Page 52 of Kissing the Beach Town Fire Chief
Ethan stands by the arrivals door, tall and steady, his smile bright enough to cut through the crowd. The moment our eyes lock, it’s like time folds in on itself—six months vanish, and it’s just us again.
I run. My suitcase bangs against my side, my heart thunders, and when I reach him, I fling myself into his arms. He catches me like he will never let me go.
“I missed you,” I whisper fiercely.
“I missed you too,” he murmurs into my hair. Then he leans back, his eyes shining. “Welcome home, Ami.”
Home. The word lands like a promise.
Hand in hand, we walk through the airport doors. The streets of Seabrook await, familiar and new all at once.
And just like that, I know: I’m finally where I belong.
Chapter twenty-nine
Ethan
She’s home.
The words beat in my chest as I drive us through Seabrook with her suitcase rattling quietly in the back and her hand warm on the console. Six months of screens and static and waiting, and now Ami is right here—salt air threading through her hair, seashell necklace catching sun like it’s been waiting for this moment, like I have.
“Feels like I paused a movie and just unpaused it,” she says softly, peering out at storefronts I’ve seen a thousand times. “Everything looks the same… but I feel different.”
“Seabrook doesn’t rush,” I say, smiling, “it just keeps a chair open.”
Her fingers tighten around mine. We don’t need more than that.
We pull into Aunt Maggie’s drive first. Of course we do. The door swings open before I’ve even cut the engine. “Well, would you look at that,” Aunt Maggie calls, marching down the steps,eyes bright. “My runaway niece figured out where home is.” She pulls Ami into a hug that could set a shoulder. Then she turns on me, chin lifted, smug as a cat with a ribbon. “You—don’t ever hurt her. Or I’ll un-elect myself and make a new office called Sheriff of Love and arrest you.”
“Yes, Mayor,” I say, dead serious, and she barks a laugh.
Inside, the kettle is already on, cookies cooling on the counter, the table set like she’s been rehearsing this scene. We sit. We breathe. We pretend this is normal. “So?” Aunt Maggie says hands on hips. “Ami-girl, are you here for a visit or are we finally calling this permanent?”
Ami doesn’t look at the table. She looks at me. “Permanent,” she says, steady. “I wrapped all my deadlines, turned in my notice last week and finished out the last edits yesterday. I’m back for good.”
The words land like a match on dry kindling. I reach for her hand under the table. She meets me halfway.
“And,” Aunt Maggie adds, knowing glint in her eye, “she already had the utilities turned on.” Ami’s cheeks flush. “I was going to tell him next.”
“Utilities?” I echo, slow on purpose, because I know exactly where this is going and I want to hear her say it.
Ami takes a breath. “I’m moving into myfamily’s house. I never sold it. I couldn’t. It’s right between you and Aunt Maggie for a reason.” Her eyes shine, and there it is—the thing I’ve wanted since July. “It’s home.”
My chest eases in that way it only ever does around her. “Good,” I say, voice rougher than I expect. “That’s good.” “And before you say anything,” she adds, glancing between us, “there is no beach-cottage surprise or anything like that. I know I mentioned it once or twice on our calls. Not now. Ethan. I don’t want you to think that I’m buying houses to back you into a corner. The only plan is making the family house mine again.Ours – eventually if that is what you want. The cottage idea can wait until it’s a “we" project, not a “me” panic.”
Aunt Maggie looks like someone just handed her the Atlantic. “Bless it,” she mutters, wiping at one eye. “You two finally learned to use your words.” “Working on it,” I say.
Ami squeezes my fingers under the table. “I told Aunt Maggie early because I needed help with the inspector and the plumber and… everything. I didn’t want to tell you until I could say it face to face.” She swallows. “I was afraid it would sound like pressure.”
I shake my head. “It sounds like home.”
Aunt Maggie clears her throat, shamelessly eavesdropping. “For the record,” she says, tapping the table like a gavel, “you have my blessing. On the house, on the two of you, on whatever you decide to build. Consider yourselves pre-approved by the Mayor for reckless amounts of happiness.”
“Yes, ma’am,” we say together. She waves us off with a soft snort. “Get out of my kitchen before I start crying for real. Go see your house, Ami-girl.”
We walk next door in the late afternoon hush. It’s like the place has been holding its breath all winter: same white clapboard, same blue door, same porch that ate the summers of my childhood with its creak and its sun.
Ami stops at the bottom step. Her shoulders lift with a breath that shakes. “I forgot how good it smells,” she whispers, “lemon oil and salt air.”
