Page 41 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
We’re eye to eye now. Inches. Breaths.
But she breaks first.
“I need space.”
I nod once, jaw tight.
“Then take it.”
And I watch her walk away.
Again.
And the wind howls a little louder, like the tide’s trying to say all the things we can’t.
CHAPTER 15
EVIE
Festival week kicks off with the kind of overenthusiastic cheer that makes me want to crawl into a linen closet with a bottle of cheap wine and not come out until autumn. Lowtide Bluffs has exploded into one giant, salty, glitter-covered fever dream. Strings of sea-glass-colored flags whip in the wind over the town square, tangled in the bones of creaking booths still half-built. There’s sawdust in the air and somewhere, someone’s burning kettle corn.
It’s too much. Bright and loud.
Exactly what I need.
I’ve been dodging Aeron like it’s my full-time job—which, considering I’ve ghosted every meaningful conversation since our night together, might as well be. So I signed up for every volunteer slot they’d give me. Trash duty. Banner hanging. Tent setup. Sea monster float decorating. If there’s a clipboard and a high-vis vest involved, I’m your girl.
Right now, I’m ankle-deep in tangled netting behind the dunk tank station, which smells like hot metal and too many wet flip-flops. There’s music playing from a busted speaker strapped to a lamppost—something vaguely folksy with fiddle twangs and a drumbeat like heartache. The wind keeps throwing my hairin my eyes, and I’ve already stabbed my thumb on a rusted fishhook tangled in the rope.
It’s fine. I’m fine.
Everything’s fine.
“Need a hand?” a voice calls from above me.
I flinch, twisting awkwardly in the net. “Nope! Totally got it!”
But it’s too late. The net shifts, catches around my waist, and I topple backward into the stack of crate decorations with all the grace of a drunken seal.
My back hits something solid—canvas-wrapped foamboard, at least—and then I’m flat on my ass, tangled in fishing line and seaweed garland, staring up at a sky too blue to be trusted.
Aeron’s shadow falls over me a beat later.
I don’t look at him. I refuse.
But I can feel him—close, steady, radiating that quiet gravity he carries like armor. The scent of him cuts through the salt and sweat in the air—woodsmoke, clean pine, something darker underneath that makes my throat dry.
“You alright?” he asks, voice low.
“I’m good,” I lie. “Just communing with the local fish décor.”
“Uh-huh.”
I hear the crunch of gravel under his boots, the creak of old boards as he steps into the mess with me. He crouches, and suddenly his hands are on the net, fingers working knots loose with the kind of patience that makes my skin go tight.
“You always fall for me like this?” he mutters, almost teasing.
I snort. “Keep dreaming, Sea King.”
