Page 25 of By the Book

“Good morning, dear. How are you?” She is chipper for such an early hour.

“Morning, I’m good. I had a question that might be a little weird. Can you email me the guest list you kept for the party last weekend?”

“Certainly, what for though?”

Silence hangs on the line between us. I had spent hours thinking about that list all night. And I didn’t think to come up with an excuse for why I need it? I was failing as an investigator this morning.

“I was just curious about something and had been talking to my friends about it.”

“I see,” my mother hums. “Well, I’ll send it to you as soon as we get off the phone.”

I can hear it in her voice that she’s not buying my vague response and I’m thankful she doesn’t press the issue. “I appreciate it!”

“Do you have time today to go shopping? I was thinking we could find you some fun antique tables for the store displays. Maybe anything else to make it feel more normal for you again.”

“I’d love that, but I think I am going to take today to be away from store things. I actually have plans. Can we go tomorrow?”

“Absolutely dear, enjoy those plans.”

We end the call and its mere seconds before the chime of my email sounds. Checking my screen, I see the notification from her. I officially have the guest list.

Three raps sound against my door, but I already knew he was here. I’d spent my morning pacing, sitting in my window seat watching for him, and pacing some more. I open the door and there is Tripp before me, a dark green sweater under his suedejacket today. Wearing this shade of green, his eyes look closer to hazel than true brown. Interesting.

“Good morning, Sherlock,” he says with a playful smile.

I try to scowl at the nickname, but the corner of my lip betrays me, tipping up into a smile. “Where did you say we were going?” I ask, grabbing my coat and stepping through the door.

“I didn’t.” His smile widens as we start down the hall. “But it’ll be private enough to run the list.”

The idea of having privacy with Tripp sends a thrill through me. And the excitement keeps me on the edge of my seat for the entirety of the drive. But when we pull into a public parking lot for the lighthouse standing tall before us, I start to wonder what his definition of privacy actually is.

Manchester Point consists of an open field that leads to a rocky shore and wooden catwalk stretching out past the water’s edge. At the end of the catwalk is the crisp white lighthouse. We stand at the path’s start and watch the tall grass of the fields, now a fawn color late in the season, dancing in the breeze.

“It’s always so beautiful out here,” I breathe, trying to remember the last time I’ve come up to the point. It has clearly been too long.

Placing his hand between my shoulder blades, he gently nudges me forward. “One of my favorite spots. Pops and I used to fish out here.”

Surprised, I turn to look up at him. “Do you still fish? I don’t think I knew that about you.”

“I do, I set up right off the point here,” he says, nodding out towards the sea.

Following his gaze, I absorb this new piece of information. I’m desperate to see these other sides of him, the things I might not know.

As we cross through the field, he adds, “I’ve only ever come out here with Pops, or alone. I try to get out when I need my brain to quiet.”

“What things are you trying to quiet?” I murmur, allowing him to guide me in front of him out onto the catwalk.

“Mostly this job. Living up to it, doing it in a way that would make Pops proud.” His voice is soft, and I nearly miss his words in the breeze off the water. I spin to face him, coming to a stop and causing him to pause just inches from me. He stretches his hands out on the railings of the catwalk around me and leans forward, gaze settling on my face.

“I think he’d be very proud of you,” I whisper, unable to look away from his disarming, warm eyes. My heart pounds in my chest when he brushes the curls that have escaped my scrunchie back behind my ear. Just like each of his other touches, my skin explodes with a heated sensation where his fingers trail along my temple.

“You sound confident about that,” he rasps.

“I am confident about it. And he’s not the only one.”

He nods, his throat bobbing. I get the sense that this openness isn’t commonplace for him. And a familiar spark of hope tugs at me.

I turn around again before doing something embarrassing based on that hope and continue to the lighthouse. “So, is there a place to sit out here?”

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