Page 7 of Love Takes A Tumble (Midlife Meet Cute #3)

Chapter Seven

Audrey's fingers flew across the keyboard, words pouring out with an ease she hadn't experienced in years.

The lighthouse keeper's story was taking shape, his character deepening with each scene.

No longer a flat silhouette, he'd become a man with wounds that had healed imperfectly, with a carefully constructed solitude that both protected and isolated him.

Just like someone else she was trying very hard not to think about.

She paused and read back the paragraph she'd just written:

Daniel watched the storm from the lighthouse tower, rain lashing against the glass as lightning split the sky.

In his thirty years of firefighting, he'd learned that the most dangerous blazes often started with a single strike.

Now, as keeper of the light, he still searched the horizon for danger.

Only this time, he stood apart from it, warning others rather than rushing in himself.

With a groan, Audrey pushed away from her desk.

It was happening again. Every time she tried to write her lighthouse keeper, Harrison's voice seemed to whisper in her ear, his stories coloring every scene.

She'd spent three days working on the novel, sequestered in her room except for meals, and somehow Harrison had followed her onto every page.

She paced to the window, her ankle now strong enough to bear weight for short periods.

The view overlooked the garden, where morning sun filtered through oak branches.

The same path she and Harrison had walked four nights ago, his hand steady beneath her elbow, his voice low as he shared stories she suspected few people had heard.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered. "You're confusing research with reality."

But was she? The memory of his fingers brushing against hers on the driftwood bench felt real enough. The way his eyes had sought hers across the quiet common room, warm with something that looked remarkably like longing.

Her phone chimed with a text message. Harrison.

Morning walk today? Ankle up to it?

Three days ago, her heart would have leapt at the invitation.

Now, it sank beneath the weight of her fears.

What was she doing? She was almost fifty, for heaven's sake.

Too old for summer romances, too set in her ways for new beginnings.

Too sensible to believe that someone like Harrison could truly be interested in someone like her, once the novelty wore off.

Rain check? Deep in writing mode today. Making good progress.

Her thumb hovered over the send button longer than it should have. Finally, she pressed it, watching the message bubble away, hating the relief that came with retreat.

By afternoon, restlessness drove her from her room. She made her way downstairs, hoping a change of scenery might clear her head.

"There you are," Miss Doris's voice startled her as she settled into the parlor window seat. The older woman stood in the doorway, a plate of cookies in hand. "I was beginning to think you'd checked out without saying goodbye."

"I’ve been working," Audrey said, gesturing to her laptop. "The novel's coming along."

"Mmm." Miss Doris set the plate down. "And how's our firefighter?"

"My lighthouse keeper is developing nicely," Audrey replied, emphasizing the correction.

Miss Doris's knowing smile was almost unbearable. "That's not the one I meant, dear."

"I wouldn't know how Harrison is. I've been busy."

"I see." Miss Doris settled into the armchair opposite. "You know, fear is a funny thing. We think it protects us, keeps us safe from hurt. But mostly, it just keeps us from living."

"I'm not afraid," Audrey said, the defensive note in her voice betraying the lie.

"Of course not. That's why you've been hiding in your room since the bonfire. That's why Harrison's been walking the beach alone every morning, looking like a man who's lost something precious."

Before Audrey could respond, the sound of familiar footsteps on the porch made her pulse quicken. Harrison appeared in the doorway, a faint smile crossing his features when he saw her.

"There you are," he said. "I was beginning to think you'd disappeared."

"Just working," Audrey replied, the words feeling mechanical.

Miss Doris excused herself with transparent haste, leaving them alone. Harrison settled into the chair she'd vacated. "How's the novel coming?"

"Good," she said, closing her laptop. "Too good, maybe."

His brow furrowed. "How can it be too good?"

"Sometimes characters take on a life of their own," she said. "They start to feel too real. Too close."

Understanding dawned in his eyes. "Your lighthouse keeper."

"Yes." She looked down at her hands. "I'm afraid I'm getting too attached to a fictional character."

The silence held a weight she couldn't bring herself to acknowledge. When she finally looked up, Harrison was watching her with an expression that made her heart ache. It felt like part understanding, part hurt, part something deeper.

"Sometimes it's easier to love a story than a person," he said quietly. "Stories don't leave. They don't change. They don't expect anything back."

He rose, his movements careful. "I wanted to let you know I'll be checking out tomorrow. Heading down to Charleston after all."

The words fell like stones. "So soon?"

"No reason to stay," he said simply. "Unless there is?"

It was a question, an opening, a hand extended across the distance she'd created. All she had to do was reach back.

Please don't go. I think I might be falling in love with you. I'm scared but I want to try.

But fear was powerful.

"Safe travels," she said instead, the words like ashes in her mouth.

He nodded once. "Good luck with your novel. I hope your lighthouse keeper finds what he's looking for."

As he walked away, Audrey turned back to the window, watching as he crossed the garden toward the beach path. Inside her, something fragile began to crack.

She'd come to Palmar Island to find herself, to write her story. Instead, she'd found Harrison, and now she was letting him walk away.

Because it was safer. Because after a lifetime of putting others first, she didn't know how to reach for something she truly wanted.

Her gaze fell to her laptop, to the novel that now felt like both confession and cowardice. Her lighthouse keeper, guiding others to safety while remaining apart. Longing for connection but afraid to reach for it.

She'd written herself into a corner, both on the page and in reality.