Page 54 of When Summer Returns

They worked together to clear the obstacle, their movements synchronizing without discussion. Physical labor had always come easily between them—bodies anticipating each other’s needs, compensating for differences in height and strength. It was the emotional terrain that had proven more challenging to navigate.

“You’re bleeding,” Luke said suddenly, catching her hand as they finished.

Jessie glanced down to find a small cut across her palm, probably from hidden debris. “It’s nothing.”

“Let me see.” His touch was firm but gentle as he examined the wound. “Doesn’t look deep, but with all the mess out here, infection’s a risk.”

Before she could protest, he’d produced a small first aid kit from his back pocket. Of course he carried one—Luke Mallory, always prepared for others’ emergencies. He cleaned the cut with practiced efficiency, but his touch lingered as he applied the bandage, his thumb brushing across her wrist in a gesture too deliberate to be accidental.

“There,” he said, his voice rougher than the minor injury warranted. “Good as new.”

“My hero,” she said lightly, though the words held more truth than she’d intended.

His eyes darkened, and for a breathless moment, she thought he might kiss her, right there amid hurricane debris and lingering puddles. The air between them thickened with possibility, the world narrowing to just the two of them in the middle of a devastated paradise.

“Luke!” Miguel’s voice shattered the moment. “We’ve got a situation at the marina!”

Luke stepped back, the consummate professional once more. “Duty calls.”

“Always does,” she agreed, retrieving her hand with reluctance.

“Tonight,” he said, the single word both question and promise.

Jessie nodded, not trusting her voice for more.

By sunset, the first wave of critical repairs had been completed. Roads were passable if not pretty, water systems functioned in most areas, and temporary tarps covered damaged roofs where necessary. The island had survived worse, would weather future storms, but for now, the immediate crisis had passed.

Seeker’s Paradise gradually emptied as exhausted volunteers headed home to deal with their own cleanup. Maggie had departed hours earlier, practically carried out by Reece when her injured leg finally gave out. Tasha had gone to check on her adult children in their homes on the other side of the island. Miguel remained with a skeleton crew, preparing the bar to resume limited operations the following day.

“Go home,” he told Jessie when he caught her updating the volunteer schedule for tomorrow. “You’ve done enough for one day, boss lady.”

“I’m not your boss,” she protested automatically.

“Half boss,” he corrected with a grin. “And as your employee, I’m telling you professionally that you look like something the hurricane dragged in. Go. Shower. Eat something not made in a disaster kitchen.”

She glanced around for Luke, realizing she hadn’t seen him in over an hour.

“He’s already gone,” Miguel supplied, reading her thoughts with uncomfortable accuracy. “Said to tell you he’d meet you at the house.”

Something in his tone made her narrow her eyes. “Did he say anything else?”

“Nope,” Miguel replied, suddenly very interested in wiping down an already clean counter. “Not a word.”

Jessie didn’t believe him for a second, but exhaustion outweighed curiosity. She gathered her things and headed out, pausing at the door for one last look at the transformed space. In less than twenty-four hours, it had gone from restaurant to shelter to command center, adapting to the island’s needs as seamlessly as its owner.

The walk to Luke’s house took longer than usual, her tired legs protesting each step along the beach path. Seeker’s Island had already begun its recovery, the resilience of its natural beauty asserting itself despite Benedict’s best efforts. New debris lined the high tide mark—branches and seaweed tangled with man-made flotsam—but the waves continued their eternal rhythm, indifferent to temporary disruption.

As Luke’s yellow house came into view, Jessie noticed something unusual—lights on the wraparound porch that hadn’t been there before. Not emergency lighting but the soft glow of what appeared to be strings of small bulbs woven among the porch railings.

She climbed the steps slowly, curiosity overcoming fatigue, and found the porch transformed. The hurricane furniture had been restored to its proper places, a small table set for two in the corner with the best ocean view. Candles flickered in hurricane lanterns—a touch she appreciated both for the irony and the romance. Soft music played from a battery-powered speaker, something acoustic and gentle that melded with the rhythm of the waves below.

“You’re late,” Luke said, emerging from the house with two glasses of wine. He’d showered and changed, his damp hair curling slightly at the edges, his faded blue button-down bringing out the color of his eyes.

“I’m covered in island grime and hurricane leftovers,” she countered, suddenly acutely aware of her disheveled state. “What is all this?”

“Dinner,” he answered simply, offering her a glass. “You need to eat. I need to eat. Seemed efficient to combine efforts.”

But there was nothing efficient about the small table set with actual linen napkins, or the way he’d clearly rushed home to prepare this while she finished at the bar.

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