Page 40 of Kissing the Beach Town Fire Chief
“She’ll come around,” I tell her, taking her hand. “Maybe she just needs some space.”
“I hope so. For now… we’ve got a campaign to restart. Meet at your place tomorrow morning?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
***
The Next Morning
The doorbell rings just as I’m toweling my hair dry. I grumble, pulling on a T-shirt and sweatpants before opening the door to Ami’s amused grin.
“Well, good morning. Did you just wake up?”
I shake my head. “Couldn’t sleep. My brain kept running through strategies all night.”
She steps inside, setting a bag on the coffee table. “Then let’s make some new ones—plans that win over the folks still on the fence after your campaign shift. We can’t just give speeches. We have to make them feel this town’s history in their bones.”
I drop onto the couch beside her. “You’ve already been thinking about this, haven’t you?”
Her sly smile says everything. As she starts laying out her ideas, I can’t help but marvel. This woman isn’t just my anchor—she might be my secret weapon.
Chapter twenty-two
Ami
I’m nervous. The kind of nervous where your stomach feels too tight and your pulse won’t slow down, no matter how many deep breaths you take.
Ethan keeps telling me our plan will work, that tonight will be the turning point, but there’s still that persistent knot in my chest.
We’ve transformed the open space beside the beach into something special. A wide wooden stage, concealed for now behind a billowing white curtain, stands at the center of our setup. Strings of warm lights crisscross overhead, the salty breeze carrying the faint sound of gulls and the rhythmic hush of waves. Folding chairs are lined in neat rows, facing the hidden stage.
“Are the actors ready?” Ethan’s voice is low, close to my ear. His breath stirs my hair, and the nearness of him is both distracting and oddly calming.
“Yeah,” I answer. “They’re ready. Don’t worry. What about the invitations? Everyone got theirs?”
He grins, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Delivered to every doorstep. They think they’re coming for one of my campaign speeches. They’re in for a surprise.”
His confidence makes my lips tug upward. “That’s great. Go greet your guests. I’ll keep things moving back here.”
Before he goes, he gives my shoulder a warm squeeze, his fingers lingering a fraction too long. “We’ve got this,” he murmurs.
My pulse ticks higher, but not from nerves.
We split the work a week ago, the morning after the council posted the official tie. The special election is set, the clock already ticking. Ethan handled the invitations and volunteers. I recruited actors, found costumers, coordinated with artists, and rehearsed like our victory depended on it—because maybe it does.
Backstage, the air hums with quiet chatter and the scent of sawdust and paint. Eight actors mill around in costume—Bohemian skirts, linen shirts, headscarves, and worn leather boots. A harp leans against a chair, a flute gleams under the stage lights, and stretched canvases wait on wooden easels.
They’re ready. I hope I am.
The curtain shields everything from the audience for now; they can’t see the cobblestone set, the painted backdrop of the shoreline, the huge painted trees. The idea was mine, but Ethan brought it to life. He convinced local artists to build this with us—each stone, brushstroke, and prop a piece of Seabrook’s soul.
And tonight, I’m the narrator.
I argued against it at first. I’ve never been onstage, never spoken into a mic in front of a crowd. But Ethan had looked at me with that steady conviction of his and said, “You know this story better than anyone. I trust you.”
Now, here I am, clutching the microphone, heart pounding against my ribs. My mind keeps cycling through every possible mistake—tripping over words, forgetting lines, my voice shaking too much to carry.
Through a gap in the curtain, I spot Aunt Maggie. My heart stutters. She’s here? She’s angled toward the empty stage, arms folded, expression unreadable. She hasn’t seen me yet.
