“Great.” He grabs two cloths and an empty spray bottle from under the sink, fills it with soap and water, then motions for me to follow him upstairs. As he walks ahead of me, I take the opportunity to stare at his ass in his medium-wash jeans that fit him just right. I wouldn’t call them skinny, but they’re definitely tight enough to hug the muscles in his thighs. On top, he’s wearing a white T-shirt with a red-and-black plaid flannel, the buttons undone and open. Safe to say, he looks good.
We wind up the black cast-iron stairs, past the bedroom level, past what I would call the attic, despite there still being more to the lighthouse’s tower. It’s an empty space, filled with boxes and a workbench covered in tools.Then we make it to the top. As we step onto the last level from the stairs, I turn my head and note that we’re surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows. I do a full three-sixty, and it’s windows the whole way around. In the centre of the room, there’s a lightbulb with a glass cover surrounding it.
Dylan walks over to the glass around the bulb. “This is the lens,” he tells me as he begins meticulously spraying it with soap and water and wiping it down with the cloth. “Salt spray can cause it to get a bit grimy and dull, so I usually come up once a day and clean it.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say to him as I take in the intricate glass wrapped around the lightbulb. Sunlight makes its way in, reflecting and refracting off the rings of the lens, creating little rainbows in the small room. “How does it all work?”
He answers as he continues carefully wiping down the lens. “It takes the light from the bulb and turns it into a powerful beam that can be seen miles away. Like it’s magnifying it so ships can see from far away.”
“Wow,” I breathe, fully taken aback by the sheer size of the lens, which stands taller than me. My eyes dart from the glass structure and then to the view surrounding us, open ocean that spans as far as my eyes can see.
“This view never gets old for me,” he says while he puts the spray and wet cloth down by the opening to the stairs, now buffing the glass with his dry cloth. The way he works so methodically, I’m in awe watching him. The care he puts into every little aspect of his job, ensuring everyone’s safety, has my heart swelling even more for him.
“Do you have to turn it on and off every night?”
He chuckles as he finishes his task and comes to stand beside me, staring out into the rough Atlantic. “Inever have, but that was how it worked for my dad and any of the older keepers. Now, things are becoming more automated. Itshuts off at dawn and turns back on at dusk.” There’s a slight look of concern on his face as his brows knit together. “A lot of the lighthouses are going that route, it seems. Some have even stopped employing keepers altogether. But if something fails or malfunctions, I can override the system or even switch to a backup if needed. That can only happen when a person is here.”
“Backup?”
“Yeah, another bulb.” He opens up a drawer in a metal table on the side and pulls out an identical bulb to the one that sits in the centre behind the lens.
“Ah, I see.” This is all so interesting. “Does it ever feel like a lot of pressure?” I ask. It must weigh on him that if anything stops working, people’s lives could be at risk.
He rubs a hand over his jaw and brings his gaze to me. “I mean, yes. But I don’t mind the pressure. I love what I do. And I’m usually here most of the time, so it’s nothing extra in my day to check on these things and keep an eye on the weather. I like knowing that boats and ships that pass through are alwayssafe. I know how dangerous the ocean can be…” His jaw ticks, and the concerned look is back on his face.
I know too, I think, as the secret I’m keeping threatens to sneak out.
I place a hand on his arm, bringing him back to the present. His mind must be drifting back to Raven and what happened to her. I’m sure that guilt propels him forward in his duties here and makes him the lighthouse keeper that he is. “They’re lucky to have someone like you who takes this so seriously.”
“Thanks, Luce.”
We stand there for several quiet minutes, staring out into the sea, side by side. It’s comfortable and honestlypretty incredible to be this high up, taking in everything. I know this view never gets old for him.
“Hey, question for you.” He turns to face me. “Are there still lighthouse keepers in your time?”
“Um.” My face falls. “No. Sorry.”
“I see. Guess I’m retired,” he murmurs to himself. He gives his head a light shake, getting himself out of his short-lived funk, and grabs my hand in his. “Let’s head back down.”
“Okay.”
The rest of the morning and afternoon is quiet but nice. It started to rain, so we played cards and read together, curled up on the couch with the fire going. The lack of technology in Dylan’s time has been a really positive change. No social media to check, no dinging messages to look at. It’s felt very peaceful. Like I can really live in the present here. Which is kind of ironic since I’m currently rooted thirty-two years in the past.
When dinnertime rolls around, Dylan peers up from his copy ofThe Stand. “What do you want to do for dinner? I was going to suggest pizza, but I’m not sure how you feel about that.”
Mmm. “I could definitely do pizza.” I grin. Pizza was one of those foods we never had much growing up—it was deemed cheap and unhealthy. But anytime I got the chance to sneak a slice, it was heaven. The gooey cheese, smoky pepperoni, fluffy crust. I loved every second of it.
His face lights up. “Great, I know a place in town we can go.”
We make the short walk into Killick Bay and get to the main street that doesn’t feel so new to me anymore. Dylan walks me farther down the street than I’ve gone before, and we stop in front of an old building with a neon red sign thatreads Harbour Slice in capital letters. There’s a door right underneath the sign and red-framed windows on either side. As soon as he opens the front door, the smell of mozzarella cheese and oregano takes over my senses, and my stomach starts to grumble.
We head inside and sit down at a booth with squeaky red leather seats and a grey laminate table. These same booths line the outside of the restaurant, and in the middle of the space are circular tables with red metal chairs. Each booth has its own hanging light fixture that illuminates the space in a warm, yellow glow.
“This is the best pizza around here,” Dylan says with a smile. “We came here all the time when I was growing up. I think you’re going to love it.”
As I scan the laminated menu, looking at the different variations of pizza they serve, footsteps tread toward the table, and a woman who looks to be in her early to mid-thirties clears her throat.
Turning to Dylan, her smile grows even wider. “Dylan Hart, we haven’t seen you over here in a while.” She places a red-manicured hand on his shoulder, and now I’m suddenly the one turning red. My mouth parts slightly before I clamp it shut, and I poke the inside of my cheek with my tongue as a distraction.
