Page 83 of Neap & Spring

“Not coastal storms.” My voice comes out harsher than I intended, and I add a small smile to steer away from the panic creeping to my throat. “Not storms that can put tree branches through windows.”

“I’ll be fine, Cal.”

She says it with such confidence that I almost believe her.

But I’m already making plans and thinking about where she could stay if it gets bad. My apartment is on the water. Not ideal. But it’ll hold better than that cottage. It has a concrete foundation and reinforced joists. Hayes engineered the whole restaurant to take a beating. It’s way more structurally sound than that cottage. Or I could take her to my dad’s place. Hell, I’ll put her up in a hotel myself if I have to.

I make a mental note to check the forecast daily.

Just in case.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Callum

We finish our coffee and sandwiches, and I leave money on the table even though I know Margo won’t charge us. She never does. She hasn’t even since I was old enough to have my own money. But I leave it anyway because she’ll use it to pay for someone else’s meal when they need it. That’s just who she is.

Then we head back out into the afternoon. The sun has moved lower in the sky, painting everything in that golden pre-sunset light that makes Westerly Point look like something out of a postcard.

“Beach?” I suggest, even though I already know where I want to take her. My feet have been trying to go that way all afternoon.

“Lead the way.”

The beach is a five-minute walk from Margo’s cafe, down a narrow path that cuts between two houses and opens up onto sand. I’ve walked this path a million times. As a kid chasing my brothers. As a teenager trying to clear my head. As an adult who sometimes needs to remember why he came back here in the first place.

But walking it with her feels new.

It’s not crowded. It never is this time of year. In just a few months, this whole stretch will be packed with tourists and their umbrellas and their screaming kids and their expensive beach gear. But for now, it’s just a few people walking dogs in the distance and some kids building a sandcastle near the water, their laughter carried on the wind.

Vivienne stops at the edge of the path where the pavement gives way to sand. She reaches down and slips off her shoes. I watch her balance on one foot, then the other, using my arm for balance.

I do the same, leaving both our pairs in a pile on a sun-bleached driftwood log that’s probably been here longer than I’ve been alive.

The sand is cold under my feet but not unbearable. It’s still holding onto the warmth from the afternoon sun. We start walking side by side, following the curve of the shoreline. The water is choppy today. The wind has picked up, pulling at Vivienne’s hair and yanking strands free from that messy bun.

I want to reach over and tuck them back. I want to know if her hair is as soft as I remember. I have to curl my fingers into my palm to keep from doing it.

Our shoulders bump as we walk. Just barely. The briefest point of contact. But I feel it everywhere.

Jesus Christ. Get it together. One investor meeting and some accidental contact, and I’m suddenly completely useless. She’s still hiding something. There’s something she won’t let me near, and it’s driving me insane.

And she broke my heart. I need to remember that.

We keep walking. The beach stretches out ahead of us, empty and peaceful. The sound of waves is constant, a gentle soundtrack to my pounding heart that won’t slow down no matter how many deep breaths I take.

I have so many questions rattling around in my head, demanding to be let out. Demanding answers. But I think of the fishing trip and Wesley and Roman telling me to back off. I need to let her carry whatever she’s carrying until she’s ready to put it down.

I think about how long it took her to stop flinching every time someone raised their voice during service. It was almost a month before she stopped going tense at the sound of my voice cutting through the kitchen noise. She still stands just outside the kitchen door sometimes, one hand on the frame, like she’s gathering courage to even walk through it. It hits me that she hasn’t once picked up a knife since she’s been here. Not once. The Vivienne I know wouldn’t hesitate to jump into a working kitchen at any opportunity.

It’s taken me longer than I’d like to admit to learn the difference between someone who doesn’t want to be known and someone who doesn’t know how to let you in. Vivienne is the second kind. I’ve always known that. Even in school when she was all pointy edges and competition and that careful, professional distance she kept between herself and everyone else, there were these moments. Small, unguarded moments where I could see the whole of her underneath all that armor. She just needed you to be patient enough to wait for them and let her come to you.

I’m trying to be patient. But it doesn’t come naturally to me. It never has.

And we’ve only just found our way back to something that feels like us — like the Cal and Vivi who competed and pushed each other and made each other better. I am terrified of doing the one thing that sends her running again. I don’t want to push too hard and ask too much. I don’t want her to give me more than she can.

So I don’t ask why she stopped cooking or why she left me or any of the thousand other questions burning in my chest.

Not yet.