plates. “Kaia and Zane will be wondering what happened to me.”
“Right. Of course.” Braden stood as well but made no move toward the door. “Tessa, I’m glad we did this. The dive this morning, then lunch. It’s been...” He trailed off, searching for words.
“Surprising,” I finished. “I spent the last three days bracing for impact. I didn’t expect this part to be so easy. I’m glad it has.”
We walked toward the entrance, the easy camaraderie of the afternoon settling into something more charged as we approached the inevitable goodbye.
At the door, he paused, his hand on the handle. “The research you’re doing matters. What you found today at Marker 22—if that early warning system works, it could save the entire reef.”
“That’s the idea. Thank you. For helping on the dive, for this, for...” I gestured vaguely, encompassing everything that had shifted between us in the space of a few hours.
He opened the door, and the humid afternoon air rushed in, carrying with it the salt tang of the ocean and the reality of the world beyond this perfect, suspended moment.
“Tessa,” he said after I stepped past him into the sunshine.
I turned back as the door swung shut behind him. We were standing close enough that I could see the darker flecks in his blue eyes and catch the faint scent of hops and sea salt that clung to his skin.
“Yes?”
“I’m glad I came along today. Maybe we can move past all that old drama. Actually work together.”
I nodded and swallowed hard. “This is much better. I’d like it if you went out with us again.”
I expected that hurt, guarded look to return to his eyes, but it didn’t. Instead, our gazes locked together as if drawn by gravity. He looked like he was going to say something, then his gaze dropped to my lips. I leaned toward him, unable to stop myself.
Before I could think—before either of us could think—he was kissing me.
