Grady pays for the honey, then motions toward a bench overlooking the harbor. We sit again, the grocery bags heavier with all of Grady’s new additions, and we watch sailboats drift across the water’s surface.
“Starting over is harder than I expected,” he admits. “I built my whole identity around being Chloe’s agent. Without that...”
“You don’t know who you are anymore,” I finish for him.
Recognition flashes between us, two men adrift in our late twenties. “Exactly.”
“Sometimes I think I made a mistake coming here,” I confess. “Teaching one child, no matter how brilliant, isn’t the same as having a classroom full of students.”
“Do you miss it? The classroom?”
I consider the question, watching a seagull dive toward the water. “I miss the certainty that what I was doing mattered.”
Grady nods, understanding without needing further explanation. “I used to write, before I became an agent. Had dreams of publishing my own work.”
“What stopped you?”
“Rejection. Doubt. The usual.” He shrugs. “When Chloe’s career took off, I let the easier path become my new purpose.”
A comfortable silence settles between us as we watch a fishing boat chug into the harbor, its deck stacked with crab pots. The conversation flows easier than any I’ve had since arriving on the island, perhaps because we recognize in each other the particular loneliness of standing at life’s crossroads.
“What would you write about now?” I ask. “If you started again?”
The question surprises him. As he considers, his thumb rubs along the handle of his cane. “A story about people and connections. Those are always the most interesting for me.”
“So, no swashbuckling pirates?” I tease.
He laughs, the sound warming something in my chest. “I think there can be room for connections among pirates, don’t you, Professor?”
The teasing nickname draws a smile from me, and we sit a moment longer, two strangers becoming more.
Not quite friends, maybe, but heading in that direction.
Chapter Eleven
Emily
The clatter of metal on metal drags me from sleep, followed by the unmistakable scent of burnt toast drifting down the hall to my bedroom.
I bolt upright, heart hammering in panic. No one should be in my kitchen. No one should be in my house. The digital clock on my nightstand blinks in angry red accusation, telling me I slept until after nine in the morning for the first time in a decade.
Then a muffled curse floats down the hall, followed by the sound of running water, and the events of yesterday crash back into focus.
Jared. I brought the young Alpha home last night, and now he’s setting my kitchen on fire.
I throw back the covers and grab my flannelrobe from the hook behind the door, cinching it tight around my waist. The floor creaks beneath my bare feet as I hurry out into the hallway amid another clatter, like a pan on the stovetop.
My pace quickens as I move down the hall, morning sunlight filtering through the front windows, dust motes dancing in golden beams across the living room. I should already have the sourdough in the oven and four rows of crocheting done by this time of day.
The acrid bite of something burning fills the air, and I pause at the kitchen doorway, breath catching in my throat at the scene before me.
Jared stands at my stove, his broad back to me as he hunches over a smoking pan. His hair sticks up in messy curls, still flattened on one side from sleep. He wears the same borrowed gray T-shirt and sweatpants from last night, the fabric soft from years of washing.
One of my dish towels hangs from his back pocket, another clutched in his hand as he tries to wave away a thin cloud of smoke.
His shoulder blades tense, awareness prickling up his spine as he senses my presence. When he turns, the spatula clatters on the edge of the pan, nearly falling as his fingers fumble to hang on to it.
“Morning.” The greeting catches in his throat,rough with sleep. The bruising across his face has darkened overnight, and the medical tape stands out stark white across his swollen nose. “I wanted to… um… thank you. For yesterday.”