Chapter eight
Bryan
I tighten my grip on the wheel, fingers flexing against the leather as Ocean Bay’s coastline stretches ahead, the horizon smudged with orange. The truck hums beneath me, Buddy snoring beside me in the passenger seat, his head drooped over his paws, ears twitching in his sleep. He’s so darned adorable.
The highway’s empty, save for the occasional glint of a passing car, but my mind’s anything but quiet. I keep hearing her.
That laugh, light, unguarded and spinning through my head like a song stuck on repeat. It’s been looping since last night, since she teased me about my miserable painting skills, since I caught myself staring at the way she scrunches her nose, grinning.
Too close. I roll my shoulders, flex my fingers against the wheel, and mutter, "It’s just the house."
Just the proximity. Just forced circumstance. Nothing else.
My foot presses a little harder on the gas, the cab filling with the soft crackle of the radio struggling to hold a signal. I flick it off, the silence pressing in. The ache in my chest is a slow, dull thing, stretching wider with every mile.
Because it’s not just the house. Her face flashes behind my eyes.
That morning in the kitchen I watched her, sleeves shoved up, a smudge of flour dusting her cheek as she kneaded dough … lost in thought, oblivious to me watching.
The way she hummed while painting, off-key but soft, filling the silence between us. The small sound she made when our hands brushed fixing that hinge, barely anything, but it had hit me hard.
I grit my teeth, gripping the wheel tighter. It’s dangerous, this pull. This slow, sinking feeling like I’m being dragged toward something I swore off years ago.
She proved that love doesn’t mean anything. That leaving is easy. That I wasn’t enough to make her stay. And yet, here I am, fighting a war with my own pulse.
The sign for Ocean Bay Hardware looms ahead, its crooked wooden letters unchanged since I was a kid. I flick the blinker, pulling into the lot, gravel crunching under the tires. Buddy stirs, yawns, but doesn’t lift his head as I kill the engine and step out, stretching stiff shoulders.
Inside, the scent of sawdust and old metal clings to the air; the place is cramped and cluttered, just as I remember. Shelves are packed tight, nails, screws, paint cans stacked high.
I head straight for the lumber aisle, keeping my head down. The last thing I need is small-town chatter.
I grab what I need, new boards to fix the porch railing, extra nails, another bucket of paint. Good gravy. Someone help me. I’m actually going through with her renovation plan . As I turn toward the counter, I spot Old Man Pete, Ocean Bay’s go-to for anything hardware-related, standing behind the register with a knowing grin.
"Well, well," Pete drawls, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses. "Didn’t think I’d see the day Bryan Lawson played handyman. Thought you were more of a sign-the-check kind of guy."
I gruff out a laugh, dropping the supplies on the counter. "Gotta keep the place standing. Can’t have it falling apart around me."
Pete’s smirk widens. "Ah, sure, sure. Funny thing, though word around town is you and Emma are Ocean Bay’s sweethearts again. Cohabitation, sounds downright domestic."
I freeze. The heck? My jaw tightens, pulse jumping in irritation. "It’s not like that."
Pete waves a hand, grinning. "Oh, I know. Just sayin’. Town’s talkin’. You two were the stuff of small-town legend back in the day. Seems like history’s got a way of repeating itself."
I shove cash onto the counter, sharp and clipped. "Just business. Emma and I aren't back together."
Pete snorts, "Sure, son. If you say so." He starts bagging up my things, but his smirk lingers, like he knows something I don’t.
I roll my shoulders, exhaling slow. She doesn’t get to come back and tangle me up like this, make me second-guess things I locked down years ago.
Pete pushes the bag toward me, and as I grab it, he throws out one last jab. "Tell your girl I say hi."
I stiffen. Toss the bag over my shoulder. Pick up the lumber. Storm out the door.
The truck door slams shut behind me, Buddy lifting his head at the noise. My pulse is still hammering as I yank the keys into the ignition, gripping the wheel hard.
Tell your girl I say hi. Your girl.
I grit my teeth, muttering under my breath. "She’s not mine." But the words echo anyway, tightening my chest.
She’s not mine. She never was. She left. And for the first time in a long time, I can’t tell if I’m saying it because I believe it…
Or because I need to.
***
I step into the house, the scent of sawdust and salt air mixing, a bundle of lumber balanced against my shoulder. The evening light slants through the open windows, casting everything in gold. And the sound of waves hums low in the background.
The place already looks different, fresh paint covering years of neglect, things slowly coming together. I don’t expect to see her like this.
Emma, red-faced, bracing against a heavy oak dresser, muscles straining as she tries to shove it across the floor. Her brows pinch, lips pressing together in stubborn determination. Buddy watches, tail wagging, and she grits out, "Al… most… there."
It’s not happening. That dresser isn’t budging an inch. I drop the lumber near the doorway, stepping in before she hurts herself. "Move."
She exhales sharply, stepping back just as I grab the edge. Heavy, sure, but not impossible. I grip, lift, shift …easy. The thing settles against the wall with a final thud.
Emma lets out a breath, hands on her knees, then dusts them against her jeans. "Thanks, really."
The softness in her voice throws me off. It’s not forced, not guarded, just genuine. The same way she used to say it, back when every little thing I did for her mattered. When she’d look at me with that exact warmth in her eyes, like I was steady, dependable, hers.
I shouldn’t like it. But for some reason, my throat tightens, my grip on control slipping just a little. Her gratitude lights up her face, and for a second, I forget how to fight it.
Lavender drifts in the air between us, and it takes everything in me not to close my eyes, not to let the pull between us win. I clear my throat, forcing my voice to stay level. "Working together’s … not awful."
It comes out softer than I meant it to be. Her lips curve, slow and sweet, and I feel it hit deep in my chest. A warmth I don’t want, don’t need, but it spreads anyway, breaking through my walls like it has no right to.
"Better than fighting," she says, shifting on her feet. And she’s right. I don’t want to admit it, but I don’t hate this.
The quiet moments where we just exist in the same space. The way we’ve stopped clashing over every little thing. The way, somehow, it’s easy. Too easy.
She moves past me toward the broom, and her arm grazes mine. It’s nothing. Barely a touch. But it’s enough.
Enough to send a jolt through me, enough to make my breath hitch before I force myself back into control. She hums, light and casual, sweeping up dust, oblivious to the storm raging inside me.
I turn away, gripping the back of my neck, muttering, "Yeah, better."
And that’s the problem. It’s too much better. And I don’t know if I can keep this up.
***
The night air is crisp, tinged with salt and the distant hum of waves crashing below the cliff. I step onto the porch, stretching my shoulders, exhaling slowly as I try to clear my head.
I don’t know why I thought coming out here would help. The past few hours have been too much.
Emma and I working together, falling into a rhythm that shouldn’t feel this easy. The way she looked at me when I lifted that dresser like I’d done something worth noticing. How her arm brushed mine, brief but electric, like my whole body was waiting for her touch.
I shouldn’t want more. I can’t want more. I drag a hand down my face, turning toward the steps when I see her.
She’s curled up on the old bench, knees tucked beneath her, golden light from the lantern flickering across her face. She looks like a memory, something fragile but stubbornly real.
She glances up at me, her voice soft. "Couldn't sleep?"
I hesitate. I should go inside. Avoid this. Avoid her. But my feet don’t move.
I settle onto the bench, leaving space but not enough. Buddy stretches on the ground below us, sighing in that contented way of his, completely oblivious to the storm raging in my chest.
Emma leans back, tilting her face toward the sky, the stars casting silver against her skin. "Still beautiful," she murmurs, and for a second, I think she means…
I swallow hard. "Yeah."
She shifts, looking at me with something unreadable. "You ever just... think about what you wanted when you were younger?"
My brow furrows. "Like what?"
She exhales, hugging her arms around herself. "Dreams. Plans. What you thought your life would be."
I glance down at Buddy, scratching behind his ear. "Didn’t have time for dreams back then. Just survival. Scrapping for every dime to make Lawson Financial work."
Her lips twitch. "And now look at you."
That catches me off guard. Her voice is warm, soft around the edges, and for some reason, it settles under my skin, pressing into a place I didn’t know was raw.
"I'm proud of you, Bryan."
A shiver runs through me before I can stop it. It’s been years since anyone said that to me, since she said that to me.
I should look away, shake it off, but instead, my throat tightens, and my fingers curl against my thigh. "Never thought I'd hear you say that again."
She gives a small, almost hesitant smile. "Well, I mean it."
And just like that, I’m sinking. The space between us feels smaller. The weight of the night, the hush of the ocean, the steady flicker of the lantern, it’s all pressing in.
She shifts slightly, her knee brushing mine. Just a touch. Just enough.
I should move. I should pull away. But I don’t.
Instead, I glance at her, really looking this time. The way the shadows dance across her face, the way the starlight catches in her eyes, the way she’s staring at me like she’s waiting.
"I regret not pushing harder," I murmur, my voice lower than I mean for it to be.
She tilts her head. "In what?"
I shake my head. "Business. Life. Maybe both."
She nods slowly, her fingers tracing the worn wood of the bench. "Me too, lost time."
It’s quiet then. A thick, weighted silence. No past. No old wounds. Just this moment. And her. She’s close; so, so close.
I catch the slight part of her lips, the way her breath hitches, the way her hand stills against the wood. The air between us is electric, like a storm ready to break.
Before I can second-guess it, before I can tell myself this is dangerous, I lean in.
Slow. Testing. Her eyes flutter shut just before our lips meet. Soft. Tentative.
The taste of her mint and warmth rushes through me like a wildfire. Her lips part slightly, a small sound catching in her throat, and I’m done for. I pull her in as our kiss deepens.
Every muscle in my body locks, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my ribs. It’s been years. Years. And somehow, it still feels like home. But suddenly … Buddy barks.
Emma jolts, pulling back just as the dog lunges at a moth flitting near the lantern. The moment shatters, leaving behind nothing but the wild thudding of my pulse and the space where she’d just been.
She stares at me, lips parted, eyes wide. I see everything in that look. The surprise. The want. The fear. Her breath comes fast, and then, before I can say a word, she scrambles to her feet.
"I…uh … goodnight," she stammers, bolting inside.
The door slams behind her, leaving me on the porch, staring after her like a damn fool. Buddy circles once, then flops down beside me, letting out a huff. I press my fingers to my lips, the warmth of her still lingering.
What now? I don’t have an answer. But for the first time in a long, long time, I know I’m truly in trouble.