Page 10
hazel
. . .
The wheels touch down on the tarmac with a gentle thud that sends butterflies racing through my stomach—though I’m not sure if it’s from the landing or the fact that Finn’s hand is still covering mine from takeoff.
“Welcome to Bar Harbor,” he says, his green eyes bright with excitement as he peers out the small airplane window. “Ready for our adventure?”
I nod, trying to ignore how natural it feels when he helps me with my carry-on bag, his fingers brushing mine as he lifts it from the overhead compartment.
We’re just friends, I remind myself for the hundredth time since we boarded the plane in Boston.
Friends who happen to be taking a weekend trip together to scout locations for my second ice cream shop.
The drive from the airport winds through pine-covered hills that remind me of home but with a wilder, more rugged beauty. Finn navigates the rental car with one hand on the wheel, the other gesturing animatedly as he points out landmarks he’s researched online.
“There,” he says, pulling into a gravel driveway lined with hydrangeas. “The Cottage.”
I laugh at the understatement. The “cottage” is a charming cedar-shingled building with window boxes overflowing with petunias and a wraparound porch that begs for morning coffee and evening wine.
It’s precisely the kind of place Helen would call “quaint to the point of suffocation,” but it makes my heart dance.
“Mr. and Mrs. Morgan?” the innkeeper asks when we approach the front desk, and I feel heat creep up my neck.
“Oh, we’re not—” I start, but Finn smoothly interrupts.
“The reservation should be under Morgan, yes. A cottage for two.” He says with a wink.
The innkeeper—a woman in her sixties with silver hair and knowing eyes—gives us a smile that says she’s heard this clarification a thousand times. “Of course. The Driftwood Cottage is all ready for you both.”
She hands Finn an old-fashioned brass key attached to a wooden keychain shaped like a lighthouse. “Breakfast is served from seven to ten on the main house porch. The path to your cottage is just through those gardens.”
As we follow the stone pathway, I’m acutely aware of Finn beside me, our shoulders occasionally brushing. The cottage sits slightly apart from the main building, nestled among apple trees and wild roses. It’s the kind of place that belongs in a storybook.
“This is perfect,” I breathe as Finn unlocks the door.
The interior is even more charming than the outside—whitewashed walls, exposed beams, and a stone fireplace dominate the cozy living area. But it’s when I peek into the bedroom that my stomach drops.
One bed. A beautiful four-poster king draped with a handmade quilt, but definitely singular.
“I promise not to hog the covers,” he says, lightening the mood. “Now, should we head into town? I found a place that supposedly has the best lobster rolls in Maine. Might give you some ice cream pairing ideas.”
I’m grateful for the subject change. “Lead the way. But fair warning—if this place lives up to the hype, I might spend the whole weekend eating.”
The lobster shack Finn discovered exceeds every expectation. We sit at a weathered picnic table overlooking the harbor, the late afternoon sun casting golden light across the water. I moan embarrassingly loud as I take my first bite.
“That good?” Finn asks, amusement dancing in his eyes.
“I might need a moment alone with this sandwich,” I joke, licking butter from my fingers. “The sweetness of the lobster with that hint of lemon...” My mind already races with ice cream possibilities. “What about a butter-poached lobster swirl?”
Finn makes a face. “Maybe stick with blueberry for the Maine-themed flavor.”
We laugh, and I steal one of his hand-cut fries, dipping it into my cocktail sauce. The harbor bustles with activity—fishermen unloading catches, tourists snapping photos, seagulls swooping overhead. It feels worlds away from the constant stress of my shop back home.
“Look at that,” Finn points to a sign advertising sunset harbor cruises. “Whale watching. Starts in an hour.”
“Should we?” The question feels bigger than it should.
His smile is answer enough.
Two hours later, we’re on the deck of the *Sea Maiden*, bundled in sweatshirts against the evening chill, plastic cups of local craft beer in hand. The boat cuts through the darkening water, leaving Bar Harbor’s twinkling lights behind.
“The captain says this is prime season for humpbacks,” Finn tells me, leaning close so I can hear him over the engine and wind. His proximity sends warmth through me that has nothing to do with my sweatshirt.
We’re scanning the horizon when I see it—a massive dark shape breaking the surface, followed by a spectacular spray of mist.
“There!” I grab Finn’s arm without thinking. “Finn, look!”
The whale surfaces again, closer this time, its enormous body arcing gracefully before slipping back beneath the waves. The entire boat erupts in cheers, but none louder than ours. Finn’s arm slides around my waist, anchoring me as I lean precariously over the railing for a better view.
“It’s coming back!” someone shouts, and suddenly the water around us seems alive with movement.
A pod of dolphins appears, racing alongside our boat, leaping and spinning as if performing just for us.
I’m laughing and pointing like a child, my professional composure completely forgotten.
When one dolphin launches itself particularly high, executing a perfect twist before splashing back down, I let out a whoop of delight that has Finn joining in.
“Did you see that?” I turn to him, breathless with excitement.
His eyes aren’t on the water. They’re on me, soft with something that makes my heart stutter.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I see something amazing.”
The moment hangs between us, fragile as sea foam, until another whale breaches nearby, sending up a spectacular splash that has everyone gasping and pointing. The spell breaks as we both turn to watch, but Finn's hand remains at my waist, warm and steady as the boat rocks beneath us.
Under a sky turning deep purple with twilight, surrounded by the wild beauty of the Atlantic, I stop fighting the current pulling me toward him. Just for tonight, I let myself be carried along by it, wondering where we might wash ashore.