Page 63 of Those Two Words

“Johanna,” I groan, dragging out the last a in her name and shaking my head at her in dismay. “Don’t start misbehaving now.”

“Ohhh da?—”

I clamp a hand over her mouth and tug her into me. “Don’t you dare drop a daddy joke,” I growl down her ear.

When I drop my hand, I see her nibbling at the corner of her bottom lip, trying to stifle her laughter. But I love pretty things, and I want to hear it, so I tickle her sides and pull that sweet melody from her, before swallowing it down with a kiss. It tastes as divine as she feels. With one final brush of our lips, I turn us to face the bay—her back to my chest. I keep her close with my arms wrapped around her shoulders, reveling in how perfectly she fits against me.

“This is happening,” I murmur. It’s finally happening, a quiet voice says in my mind. He sounds a lot like sixteen-year-old me.

“I’m not going anywhere this time, Patrick. I promise you that,” she says and places a kiss on the back of my hand.

The certainty in her tone should be enough to erase all the doubts I have. She’s proven week after week that she wants to make Sutton Bay her home again, and I want nothing more than to witness that. To be a part of it.

We stare out at the bay, taking in the choppy waves as they crash against the rocks. You can make out Puffin Point Lighthouse on the peninsula north of Sutton Bay, and just through the mist and rain in the distance is the cliffside of Anakiwa Lookout.

“God, I’ve missed this view. I need to find some time to head up to the lighthouse soon.” She rests her head against my shoulder, jasmine and ocean filling my nose.

“We can drive up there one day.”

She hums and doesn’t say much else as we stand there, content that we’re finally making a go of this.

I’d love to know what’s going on in that beautiful head of hers, and I know she’ll tell me one day, about everything that happened. For now, I soak up this moment, following the slope of her upturned nose, the round apples of her cheeks, her pouty lips, and the pointy angle of her chin. I’m happy to see there are no new freckles to make note of.

Because if everything goes the way I want it to, I’ll be here to watch new ones grace her beautiful features.

“She’s been lurking on the street for an hour. She’s passed by me seven times since I’ve been out here. I don’t know what her deal is, and I swear I saw her snapping some pictures of the restaurant,” Dex says with a jerk of his chin across the street.

The moment my eyes lock with Mrs. Stewart’s, she turns and hurries away. “No doubt we’re doing something wrong. I’m sure I’ll hear about it at the next town hall meeting. Just ignore her.”

“Are you sure that’s the right color?” Jo asks from beside me, both of us shielding our eyes from the early morning sun.

“For the tenth time, Johanna, yes, it’s the right color. Midnight navy, the same as the sample you gave me. The same color your dads’ picked out twenty-plus years ago,” my best friend grumbles with one boot on the bottom rung of the ladder, armed with a paint brush, and a little tired of Jo’s backseat management.

She’s been the one to take the lead in many of the improvements around here, and I’ve loved watching her shine. Today she’s tasked Dex with giving the front of the restaurant a face-lift. He told us he has nothing better to do, and I appreciate his help, even though I know he’s lying.

He’s probably regretting his helpfulness, especially when Jo stands there umming and ahing as she compares the paint in the tin to the sample she’s holding. She’s thorough, I’ll give her that, but he does not like to be micromanaged.

“Hey, love, how about we let Dex do his thing?” I attempt to pry the paint tin from her hands, and I see Dex’s brows raise in question at the slip of the term of endearment I use for her. He’s not exactly going to go around town gossiping about the two of us. It’s my own blood I have got to worry about.

Eventually, Jo let’s go and begrudgingly hands over the paint to Dex, who doesn’t waste any time in climbing up the ladder and applying a fresh coat of paint to the wooden slats at the front of the restaurant. He spent the morning stripping and prepping, which is when Mrs. Stewart decided to stop by.

“Thanks, man,” I call up to Dex, who, for once, is wearing his hearing aid. “Got time for a beer soon?”

“Sure. If you have time for me.” He puckers his lips and makes kissing sounds, eyes bouncing between Jo and me. Luckily, she’s too busy inspecting the freshly stenciled letters on the restaurant’s window to catch on to his jibe.

I flip him the bird before leading Jo inside the restaurant and saving Dex from the list of tasks I know she’s desperate to assign him. It’s not too busy on the floor right now, that quiet time between the lunch and dinner rush, and from all the out-of-state plates I’ve seen this week, tourist season is in full swing.

I steer her toward the small coffee machine we have at the end of the bar and start preparing myself a cup.

“Do you want one?” I ask.

“No, I better not. I’ve had five today already.”

My head snaps toward her. “Jesus, Jo. How are you not bouncing off the walls? You have an addiction.”

“And I don’t want the cure.” She’s scrolling through the tablet that’s linked to the new reservation system, when she suddenly lets out a loud gasp, catching the attention of some of the staff behind the bar and a couple of customers.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, abandoning the coffee beans as they fall from the grinder and rush to her side.

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