“So… I think you should leave, then?” he finally says, jerking me out of my apparent staring.
I turn back to him. “How long have you worked here?” I ask, still trying to piece together what he is doing here. Placing my hands on my hips, I wait for him to finish his sip and answer me.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” he starts as he puts the lid back on the ceramic sugar container and places it on a higher shelf in the cupboard. As he extends his arm, his shirt rises up from the bottom, and I catch a glimpse of his toned waist. “But this is my third year.”
“That’s impossible!” I practically shout. This guy must be delusional. That’s got to be it. There is a delusional stranger who has decided to live here, and the town must either have no idea or just doesn’t want to bother doing anything about it. No harm, no foul. Really banking onno harm, seeing as I’m alone in a lighthouse with him right now.
Why don’t I feel more afraid?
“How is that impossible?” He seems almost amused by my outrage toward him. A slight smirk appears at the corner of his mouth, and his green eyes twinkle while he sips his coffee more calmly now. His eyes remind me of the leaves on a morning glory flower. I spotted them growing through the cracks in the rocks outside the lighthouse on my way in.
“I told you. This lighthouse is abandoned. It’s all over the internet. No one has lived here foryears!”
“Oh, fancy girl with her internet,” is all he says. The smirk grows wider the more frustrated I get.
“You make no sense,” is allIcan muster back.
“Not that this hasn’t been lovely, having an oddly dressed stranger come into my workplace andhome”—he enunciates that last word for effect—“but I have to get back to work, so if you don’t mind leaving the way you came in.” He gestures toward the stairs behind me that lead back down to the main level.
“Ugh.” I want to stomp my feet, but don’t because I am not a toddler. But this guy really frustrates me. First off, how am I dressed oddly? “How am I dressed oddly?” I repeat, out loud, looking down at my loungewear set of dark blue sweatpants and a sweater I bought at the Eras Tour for way too much money. I offer a silentthank youto my parents for that one.
“Did you just wake up?” he asks.
“No, I’ve been up for hours. Why?”
“Why are you wearing a sweatsuit in public?”
“Um, because? It’s fashionable?” I don’t even know how to respond to that.
“Odd,” he muses, sipping once more at his never-ending cup of coffee.
“Okay, well… bye, then,” I say and turn around toward the stairs.
“Who’s Taylor Swift?” he yells behind me as I make my way back down to the first level. I choose to ignore that question because, of course, he’s anotherChadwho has no idea who she is.
“Ugh,” I say quietly again as I open the door and slam it behind me.
I might be imagining it, but I swear I hear a sarcastic “See you next weekend” before the door closes.
Like that’ll happen.
Sunlight pours down on my face, and I look back at thelighthouse once more before making my way down the path that cuts through the rocks. The gravel under my feet crunches with each step. Itdoeslook abandoned from out here, red and white stripes faded after decades of rain, salt, and time left unattended. The rectangular windows are clouded over with grime, and I even notice a couple near the top that have some cracks in them. I scoff. How good a lighthouse keeper is he if he hasn’t fixed the cracks in his windows?
“Your windows are cracked, bud!” I yell out into the wind as I continue to walk away.
But inside. Inside, it felt so lived-in. So warm. So fresh.
Maybe they just didn’t see a point to revamping the exterior. It must have no effect on how sound the structure is. More important things to spend money on. Those windows, though. He should fix those.
I take one more look down at my outfit and then continue down the path toward my car, turning my head only once to see if I can spot him in the window. Everything seems quiet; he must have gone over to his desk to continue working on whatever he was doing.
I hate that I’m curious. I hate that I want to know more. I hate that I wish I could spot his infuriating silhouette in the window.
Sipping that damn coffee.
Chapter Five
Ithink about our interaction all week. I spend my days over-pouring coffee for customers and under-steaming milk for lattes. I can’t get my head in the game. Sarah notices and gives me more grief than usual, basically telling me I need to get my shit together. I can’t get him or his smirk out of my mind. Those emerald-green eyes and the way they twinkled. The hint of ink peeking up around his bicep. I shake my head to try to bring myself back to the present.
