Page 38 of At First Catch

The cottage feels warm and sleepy in the morning light. Pale blue walls. White trim. A collection of framed photographs scattered across shelves and countertops. There’s one of Holt and me at twelve, standing barefoot on the dock behind our parents with matching grins and terrible haircuts. Another of all the Wright siblings at Rowan’s graduation, arms slung around one another in chaotic formation while Mom cried behind the camera.

I know exactly which floorboard creaks outside the bedroom. Which cabinet door sticks after it rains. Which porch step Dad keeps promising to replace every spring. I could probably walk through this cottage blindfolded.

Nolan doesn’t fit anywhere inside that certainty.

He feels like standing too close to the edge of something life-changing, knowing that if you jump, there’s no climbing back to the version of yourself before.

I lean against the kitchen counter and stare down into my coffee, feeling ridiculous. We slept together once.

One emotional night six months ago after the inn fire, when everyone was exhausted and raw and overwhelmed. Then I panicked and left before sunrise like a woman starring in her own emotionally avoidant indie film.

End of story.

Except apparently not.

Because now every text feels loaded. Every glance lasts too long. Every almost touch leaves me feeling feverish afterward.

Rook rises dramatically from the floor and ambles toward the front window, tail wagging once.

A truck rumbles down the gravel road outside a second later.

My stomach drops.

No. Absolutely not.

I step toward the window anyway because apparently self-preservation is no longer a skill I possess.

It’s only Dad. Relief and disappointment hit simultaneously, which feels like something I should discuss in therapy.

Dad slows near the cottage porch long enough to lower his window. “Morning, bug.”

“Morning.”

“You headed into town?”

“Yeah, the marina.”

One brow lifts. Not suspicious exactly, but close enough that I regret sounding even remotely eager.

Rook noses past my leg and trots toward my SUV, stopping beside the passenger door like he’s already made the decision for both of us.

Dad glances toward him. “You stealing Holt’s dog again?”

“He came willingly.”

“Mm.” Dad smiles faintly. “That’s what dog thieves always say.”

Laughter escapes me, even though I try to hold it in.

His gaze lingered, a flicker of unease crossing his features before melting into a familiar warmth, the kind that felt as natural to him as breathing when he looked at us.

“You look happy this morning.”

The words catch me off guard.

Happy.

I almost ask what gave me away. Instead, I catch my reflection in the side mirror. He’s right. I am smiling.