Page 50 of Just One More Thing

He grins. “Quiet night otherwise. Keeps the guys on their toes.”

“I know the feeling.”

He points at me. “Get some sleep, twinkle toes.”

Then he bends down and scratches Hank’s neck. “You’re on duty,” he tells him. “Take care of your dad.” Hank lifts his head like he understands every word and has already accepted the assignment.

Charlie heads back up the dock, footsteps fading out.

I turn Otis up a little. Hank shifts closer until his weight is pressed solid against my leg. I sit there and let myself think about it. All of it. The fear. The hope. The way Mo’s hair caught the kitchen light tonight. The way she looked at me. The split second she leaned in.

I turn and look across the water toward her window above the bakery. Dark.

She leaned in.

That wasn’t my imagination.

The tide keeps coming in. The channel marker keeps blinking. The song keeps playing. And I let myself believe something I’ve been fighting hard not to believe.

Maybe this isn’t temporary.

Maybe not this time.

CHAPTER 15

EMORY

Iwake up with the echo of a fire alarm lodged somewhere between my ears and the pit of my stomach. Which is ridiculous, because it wasn’t even loud. It was polite. A courtesy alarm. The kind that says, excuse me, there may or may not be smoke, but I’d hate for you to die uninformed.

It was the timing that was rude.

I stare at the ceiling, studying the popcorn pattern I memorized at ten. Florida is still there. The alien, if you squint, is too.

“This is temporary,” I whisper. My stomach flutters anyway.

Especially after last night. The brush of Jake’s arm at my waist. The slow, absent-minded drag of his thumb along my wrist. The way the space between us went quiet and charged. It felt like the air right before a summer storm.

Did we almost kiss?

No.

We did not.

And I absolutely, one hundred percent did not lean in first.

I roll over and shove my face into the pillow. “Arrgh,” I scream into cotton.

Very composed. Not at all dramatic.

I fling the covers back, grab my bkr from the nightstand, and take a long sip. My emotional support water bottle has witnessed worse spirals. It doesn’t judge. It hydrates and listens.

Downstairs, Holey Moley is already awake. The smell hits first—fried dough, sugar, and coffee strong enough to raise the dead. Frank stands at the rack, eating more than he’s boxing. Powdered sugar dusts his shirt like a confession.

“There she is,” Granny calls. “I was about to set off the fire alarm to wake you.”

I freeze mid-step.

How does she?—