A Love Worth Fighting For

Mara caught the stranger’s gaze between the swinging arms of the carousel and forgot, for one reckless second, why she had come to Briarwick Pier.

The sea wind lifted the loose strands of her hair and pressed her coat against her ribs. Salt glazed her lips. Somewhere behind her, a child shrieked with delight as the carousel horses rose and fell, while the old pier groaned beneath the evening crowd. Yet all Mara could see was the man standing near the rail, one hand resting on the weathered wood, his attention fixed on her as if he had been waiting.

Then someone crossed between them.

Mara moved at once.

She had spent three weeks telling herself that the brief encounter at the harbor had been nothing. A misplaced folder, a dropped glove, a stranger’s hand steadying her elbow before she fell against a stack of lobster crates. His voice had been low and dry when he’d asked if she was hurt. His eyes had stayed on hers a moment too long.

Nothing, she had insisted.

But nothing did not draw her to the pier at dusk with a name written on the back of a receipt.

Rowan Hale.

She had learned it from the pier master after asking questions she had pretended were casual. Now the name seemed to beat beneath her tongue.

“Excuse me,” she said, slipping past a couple sharing a paper cone of fried fish.

The stranger near the rail had vanished.

Mara stopped, scanning the shifting bodies. Lanterns had begun to glow along the pier, their light trembling gold across the damp boards. The tide slapped underneath. A brass bell rang from the arcade, bright and impatient.

There. A dark coat moving toward the far end.

She followed.

The crowd thickened around the game stalls. A boy waved a stuffed seal in her face. A woman backed into her with a startled apology. Mara murmured one in return without slowing. The man ahead turned his head, and she saw the clean angle of his cheek, the wind-tossed brown hair, the hand that had steadied her at the harbor.

“Rowan?”

He stopped.

For an instant, the world narrowed to the space between them.

His expression shifted from surprise to recognition, and the guarded line of his mouth softened. “Mara Ellison.”

Hearing her name in his voice sent a warm, absurd tremor through her. “You remember.”

“I remember most things that try to fall into the sea.”

“I didn’t fall.”

“You were leaning.”

“I was reaching for my folder.”

“You were reaching over a wet dock in heeled boots.”

His mouth tilted. It was not quite a smile, but it made her want to earn the real one.

Mara came closer, careful not to seem as eager as she felt. “You left before I could thank you.”

“You looked busy.”

“I was busy being embarrassed.”

“That can take time.”

She laughed before she could stop herself. The sound disappeared into the wind, but his eyes caught it. He looked at her then - not at her coat or the folder tucked beneath her arm, but at her face. His attention had weight. It made the cold feel less sharp.

“I came to find you,” she said.

The humor faded from his expression. “Did you?”

“I wanted to return this.”

She opened the folder and drew out a narrow sheet of paper. It had been caught beneath the clasp at the harbor, folded twice and damp along one edge. She had discovered it only after he left. A list of names and figures ran down the page in neat, severe handwriting.

Rowan looked at it, then at her. “You kept it.”

“I thought it was yours.”

“It is.”

He reached for the paper. Their fingers touched.

The contact lasted no more than a breath, but Mara felt the warmth of his skin despite the chill. Rowan’s hand paused beneath hers. His eyes lowered to their joined fingers, then lifted again.

“Thank you,” he said.

She should have released him. Instead, she noticed a small scar crossing the knuckle of his thumb. She noticed the faint scent of cedar and rain clinging to his coat.

“You could have sent someone for it,” she said.

“I could have.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

The answer sat between them, quiet and unmistakable.

A gust tore down the pier. Mara shivered. Rowan glanced toward the crowded arcade, where steam fogged the windows of a tea stall.

“Come inside,” he said. “You’re freezing.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re holding your elbow.”

She lowered her arm. “I’m perfectly comfortable.”

“Then come inside and prove it.”

His tone was mild, but the challenge underneath it warmed her more effectively than the tea stall could have managed. She followed him beneath the striped awning.

The stall smelled of cinnamon, wet wool, and strong black tea. Rowan ordered without asking what she wanted.

“Black tea,” he said to the vendor. “No sugar.”

Mara looked at him. “You remember that too?”

“I remember you refusing sugar at the harbor.”

“I was refusing the tea.”

“You drank half of it.”

“It was raining.”

“Apparently rain changes your standards.”

She accepted the paper cup he handed her. Their fingers brushed again. This time neither of them pretended not to notice.

...