"And who are you when no one's watching?"
I opened my mouth to answer, then closed it again, realizing I wasn't sure I knew how to put it into words. Before I could try, Wes stood abruptly, gathering his blanket and empty mug.
"Getting late." He paused, voice low. "The mainland's got nothing for me now."
I watched him move toward the hallway, noting the slight stiffness in his gait that suggested his knee was bothering him. "Wes?"
He paused at the entrance to the hallway, looking back over his shoulder.
"Thanks. For the coffee, I mean. And for—" I gestured vaguely at the space between us. "This."
He nodded once and then disappeared into the shadows of the hallway. I heard his bedroom door close with a soft click, leaving me alone with the dying fire.
I gathered my research materials and prepared for bed. Somewhere along the way, my thesis about coastal resilience joined a new project—a case study of one person's struggle to survive the wreckage of his own life.
Chapter four
Wes
The storm descended on Ironhook like a vengeful god.
It had been building all afternoon. That bone-deep ache in my knee caused by low air pressure flared, and the gulls went silent, disappearing hours before the first fat raindrops hit the cottage windows. Every pane of glass rattled in the howling winds, and the old pine beams groaned in protest.
The slate gray clouds made it dark inside. When our morning generator hours expired, I lit the oil lamps and pulled out the emergency candles. Their amber glow cast dancing shadows across the rough-hewn walls.
I poured three fingers of Jameson into a tumbler and settled into the worn leather chair by the woodstove, letting the whiskey burn away the persistent throb in my knee. Outside, the storm put on a show that would have the mainland folks battening down and calling their insurance companies, but Ironhook had weathered worse. Much worse.
Eric stood at the kitchen window, palms pressed flat against the glass. His shoulders were tense beneath his UMaine t-shirt,and I caught myself studying the line of his spine. Despite the chaos outside, he held himself perfectly still.
"Holy hell," he breathed, his voice nearly lost beneath the wind's roar. "It's like the entire ocean's trying to climb onto the shore."
I took another sip of whiskey, savoring the heat as it slid down my throat. "This? This is only late September being cranky. You should be here in January when the nor'easters really sink their teeth into us."
He turned from the window, eyes wide. "You mean this gets worse?"
"This is a summer breeze by comparison." I gestured toward the couch with my glass. "Might as well make yourself comfortable. Ferry won't run again until this blows through, and that won't be before morning."
Eric crossed to the sofa, settling onto the cushions. The firelight illuminated the angles of his face, throwing shadows that made him look older than the earnest researcher who'd knocked on my door a few days back.
"You hang out alone through this?" He waved toward the windows where the wind was testing every seal.
I rolled the whiskey around in my glass, watching the amber liquid catch the candlelight. "It's quieter than being in a crowd of people."
"You mean safer."
The observation hit closer to home than I cared to admit, but I took another drink instead of responding. The storm pressed against the cottage like a living beast, and I was grateful for Eric's presence.
Storms were honest. They didn't pretend to be anything other than what they were—raw power without an agenda.
They weren't like the bright-eyed young man sitting across from me, expressing his curiosity about everyone and everything.
Eric settled deeper into the couch, pulling one leg up beneath him. He appeared to relax and accept the storm.
"How long have you been out here?" he asked.
"Long enough."
"That's not really an answer."
