Page 13 of The Lightkeeper

“I think it’s fascinating to see how much things stay the same… and to be able to pinpoint the exact moment something changed. Fascinating and comforting.”

I didn’t know how to agree because I’d never thought of it like that before.I kept a log because it anchored me to reality—to each day. It reminded me that even though I was broken, I had a purpose. But maybe there had always been something more… something I hadn’t given a name to until she’d translated it.

“Also, lonely,” she went on, shifting just enough that I could see her reflection in the glass, her eyes blankly pinned to the horizon. “So focused on keeping track of the world around you, you don’t have to think about your place in it. Or wonder if you have one.”

Who was this woman? Who went from sea slugs to existentialism in a matter of minutes without missing a beat?And more importantly, how did she know? I didn’t want to think about my place in the world because I didn’t have one. Not out there. Only here, on the very edge of existence, was there a place for me. Here, where the weather and the sea were as harsh and unforgiving and solitary as I was.

“My place is right here.”Unlike hers.

I refused to let myself consider why she sounded like she didn’t have a place. I refused to let myself wonder how someone who was clearly smart, breathtakingly beautiful, and too damn kind for my own good could think she didn’t have a place. Literally anywhere would be lucky to have her. Anywhere but here.

“Is there something you needed?” My jaw clenched, and my gaze traitorously returned to the slope of her back down to her perfect ass.Goddamn, she was crafted for pure temptation.

I went to move behind her at the same moment she turned, her upturned face within inches of mine. Her small gasp immediately drew my attention to her mouth. Full, pink lips that were so close. So damn close all I had to do was bend down to taste them.

“How did you know about the storm?” she asked, the huskiness in her voice unmistakable.

For a second, I let in the insane thought that if I kissed her, it would stop her questions.

Fuck.

“Everything dangerous in nature comes with a warning, Miss Cross, if you’re smart enough to recognize the signs,” I rasped.

“What’s your warning?”

A low sound erupted from the depths of my chest.She should’ve recognized the signs for that instantly.I moved back, needing space from her.

“For the storm, I mean.”

“Blood red sky in the morning,” I said roughly.

“Oh.”

“You should go. I’m sure you have plenty of work to do.”Like I did. “They’re not calling for a lot of great weather in the coming weeks.”

The forecast predicted a halfway-decent day once the drizzle stopped, and that meant I wanted to get up on the roof and replace the dozen or so shingles that had been damaged in the last big storm. After today—after the end of this week, really—that was when things took a turn for the worse.

I opened the door to the stairwell, holding it ajar for her. Single file,we made it back downstairs without incident.

Almost.

“Oh,” she exclaimed and spun. Somehow, I managed to not crash into her, but it was a small victory considering that stopping in time meant stopping within too-short inches from her. “Did you like the shell?”

“What shell?”

Color fused to her cheeks. “Here.” She went to the kitchen, and I took the opportunity to take a deep breath, preparing myself for several more minutes in her presence.

“Your shell and note.” She pushed both along the counter until they were in front of me.

Somehow in the midst of…her…I’d missed the cotton-candy-colored shell and paper in the center of the counter.

I picked up the paper. Block letters. Slightly curved. On a slant.Everything I thought her handwriting would be.

Mr. Kinkade, I think we got off on the wrong “foot.” I hope you have a spe-shell day!

Foot. Shell. I gritted my teeth, forcing myself not to react to her snail puns as she watched me with a smile. I set the note down without a word and picked up the shell, the whole thing swallowed up in my grasp.

“What is this?” I was almost afraid to ask.

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