She glances at the window. Rain’s still hammering the glass.
“You done murals before?” I ask.
She nods. “Plenty. I’d show you some, but my phone’s about to die.”
“There’s an outlet by the shelves.”
She shrugs. “Oh, that’s okay. I’m not even sure where my charger is. It’s in one of my bags, I’m just not sure which one.”
“I’ve got a power bank,” I offer.
She blinks. “Superman.”
It’s a joke, a throwaway line, but it hits harder than it should. I walk to the desk, grab the charger, and bring it back to her. Our fingers brush.
It’s electric.
Not the cliché kind—no sparks, no dramatic gasp—but a real, biological jolt that hits low and hot and wrong.
Something about her… unsteadies me.
“Thanks,” she says, plugging her phone in.
“No problem.”
She exhales and leans back, sipping more cocoa, watching the fire flicker.
“You know where I can find a gas station around here? I’m running on fumes. Phone’s on 2%. Truck’s barely hanging on. Real good first impression.”
I smile. “Most places stay closed ‘til eight. But the Shell station down on Harbor opens early. And there’s a bakery just down the street… Sugar Haven. Cora runs it. Opens before the sun’s up, bless her.”
“Cora,” she repeats. “Cute.”
“She makes the best cranberry muffins in the county. Locals line up for them.”
Her shoulders relax slightly. “Thanks. Again.”
I nod.
Then I look at her again.
Really look.
She’s in my library wearing my shirt, pink hair dripping, cocoa in one hand and my power bank in the other.
I’ve lived in Driftwood Cove for close to a decade. I know every person who passes through these doors.
But I don’t know her.
And for some reason I can’t name yet, I really, really want to.
“How long are you staying in town?” I ask, half-hoping she says a while.
Sadie lifts her cocoa to her lips, blowing softly before answering. “As long as it takes to paint the murals.”
Her voice is casual, but it carries something heavier underneath. I force myself not to ask a follow-up question.
That could be two weeks or two months.
