Page 69 of Heart Checked By the Hockey Heartthrob

With me.

Wes appears beside me with two glasses of lemonade. He presses one into my hand and nods toward the porch steps. “Come on. You’ve got to see what I did with the garage.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You didn’t just put a lock on it and pretend it doesn’t exist?”

“You wound me.”

We step down to the side yard and around the back. The garage door is already rolled up, and I blink in surprise.

It’s… clean.

Organized, even.

Kayaks hang from overhead hooks. The surfboards are lined up neatly. The old box of unopened volleyballs and badminton gear is now shelved in labeled bins. There’s even a pegboard with beach towels rolled and labeled “kids” and “grown-ups,” because apparently his sister Liz got into his head about age-appropriate towel sizes.

“Wow,” I say.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Told you I was reformed.”

“This is…” I turn in a slow circle. “Actually, kind of impressive.”

“You’re allowed to say it’s hot.”

I grin. “Fine. A man who labels bins voluntarily? That’s hot.”

We head back to the house just in time to hear the first guests arrive—Griff’s booming voice followed by Liz loudly announcing that the first person to throw sand in her drink gets dunked in the ocean.

I step onto the deck and look out at all of it—the porch, the path to the beach, the wind tousling the umbrella Wes set up by the grill.

This isn’t just a house anymore.

It’s a home.

Ours.

If I ever doubted Wes Archer was staying in Sunset Cove for real, that doubt dies the second I step onto his back deck and see an entire world scattered across his backyard like a scene from a very wholesome sitcom.

Children are chasing each other through a sprinkler shaped like a rainbow. Savannah is applying sunscreen to Megan’s husband’s bald head like it’s her patriotic duty. Abby is balancing a fruit tray on one hip and baby Violet on the other while directing Griff toward the grill. And in the distance—yes, that’s Beckett, absolutely dominating a paddleboard relay race against a group of overconfident teenagers.

Wes is in the middle of it all, barefoot and sun-kissed, manning a drink cooler like a seasoned bartender-slash-lifeguard. His T-shirt is damp, his hair is a little windswept, and his smile is something I haven’t seen this wide since we were just two barely-reconnected people on a hockey rink.

He catches my eye as I step down from the deck, barefoot in my navy sundress, beach bag slung over my shoulder.

“You made it,” he calls, grinning.

“You bribed me with lemon bars, remember?”

“Technically, Abby bribed you with lemon bars. I just facilitated.”

“Still counts.”

He hands me a fizzy drink with lime and a tiny paper umbrella, and I take it without a word, soaking in the sun, the breeze, the scent of grilled pineapple, coconut sunscreen, and ocean air. The whole yard is alive.

“I’m impressed,” I say.

“With the umbrella?”

“With the fact that you managed to coordinate a whole beach picnic without your head exploding.”

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