Page 42 of Stolen Harmony
I thought about this morning, about the way he'd looked at me when that guy had walked out of my bedroom. Not disgusted, not judgmental, but something more complicated. Like he'd seen something in me that I wasn’t ready to acknowledge.
“I think I fucked it up,” I said. “Whatever chance we had to... I don’t know. Be something. I threw it away because I’m apparently incapable of not destroying everything good in my life.”
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of rain and spring flowers and the eternal presence of the sea.
I rubbed at the back of my neck, let out a weak laugh. “You’d probably tell me to stop being dramatic. Roll your eyes, hand me a plate of cinnamon rolls, and say something like‘Rowan, for God’s sake, you’re not the first idiot to make a mess of things.’And then you’d hum while you cleaned the kitchen, like my entire existence wasn’t falling apart.”
I shook my head, staring at the lilies I’d laid down. “You’d love Roxie. She’s got better table manners than me. Stares at me like she’s judging my life choices, so yeah, she’d fit right in with you.”
When I finally stood, my legs were unsteady, stiff from staying in one position too long. The lilies looked small and fragile against the vast expanse of grass and stone, but they were all I had to offer. All I’d ever had to offer.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, and this time it came out softer, almost like a secret between us. “For everything. For staying away, for being angry, for not being what you needed me to be. And yeah—for not learning how to cook. You were right about that too.”
I turned and walked away without looking back, afraid that if I lingered any longer I might collapse completely. The cemetery gate closed behind me with a soft clang, and I found myself back on Harbor’s End’s quiet streets, surrounded by the living world that continued its relentless forward motion whether I was ready or not.
Chapter 12
Salt and Stone
Rowan
Wind cut through my jacket as I coasted along Harbor’s End’s narrow back roads, the engine of the Yamaha humming steady beneath me. Out here, the salt air bit sharper, and the town’s polished veneer gave way to something older—cottages bleached by sun and sea, yards crowded with lobster traps, gulls circling overhead.
A flash of motion in a gravel driveway caught my attention. A man was bent over a battered boat engine, the rhythmic clang of metal on metal ringing out above the morning quiet. At first, all I could see was the expanse of his bare back—muscles shifting beneath skin tanned from years on the water, sweat glinting at his shoulders in the slanting sun. Controlled power, purposeful movement. He looked like he belonged here, like the tide itself had shaped him.
Curiosity slowed my hands on the throttle. I eased off the road, the crunch of gravel beneath my tires drawing his attention. I killed the engine and pulled off my helmet, hanging it on the handlebars as I tried to shake the helmet hair back intosomething resembling normal. The man straightened up, wiping his hands on a rag, and in that moment I caught his profile: strong jaw, silver hair, eyes a striking blue-gray that sparked a recognition so sharp it almost hurt.
Something about him pulled at me. He was older, weathered in a way that spoke of decades of hard work and harder living. The tattoo of a compass rode above his heart, a pale scar slashing across his ribs, and when his gaze landed on me, it was assessing—unapologetic.
“Need a hand?” I called, kicking down the stand and swinging off the bike, doing my best not to stare.
He looked up, and a glimmer of something—amusement, maybe—flashed in his eyes. “Nothing I can’t handle,” he replied, voice gravelly with the morning chill. “But if you know anything about outboard motors that hate their owners, you’re welcome to try your luck.”
Heat crept up my neck as he studied me—really studied me. Not just the way strangers did when you rolled into town with a hangover and a chip on your shoulder, but like he saw every broken piece I tried to hide. That kind of gaze made me want to stand taller, be someone worth the trouble.
“Rowan, right?” he said. Not a question—more like he’d been expecting me. The way he said my name, slow and certain, sent a nervous thrill up my spine.
“Yeah. That’s me.” I shoved my hands in my jacket pockets, fighting the urge to check my reflection in a bike mirror like a nervous teenager. “And you’re…”
“Kepler Grant.” He held out a broad, calloused hand. “Elias’s father.”
I took it, feeling the strength in his grip, the calluses earned from years at sea. Up close, the resemblance to Elias was impossible to ignore, but Kepler radiated a different kind ofenergy—rougher, warmer, entirely unbothered by anyone’s opinion but his own.
“Been wondering when you’d show,” he said, eyes softening for a split second before sharpening again. “Suppose you’re not here for engine advice, but I’ll take the company all the same.”
The casual way he said it made my pulse quicken. He reached for a towel draped over the boat's edge, running it across his chest and shoulders with unselfconscious ease. I tried not to watch the way the fabric moved over his skin, tried not to notice how the morning light caught the silver in his chest hair.
“Coffee's on if you want some,” he said, nodding toward the cottage behind him. “Looks like you could use it.”
I should have made an excuse and left. Instead, I found myself nodding, drawn by something in his voice that was warm and steady and utterly masculine.
The cottage was exactly what I'd expected and nothing like I'd imagined. Nautical charts covered one wall, photographs of boats and family filled every surface—more than a few of my mother, which made my throat close up. The furniture was worn but solid, and the space felt smaller with both of us in it.
Kepler reached for my jacket as I stepped inside, his fingers brushing my shoulder—a touch casual enough to be polite, but lingering just a moment longer than necessary. He took the leather from my arms, folding it with care before hanging it on a hook by the door. “You won’t need this for a while,” he said, voice low and rough with an undercurrent I couldn’t quite read.
The gesture felt oddly intimate. I stood there, suddenly lighter, my skin tingling where his hand had been.
“Sit,” he said, already moving into the kitchen to pour coffee into two heavy mugs. I couldn’t help watching the way his muscles moved beneath his shirt as he reached for the pot, how his jeans rode low on his hips.
