Javier Mendez, 53, custom marine woodworker, had been manning his smoked black cod slider booth at the Newport Seafood Cookoff for four hours when he spotted her. He’d built the booth frame himself the week prior, refused to let the teen volunteer from the local rec department help heft the planks even when the 20 mph coastal wind knocked the half-assembled structure flat in the gravel parking lot. Stubbornness wasn’t just a quirk for him, it was a defense mechanism. Eight years out from his divorce, he still carried the weight of shutting his ex-wife out when her mom was dying of lung cancer, too wrapped up in his own grief over his failed business at the time to show up for her. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t let anyone get close enough to be let down again, and that included Clara, his 49-year-old next door neighbor who ran the used bookstore on the main drag, who he’d dodged small talk with for three months straight.
His jaw tightened when she walked toward him, faded canvas overalls slung loose over a sunflower print tank top, a streak of flour dusting her left wrist from the peach pies she’d entered in the dessert contest. Her golden retriever trotted at her heels, tail thumping when he spotted the piece of cod Javier had tucked in his pocket earlier for strays. “I saw you fumbling with your palm ten minutes ago,” she said, stopping so close the hem of her overalls brushed his scuffed work boots. She smelled like lavender laundry soap and burnt sugar, the kind of scent that sticks to your clothes after you’ve been baking all afternoon. “Got a splinter, right? I carry tweezers for paper cuts. Let me get it out before it gets infected.”
Javier’s first instinct was to step back, tell her he was fine, he’d dig it out later with his pocket knife when he was alone. But she was already reaching for his left hand, her elbow brushing his sun-warmed bicep when she lifted it to the light. Her fingers were softer than he expected, calloused only at the tips from turning book pages all day, and he held his breath when she pressed the tweezers to the sliver of cedar sticking out of his skin. The split second of sharp pain was over fast, and she wiped the tiny spot of blood off with a wet wipe she pulled from her purse, her thumb brushing the crease of his palm when she was done. He hated the way his chest felt tight, the war between the part of him that screamed he didn’t deserve to have someone be this gentle with him, and the part that wanted to lean into the warmth of her hand, ask her to stay.
They talked for ten minutes after that, the line at his booth dying down as most attendees drifted toward the main stage for the contest announcements. She told him she walked her dog at 6 a.m. every day, had seen him sanding the hull of the 1972 Boston Whaler he was restoring in his driveway more times than she could count. “I always wonder where you’ll take it when it’s done,” she said, tilting her head, her eyes not leaving his. “Most people around here fix up boats to sell. You don’t seem like the type.” Javier blinked, shocked. He never told anyone about the boat, never mentioned he was restoring it to take up the coast to the cove where his dad used to take him fishing before he passed. No one had paid enough attention to ask.
The announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers right then, calling the results for the savory appetizer category. Javier won second place, a $200 gift card to the local marine supply store, and before he could think better of it he pulled her into a hug. Her hair was soft, sun-bleached at the ends, and her hands rested on his lower back for two full beats longer than a casual, friendly hug required. When he pulled back, her cheeks were pink, and she was still looking up at him, no awkward look away, no nervous laugh to diffuse the tension. He could hear the crash of the waves a block away, the distant cheer of the crowd around the stage, the dog panting at their feet, and for the first time in eight years, the voice in his head telling him he’d just mess this up too was quiet.
He didn’t overthink it. “I got a six pack of that hazy IPA the brewery down the street released last week in my fridge,” he said, nodding toward the parking lot where his beat up pickup was parked. “If you don’t have plans later, you can come see the Whaler. I just finished installing the new teak dash last weekend.” She grinned, tucking a strand of wind-tousled hair behind her ear, and said she’d love to, as long as he let her bring a slice of the peach pie she’d baked, the one that didn’t win a prize but tasted better than any she’d ever made. They packed up his booth together, and he didn’t protest when she grabbed a stack of empty plastic serving trays to carry, even though he usually insisted on hauling everything himself. The sun was dipping low over the Pacific, painting the sky streaks of tangerine and soft lavender, and when she knocked her shoulder against his while they walked toward his truck, he didn’t flinch. He reached out, brushed a fleck of pie crust off her cheek, his thumb lingering against her skin for half a second before he pulled his hand away to grab the booth’s wooden legs from the ground.
