Chapter 6: An Accidental Collision

Maya didn't see him until it was too late.

She'd been balancing three grocery bags, her grandmother's leather journal tucked under one arm, and trying to answer her phone with her chin—a feat of desperation that would've been impressive if it hadn't ended in disaster. The lawyer's office had called twice that morning about paperwork she still needed to sign, the inn's ancient boiler had started making a sound like a dying whale, and she'd just discovered that Moonlight Cove's only grocery store closed at 5 PM on Wednesdays. Which meant she had approximately four minutes to get back to her car before everything in her bags turned into expensive compost.

She rounded the corner of Harborview Street at a near-jog, her eyes on her phone screen, and collided with what felt like a brick wall wrapped in flannel.

The bags went flying. Apples rolled across the cobblestones like they were making a break for freedom. Her grandmother's journal hit the ground, pages splaying open. And Maya—Maya went stumbling backward, arms windmilling, certain she was about to end up sprawled across the sidewalk in front of half the town.

Strong hands caught her waist, steadying her before gravity could complete its mission.

"Whoa there." The voice was deep, rough around the edges like sea glass worn smooth by waves. "You okay?"

Maya looked up—and up—into the most striking pair of gray eyes she'd ever seen. Storm-cloud gray, the kind that shifted between silver and slate depending on the light. They belonged to a man who looked like he'd stepped out of a rugged cologne ad: dark hair that fell just past his collar, a jaw shadowed with stubble, shoulders broad enough to fill a doorway. He wore work boots, faded jeans with paint stains, and a navy blue henley that had seen better days.

His hands were still on her waist.

Maya jerked backward, her heart hammering for reasons that had nothing to do with almost falling. "I'm fine. Sorry. I wasn't looking where I was—" She caught herself mid-apology, remembering Simone's words. "I mean, thank you. For catching me."

Something flickered across his face—recognition, maybe, or curiosity. He released her immediately, stepping back to give her space. "No harm done." He crouched down, gathering the scattered apples with an efficiency that suggested he'd done this kind of thing before. "Though your groceries might disagree."

Maya knelt beside him, reaching for her grandmother's journal. Her fingers brushed his as they both grabbed for the same apple, and she pulled back like she'd touched a live wire.

"That's Eleanor's journal," he said quietly.

Maya's head snapped up. "You knew my grandmother?"

"Everyone knew Eleanor." He handed her the journal carefully, like it was something precious. "She was... she was special. I'm sorry for your loss."

There was something in the way he said it—a weight that suggested his sorrow was personal, not just the polite condolence of a stranger. Maya studied him more closely. He had to be in his mid-thirties, with the kind of weathered tan that came from working outdoors and the callused hands of someone who built things for a living.

"You're Maya, right?" He stood, offering her his hand to help her up. "I'm Ethan Cross. I do maintenance and repairs around town. Your grandmother hired me to work on the Tidewater a few months before she..." He trailed off, clearing his throat. "Before she passed."

Maya took his hand, letting him pull her to her feet. His grip was firm, warm, and brief. "The lawyer mentioned something about ongoing work at the inn. That's you?"

"Some of it. There's a lot that needs fixing." He picked up the last of her groceries, loading them back into the bags with a care that seemed at odds with his rough exterior. "Old buildings are like old people—they need constant attention or they fall apart."

"Are you saying my grandmother's inn is falling apart?"

"I'm saying your grandmother knew how to maintain what mattered." His gray eyes met hers, steady and unflinching. "But she'd been putting off some of the bigger repairs. Waiting for the right time, she said. I think maybe she was waiting for you."

The words hit harder than they should have. Maya had spent ten years not thinking about her grandmother, not calling, not visiting. And Eleanor had been waiting.

"I didn't know she was sick," Maya said, hating how defensive she sounded.

"She didn't tell most people." Ethan handed her the bags, his expression unreadable. "Eleanor played her cards close to the vest. But she talked about you sometimes. I wondered if you were happy. If you were safe."

Safe. The word lodged in Maya's throat like a stone. She'd never been safe with Derek. She'd been trapped, controlled, systematically isolated from everyone who'd cared about her. Including the grandmother who'd apparently never stopped wondering about her.

"I should go," Maya said abruptly. "Thanks for—for helping with the bags."

She turned to leave, but Ethan's voice stopped her.

"The boiler at the inn. That's what I came to talk to you about."

Maya froze. "How did you know about the boiler?"

"Because I've been maintaining it for two years, and that whale sound means the pressure valve is sticking. If you don't get it fixed in the next day or two, you're looking at either no heat or a small explosion. Neither one's great for a Maine winter."

Despite everything, Maya felt a laugh bubble up. "This town is insane. Does everyone just know everything about everyone else's business?"

"Pretty much." The corner of Ethan's mouth quirked up in something that might have been a smile. "It's claustrophobic as hell until someone needs help, and then it's the best thing in the world. Your grandmother understood that."

Maya looked at him—really looked at him. There was something solid about Ethan Cross, something that suggested he was a man who kept his promises. But Maya had learned the hard way that solid could turn to stone, that strength could become suffocation.

"How much?" she asked. "To fix the boiler?"

"For you? Just the parts. Eleanor prepaid me for six months of work before she died. Said she had a feeling you'd need help settling in."

Of course she had. Even from beyond the grave, Eleanor Reeves was taking care of her.

"Tomorrow morning?" Ethan asked. "I can be there by eight."

Maya nodded, clutching her bags. "Tomorrow."

She made it three steps before his voice cut through the evening air one more time.

"Maya? Your grandmother's journal. Page forty-seven. She left you a note."

Maya's blood turned to ice. "What?"

"Page forty-seven," Ethan repeated. "She showed it to me the week before she died. Said you'd know what it meant when you were ready."

He walked away then, his boots echoing on the cobblestones, leaving Maya standing in the middle of Harborview Street with her heart racing and her hands shaking.

She waited until she was back in her car, doors locked, before she opened the journal with trembling fingers. Page forty-seven. The entry was dated three months ago, written in her grandmother's elegant script.

My dearest Maya,

If you're reading this, then you've come home. I knew you would, eventually. I knew because you're stronger than you think you are, and because you're my granddaughter. We don't stay broken.

But coming home isn't enough. There are things about Moonlight Cove—about our family—that you need to know. Things I should have told you ten years ago, before you left. Before you met him.

Trust Ethan. He knows more than he's saying, but he's one of the good ones. And Maya, sweetheart—be careful. The reason I never sold the Tidewater wasn't just sentiment.

It was protection.

Some secrets are buried for a reason. But some secrets need to be uncovered before they destroy everything.

Start with the lighthouse.

The entry ended there, mid-thought, as if Eleanor had been interrupted. Or as if she'd run out of time.

Maya's hands wouldn't stop shaking. Protection from what? What secrets? And what the hell did the old lighthouse on the northern point have to do with any of this?

She looked up through her windshield at the darkening sky, at the town that had seemed so quaint and peaceful when she'd arrived three days ago.

Moonlight Cove suddenly felt a lot less like a refuge and a lot more like a trap.

And Ethan Cross—the handsome handyman with his stormy eyes and his careful words—knew something he wasn't telling her.