Page 39 of At First Catch

Then he drives off toward the main farmhouse before I can accidentally confess emotional instability before breakfast.

I stare after the truck for a moment too long.

Happy. The word lingers in my mind uncomfortably. Not because it’s wrong, but because it might be right.

A soft huff beside me interrupts that dangerous line of thinking. Rook looks at me, then at the passenger door.

“You’re incredibly presumptuous.”

His tail thumps once.

“Fine.”

I open the door, and he hops inside like this was always the plan.

The drive to Sweetspire Marina takes less than fifteen minutes from the farm, which unfortunately gives me exactly fifteen minutes to overthink every possible interaction waiting for me there.

Too much eye contact? Suspicious.

Too little eye contact? Also suspicious.

Flirting? Dangerous.

Pretending we aren’t attracted to each other? Apparently impossible.

I grip the steering wheel tighter as the marina finally comes into view beyond the curve in the road. And forget every logical thought I’ve had all morning.

The place looks different already. Not dramatically different. No overnight miracles or sweeping renovations.

But alive.

Several trucks are parked near the western docks. Fresh lumber sits stacked beside the old restaurant building. Someone has hauled away sections of broken railing that sat untouched for years. Orange survey flags mark sections of dock repair while workers move steadily between slips carrying tools, coffee cups, and clipboards. The team Nolan hired seems to have gotten an early start.

But as I narrow my eyes, looking through the windshield, the marina still looks weathered. Still storm-worn. Still rough around the edges. But now there’s movement here.

Someone is already laughing near the bait shop. A radio plays somewhere inside the restaurant. Fresh sawdust catches the morning light. Nothing is finished, yet everything is moving.

And standing near the main dock with sunglasses pushed back into dark hair and a clipboard tucked beneath one arm is Nolan.

My entire body reacts.

It’s ridiculous.

Absolutely ridiculous.

He’s wearing a faded gray T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders that should honestly be illegal before 9 a.m., worn jeans, and a tool belt hanging low around his waist. The marina breeze moves through his hair while sunlight catches the sharp edge of his jaw.

One of the contractors says something as Nolan passes. Nolan answers without breaking his stride. Another worker waves a clipboard in his direction. He reaches for it automatically. Nobody hesitates around him anymore.

Neither do I.

One of the workers says something to him, and Nolan chuckles before turning toward the parking lot.

Toward me.

As soon as he notices my SUV, his look alters. Not hugely. Most people probably wouldn’t notice it. But I do.

The subtle shift in posture. The sharpened attention. The pause before he starts walking toward me.