Page 50 of When Summer Returns

Luke’s surprised laugh was like sunshine breaking through storm clouds. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that coming from you.”

“Probably for the best.” She continued her counting, hyper-aware of his presence in the confined space. “How are our insulin-dependent guests doing?”

“Stable. Maggie worked her medical magic. The woman could probably perform surgery with dental floss and a stapler if she had to.”

“Remind me never to need surgery on this island.”

“I don’t know,” Luke mused, examining a box of bandages. “I’d take Maggie with limited supplies over some fancy mainland surgeon who doesn’t know how to improvise.”

The building shuddered under a particularly violent gust, the generator’s hum faltering momentarily before resuming its steady rhythm. Involuntarily, Jessie reached out in the near-darkness, her hand finding Luke’s arm.

“Just the storm shifting direction,” he reassured her, his voice steady. “Structure’s holding fine.”

But she didn’t immediately remove her hand, and he didn’t pull away. Instead, his free hand covered hers, warm and reassuringly solid. The simple contact anchored her against the chaos outside, a human connection more stabilizing than any hurricane shutter.

Her pulse quickened at his touch, memories of other times his hands had held hers flooding back with startling clarity. The same hands that now capably managed crisis had once traced paths of fire across her skin, discovering secrets only lovers shared. In the dim storeroom light, she noticed how his fingers had grown stronger, more weathered by island life, yet still retained that same gentle precision that had once unraveled her completely.

As he stood close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from his body, she caught his scent beneath the practical layers of rain gear and hurricane preparations—that unmistakable combination of sea salt, coffee, and something uniquely Luke that had haunted her dreams for years. Her body responded with a rush of warmth that had nothing to do with the storeroom’s temperature and everything to do with fifteen years of denied desire.

When the lights flickered again, plunging them into momentary darkness before the emergency system recovered, their hands remained linked. And when illumination returned, neither acknowledged the continued contact, as if breaking the connection might somehow disrupt the delicate balance they’d found.

“It’s strange,” Jessie said, her voice barely audible above the storm. “I spent years dreaming about this island during storms, imagining what it would feel like to be here again.” Her eyes met his in the dim light. “Now I’m here, and everything feels…different than I expected.”

“Different good or different bad?” Luke’s voice dropped lower, creating an intimate space between them despite the howling wind outside.

“Just…intense.” She was suddenly aware of how close they stood, the small storeroom shrinking around them. “Like everything is heightened.”

“That’s island life,” Luke replied, his thumb tracing deliberate circles on the sensitive skin of her inner wrist. “Everything feels more here. More dangerous, more beautiful?—”

“More real,” she finished for him.

“That sounds like experience talking.” His eyes darkened as they held hers, the blue deepening to something more primitive.

“More like a confession.” Her pulse quickened beneath his touch. “When you’re in the middle of a storm, there’s nowhere to hide from what you truly want.”

His thumb paused its hypnotic movement. “And what is it you truly want, Jess?”

The question hung between them, charged with fifteen years of unsaid words and unfinished touches. The generator hummed, a counterpoint to their quickened breathing in the confined space.

The simple truth of his statement settled over her like a warm blanket. She wasn’t alone—not in this storeroom, not in this storm-battered bar, not on this island where connections ran as deep as the limestone beneath the sand. For the first time since her father’s final, devastating threat had sent her fleeing into the night, Jessie felt the possibility of true safety—not the false security of distance, but the genuine protection of belonging.

Before she could respond, the storeroom door swung open, revealing Miguel’s rain-dampened form. “Boss, we’ve got a situation. Part of the eastern awning just came loose. It’s going to tear off completely if we don’t secure it.”

Luke’s hand slipped from hers as he switched immediately to crisis mode. “Get Reece and Carlos. We’ll need to anchor it from inside since the exterior is too dangerous.”

“I’m coming too,” Jessie said, already reaching for her rain jacket.

Luke looked like he might object, then nodded once. “Four hands are better than two. But we stay together, understood? This wind could pick up a person your size and deposit you in the next county.”

“Excuse me, but I’ve gained at least five pounds of pure muscle from bartending,” she retorted, following him into the main room. “I’m practically a paperweight now.”

“Is this really the time for weight jokes?” Miguel asked, gathering rope and tools with practiced efficiency.

“It’s always time for weight jokes when men make assumptions about your ability to withstand hurricane-force winds,” Jessie informed him.

The next thirty minutes passed in a blur of coordinated effort as they worked to secure the failing awning before it could tear free and become a dangerous projectile. The noise was deafening, communication limited to shouted instructions and hand signals. Rain drove horizontally through the narrow gap where they worked, soaking them despite their protective gear. But together, the small team managed to reinforce the structure, ensuring it would survive until proper repairs could be made after the storm.

When they finally retreated to the relative warmth and dryness of the main shelter, Benedict had begun its slow transition toward the eye—the brief, eerie calm at a hurricane’s center. The wind’s howl gradually diminished from freight train to mere jet engine, and the torrential rain slackened to merely heavy.

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