Chapter one
Eric
As I stepped off the ferry, the latte slipped from my hand and arced through the air like a caffeinated comet, splattering across the scuffed leather boots of a stranger. Stains bloomed across the toe caps, broadcasting my complete inability to function like a normal human being under pressure.
He didn’t move. Just stood there, cold and broad-shouldered, the human embodiment of a Maine autumn—brisk, unyielding, and clearly unimpressed by my flailing attempt to stop the cracked sample jar now rolling toward the edge of the dock.
A grunt followed by a sharp scowl. “Watch it.”
“Oh, God—sorry.” I scrambled to keep hold of my overstuffed backpack, tripod case, and what remained of Silas’s coffee. “I didn’t see you—well, obviously, or I wouldn’t have—let me pay for cleaning, or new boots, or whatever—”
He pointed at the coffee cup. “That supposed to be a gift?”
“Uh. Lukewarm. And mostly empty. But—”
“Joke.” Dry as the dock boards and just as splintery.
Still crouched, I looked up and got the full picture. His flannel shirt was worn thin at the elbows, stretched over a chest builtfor labor. Rolled sleeves revealed veiny forearms with the kind of muscle you didn’t get from gym memberships.
It had to be Wesley Hunter, my host for the next month. His jaw looked cut from the same granite we were standing on, and his stubble was just long enough to catch the light. His eyes were gray-blue and stormy, like the ocean before bad weather, and when they locked on mine, something fluttered in my chest.
Perfect. He’s gorgeous. And I just bathed his boots in latte.
The silence stretched between us. Wind swept across the dock, salty and sharp. Behind him, Ironhook Island rose in uneven layers of pine and rock, every bit as unwelcoming as the ferry brochure had promised.
“You Eric?” he asked, without softening. His chin jerked toward my scattered gear. “That all yours?”
I straightened, adjusting the gear bag sliding off my shoulder for the third time. "Uh, yeah. Thesis project. Senior year. I’ll be here a month. It’s, uh, coastal resilience research. My advisor thought Ironhook was the perfect case study—because of the fishing co-op collapse in 2018, and—"
He'd already turned and started walking.
Awesome start, Callahan. Nailed that first impression.
I grabbed my equipment and hurried after him. Twenty miles of ocean now separated me from anything familiar.
The path from dock to cottage stretched ahead, cracked asphalt threading through wild goldenrod that crowded the edges. Half-buried in the weeds, a rusted buoy caught my eye—faded letters spelling outMary Catherine, some fishing boat long departed from Ironhook's harbor.
My silent guide moved with the kind of purposeful stride that suggested he'd walked the route a thousand times, probably occasionally in weather that would send tourists scurrying for shelter. There was grace in his movement—utterly confidentin his environment, like he was part of the island and I was something the tide dragged in.
I jogged to catch up. "So you're Wesley Hunter, right? The island caretaker?"
No response. Only the steady rhythm of boots on broken pavement.
I shifted my gear bag to the other shoulder and tried again. "Did the trust tell you what I'd be researching?"
Wes kept walking, his stride unchanged. "They said a student. That's all."
My face flushed. "Right. Well, it's about how shoreline communities endure post-industrial collapse. Economic shifts, population changes, infrastructure adaptation." The university jargon felt clumsy and inappropriate on the rugged island.
"The Ironhook Preservation Trust mentioned you'd been here a while. Must be nice, on your own in such a quiet place." I tried to match his pace. "I mean, most people dream about this kind of solitude."
He glanced back once. "People dream about a lot of things."
The cottage appeared around a bend in the path, aged cedar shingles silver-gray in the afternoon light. It perched on a rise overlooking the harbor, surrounded by beach grass. It was functional rather than picturesque, built to endure whatever the ocean decided to throw at it.
"How long have you been the caretaker here?" I tried.
"Long enough."
