Chapter 3: Running Is Easier Than Trusting

The man standing in her grandmother's kitchen had the kind of face that made Maya's survival instincts scream at her to run. Not because he looked dangerous—though the broad shoulders and calloused hands suggested he could be if he wanted—but because he looked safe. And safe men, Maya had learned, were often the most dangerous kind.

"You must be Maya." His voice was deep, rough around the edges like sea-worn stone. "I'm Finn MacAllister. I've been maintaining the property."

He held a hammer in one hand and had sawdust in his dark hair. Storm-gray eyes assessed her with an intensity that made her want to check if all her walls were still in place. This was not the elderly handyman she'd imagined when Caroline had mentioned someone had been "keeping an eye on things."

"You can leave now," Maya said, keeping the kitchen island between them. "I'm here. I'll take it from here."

Something flickered across his face—amusement, maybe, or recognition. "Your grandmother hired me for the year. Paid in advance. I'm contracted through September."

"Then I'll pay you to leave."

"Not interested." He set the hammer down on the counter with a deliberate thud. "Eleanor was important to me. I made her a promise to look after this place. I keep my promises."

The way he said her grandmother's name—Eleanor, familiar and fond—made something twist in Maya's chest. This stranger had known her grandmother. Had probably seen her more in the last year than Maya had in the last decade.

"I don't need help," Maya said.

"The broken porch railing, leaking roof in the east wing, and faulty water heater say otherwise." Finn crossed his arms, and Maya tried not to notice how the motion pulled his worn flannel shirt tight across his chest. "The place has good bones, but Eleanor couldn't keep up with it the last few years. I've been doing what I can, but a B&B needs more than patch jobs."

Maya had spent two days in Moonlight Cove, and already the town felt too small. She'd driven past the same lighthouse three times because there was only one main road. The grocery store clerk had known her name before she'd introduced herself. And now this—a man who wouldn't leave, who'd made promises to her grandmother, who looked at her like he could see every scar she was trying to hide.

"Fine," she said, though nothing about this felt fine. "Stay. But I have rules."

One dark eyebrow lifted. "Rules?"

"You work. I pay you. That's it. No personal questions. No small talk. No getting in my way."

"What if I have questions about the repairs?"

"That's different. That's business."

"And if I need to know your coffee order so I can grab you one when I make the hardware store run?"

"I don't drink coffee," Maya lied. The empty takeout cup from the gas station was sitting on the counter between them, and they both knew it.

Finn's lips twitched. "Right. No coffee. Got it."

He moved toward the doorway, and Maya realized she'd been holding her breath. But he paused, turning back. "For what it's worth, Eleanor talked about you all the time. She never stopped hoping you'd come back."

The words hit harder than any fist ever had. Maya's throat tightened. "You don't know anything about me or my grandmother."

"I know she loved you. And I know she was worried about you. That's enough."

He left before Maya could respond, his boots heavy on the hardwood floors. Through the window, she watched him head toward the detached garage that apparently served as his workshop. He moved with the easy confidence of a man comfortable in his own skin, and Maya hated how much that unsettled her.

She'd spent the last two days avoiding town, living on gas station food and avoidance. The lawyer had given her the basics: run the inn for six months, make it profitable, or lose everything to charity. Simple. Impossible, but simple.

The Tidewater Inn had ten guest rooms, a commercial kitchen that probably hadn't passed inspection in years, and enough problems to keep a handyman busy for a decade. Her grandmother's bedroom was untouched—she'd locked the door after Caroline had given her the tour, unable to face the intimate evidence of a life lived without her.

Maya pulled out her grandmother's business ledgers, trying to make sense of the numbers. The inn had been struggling for years. Fewer guests. Rising costs. Her grandmother had been running on fumes and pride.

The back door opened, and Maya tensed before she saw it was just Finn, carrying lumber.

"I thought you were working in the garage," she said.

"Need to measure the porch." He headed straight through, not waiting for permission.

This was going to be her life now. This man, in her space, for months. The thought made her chest tight.

She followed him outside, where the late afternoon sun painted everything gold. The view was stunning—the inn sat on a bluff overlooking the Atlantic, with a private path down to a rocky beach. Maya remembered running down that path as a child, her grandmother calling after her to be careful.

"Your grandmother used to sit here every morning," Finn said, not looking at her. He was on his knees, examining the broken railing. "Coffee and a book. Said it was the best spot in Maine."

"Why are you telling me this?"

He glanced up, and the look in his eyes was too knowing. "Because you're trying to figure out if you can do this. If you can stay. And I think you need to know that this place meant something to someone. That it can mean something again."

"You don't know what I need."

"No," he agreed. "But I know what running looks like. And I know it doesn't solve anything."

Maya's hands clenched into fists. "I'm not running. I'm here, aren't I?"

"Being somewhere and staying are two different things."

He stood, brushing sawdust from his jeans, and suddenly he was too close. Maya stepped back automatically, and something shifted in his expression—understanding, maybe, or concern.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said quietly.

"I never said you were."

"You didn't have to." He held her gaze for a moment longer, then turned toward his truck. "I'll be back tomorrow. Eight AM. Lock your doors tonight, Maya. This town is safe, but old houses make noise. Don't want you thinking it's something it's not."

She watched him drive away, his truck disappearing down the winding coastal road. The sun was setting now, painting the ocean in shades of blood orange and deep purple. Beautiful and violent all at once.

Maya went back inside and locked every door, just like he'd suggested. She checked them twice. Then a third time.

She was pulling her grandmother's quilts from the linen closet when she found the journal—leather-bound, hidden beneath the towels. Her grandmother's handwriting on the first page: For Maya, when she's ready to know the truth.

Maya's hands shook as she opened it. The first entry was dated ten years ago. The day after their last conversation.

She'll come back. I have to believe she'll come back. But if she doesn't, if he's taken her so completely that I lose her forever, then she needs to know what really happened that summer. She needs to know why I tried so hard to warn her. She needs to know about James.

The name sent ice through Maya's veins. James. Her uncle. Dead for twenty years, or so she'd been told.

She turned the page, but the lights in the inn flickered once, twice, then went completely dark. In the sudden silence, Maya heard it—footsteps on the porch. Slow. Deliberate.

And then a knock at the door she'd just locked.