“It’s the tallest brick lighthouse in the United States,” Jackson noted as he shut his door, then came around to my side and shut mine since I’d been too busy gaping.

“And we’re going to climb it?” I swore to God, if that man busted out a climbing harness and rope, I was going to—

“We’re going to climb the stairs inside it.”

“And they let you do that at nine o’clock on a Saturday night?”

He laughed, sending a wave of flutters through my stomach. “Starting next month, they’ll do full-moon tours, but tonight, it’s just you and me. Come on.” He motioned toward the sidewalk that led to the lighthouse, and we walked down the moonlit path.

“Hey, Jax.” A tall, heavy man with a thick black beard and wearing a uniform stepped out of the doorway as we approached.

“John. Thanks for letting us in,” Jackson said as he shook the man’s hand.

“No problem. I owe you a hell of a lot more than a little late-night access. You going to introduce me to your girl?” He turned a kind smile on me.

“Oh, I’m not his girl.”

“She’s not my girl.”

We spoke at the same time, then let the awkwardness speak for itself.

“Right.” He glanced between us. “Okay, well, the stairwell lights are on, but the deck lights are off, so you two be careful.”

We assured him we would be and then walked into the lighthouse. I took in the spiral staircase and shook my head. “What exactly does John owe you for, anyway?”

Jackson’s jaw flexed before he answered. “I got his brother out of a tight spot once. Nothing big.”

The way he looked away told me otherwise.

“You have a thing for saving people, don’t you?” Like me.

“You have no idea,” he answered quietly, staring up the center of the staircase.

“Okay, tour guide,” I said as my foot hit the first metal step. “Time to start guiding.”

“I promise it’s worth it,” he swore as we started to climb. “It’s thirty-one steps between each landing for a total of two hundred fifty-seven steps,” he recited, beginning my evening history lesson.

I fell into the rhythm of my feet and the cadence of his voice as he told me all about why it had been constructed in the eighteen hundreds.

“The Graveyard of the Atlantic?” I questioned. “Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?” My breathing grew labored, and I noted with more than a little awe and annoyance that his didn’t. No sir, he was still breathing deep and even. How in the blazing hell? Did he spend an hour on the StairMaster every day?

“I’ll show you,” he promised. “This is the last stretch of stairs before the top.”

“You mean this eventually ends?” I teased with mock wonder.