Page 11 of Our Bay Will Come

Fox: Go be brilliant. Talk later?

I hesitate, then reply:

Me: Maybe.

It's not a yes. But it's not a no either. And for now, that's all I'm willing to give.

I set my phone down, determined to focus on the fabric swatches for the Morgans' living room redesign. They're particular clients—old money with new ideas—and they've been clear about wanting something "traditional but with an edge, " whatever that means.

After fifteen minutes of actual concentration, I've narrowed it down to three options: a herringbone tweed in muted blue, a textured cream linen, and a subtle geometric pattern that reads as neutral from a distance but reveals complexity up close. Like people. Simple at first glance, complicated when you get too close.

Kind of like Fox.

Damn it. There he is again, slipping into my thoughts when I least expect it. I grab my coffee mug—empty, of course—and head to our office kitchenette for a refill. Maybe caffeine will help me focus on something besides callused hands and kitchen counters.

"The Morgans called," Rory announces as I pass her desk. "They're running thirty minutes late."

"Great," I mutter, pouring the dark roast that costs too much but tastes like heaven. "More time to overthink fabric."

"More time to tell me about Fox," she counters, swiveling to face me.

I roll my eyes. "There's nothing more to tell."

"Liar. You slept with him, he's texting you, and you're smiling at your phone like it holds the secrets of the universe. There's plenty more to tell."

I take a long sip of coffee, buying time. "It's complicated."

"Of course it is. All the good stuff is." She leans forward. "So what's the real issue here? The distance or your commitment phobia?"

"I do not have commitment phobia," I protest automatically.

"Please. You haven't dated anyone seriously since Alan the Asshat three years ago. You've perfected the three-date maximum rule. You schedule 'work emergencies' when guys get too interested."

"That's not a phobia, that's self-preservation."

"Potato, po-tah-to." She waves dismissively. "The point is, something about this Fox guy has gotten under your skin, and instead of enjoying it, you're already planning your escape route."

I hate how well she knows me.

"Look," I say, leaning against the counter, "even if I were interested—which I'm not saying I am—what's the point? He lives in Cedar Bay. I live here. My life is here. The business is here."

"Cedar Bay is, what, three hours away? People have managed longer distances."

"People like who?"

"Like adults who recognize a good thing when they see it." She sighs. "Just promise me you won't ghost the poor guy because you're scared."

"I'm not scared," I insist, but the words sound hollow even to my ears.

Back at my desk, I force myself to work, laying out the fabric samples alongside paint chips and sketches of the Morgans' space. I'm deep in designer mode when my phone buzzes again.

Fox: Just finished framing the Parker addition. I thought you might like to see it.

Attached is a photo of a half-finished room with large, empty window frames overlooking the bay. The lighting is perfect—golden hour making everything glow warm and inviting. I cansee why he sent it. The potential of the space is obvious even to someone who isn't trained to see it.

But what catches my attention isn't the room or the view. It's Fox's reflection in a pane of glass, caught accidentally. He's still wearing his tool belt, hair mussed, a smudge of something on his cheek. He looks tired but satisfied like people do when they've created something with their hands.

Something inside me softens.

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