Page 60

They talked and laughed easily. Sully told her about the rest of his nieces’ weekend, how they played dress-up and reenacted the entire plot of Frozen, one and two. His voice carried a tenderness that made Amy’s chest ache a little. She recognized in him how she felt about her own nephew.

He leaned closer, eyes catching the candlelight. “If you really want to see my artwork, come by for dessert,” he said, half teasing. “My nieces left behind half a chocolate cake. Be a shame to waste it.”

She hesitated just long enough for it to feel deliberate, then smiled. “Dessert sounds perfect.”

The server cleared their dishes as they rose. Out on the dock, the evening breeze carried the mingled scents of salt air and newly bloomed lilac. The last light folded around them—soft, amber, fleeting.

For once, Amy didn’t think about the house, or shadows, or things unseen. She felt only the warmth of his hand at her back and the hum of something quietly, undeniably alive between them.

Sully’s cottage sat just beyond the curve of the road, low and sturdy against the pines, overlooking a sweeping view of the Atlantic. When Amy stepped inside, the familiar creak of the threshold gave way to the scent of coffee, sawdust, and something faintly citrus—furniture polish, maybe, or wood shavings.

The lights were warm, amber rather than bright, and for the first time the space felt unmistakably his. Without his nieces’ schoolbooks and sneakers scattered by the door, the silence carried a private edge.

“Make yourself at home,” he said, striding to the kitchen. He sliced two pieces of leftover cake, poured two mugs of coffee, and returned with a low, contented quiet that made the small space seem even closer.

As Sully put together their dessert, Amy wandered. She let her fingers graze the edge of a weathered sideboard. His paintings lined the walls. She’d overlooked them before, when she’d crashed the niece’s pizza party. Most of the paintings were coastal scenes: shadowed coves, a glimmering lighthouse at dusk, the jagged shoulder of the bluff she could see from her own cottage.

One caught her eye. It was a sketch of the mansion’s silhouette under a restless sky. The line work was loose but precise enough that she felt the pull of the place in it, the slow breath it seemed to take between tides.

Across the table, Sully noticed her pause. “I was fooling around with perspective one night,” he said a little gruffly.

She nodded, stepping nearer. “You caught its loneliness.”

He didn’t answer, only smiled in that shy, corner-of-the-mouth way that made him look younger.

Then she saw the sketchbook, half open on the workbench. Curiosity tugged before she could stop herself. She brushed the edge of the page with her fingers. A familiar shoulder line, the tilt of a chin—her.

Sully quickly closed the cover with a soft thud. “That one’s not finished.”

Amy blinked, unsure whether to apologize or smile. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” he said, voice low. “Was just trying to get the light right.”

She felt warmth bloom under her skin. “You captured more than the light.”

That seemed to derail him more than the discovery itself. He cleared his throat, setting her cup on the counter. “Sugar’s there if you need it.”

She laughed softly to ease the tension. “You’ve been holding out on me. These are really good.”

His shoulders softened. “That means more than you know.”

“So you paint and draw in your spare time? Ever think of doing more than that?” she asked.

He took a moment to answer. “I still paint because I need to; it makes me feel whole. I work and run the construction company because I have to, because it’s expected of me.”

She nodded. “Can you combine them? Use your artistic skill?”

“I try to. Art is a part of me. I can’t not do it,” Sully stumbled hesitantly over his words.

“I get it. That’s what I’m doing, incorporating my massage and wellness work into a business.”

They wandered toward the small sitting room, where an old radio murmured from a shelf. Faint, crackling jazz bled through the static. The place was a mixture of him: woodgrain patience and simple comfort, every surface touched by his hands.

“Nice place,” she said, looking around. “Did you renovate it yourself?”

“Yeah. It was my grandparents’. My grandfather built it when he came back from the war. My folks rented it for a while, but when I came home, I bought it from them. It needed a lot of work—you could see the stars from my bedroom.” He rubbed the back of his neck, smiling faintly. “Still does.”

“It’s beautiful,” she said, and meant it.