Meg awoke to the insistent buzz of her phone. She fumbled for it in the unfamiliar bedroom, squinting at the screen: 6:15 a.m., Brad calling. With a groan, she answered.
“Hello?” Her voice was rough with sleep.
“Please tell me you’re planning to call Reeves at 7 as promised,” Brad said without preamble. “He’s been texting me since 5 this morning.”
Meg sat up, pushing her hair from her face. “What exactly happened? Your texts last night weren’t very specific.”
“The creative team made unauthorized changes to the font package for San Clemente’s rebrand. Completely undermined the heritage feel we promised in the pitch.”
“And nobody ran this by me first?” Meg swung her legs over the side of the futon.
“They thought they were enhancing the concept.Reeves is furious—says it makes his historic family business look like a trendy pop-up shop.”
“It would,” Meg agreed, already mentally composing what she’d say to the client. “I’ll call him at 7 and walk through why we’re reverting to the original design.”
“He’s threatening to pull the account, Meg. He used the words ‘fundamental breach of trust.’”
“He won’t,” she said with more confidence than she felt, moving to the window and pulling back the curtain. A perfect Southern California morning greeted her—clear blue sky, palm trees swaying in a gentle breeze, the distant glimmer of ocean. “I know how to handle him.”
After confirming details with Brad, Meg ended the call and began her morning routine—or as close to it as she could manage in Tyler’s house. She’d discovered his coffee maker last night, a surprisingly high-end espresso machine that seemed at odds with his otherwise casual lifestyle.
In the kitchen, she measured beans precisely and set the water to heat, the familiar ritual providing comfort in unfamiliar surroundings. While waiting for her coffee, Meg surveyed Tyler’s kitchen with a critical eye. Surfing magazines scattered across the counter. Dishes from at least two days ago stacked beside the sink. A collection of seashells lined the windowsill, each labeled with locations and dates in Tyler’s distinctive handwriting.
Meg picked up one shell, turning it over to read the label: “Byron Bay, Australia – March 2022.” Shefrowned, setting it down and checking another: “Gold Coast, Australia – November 2021.” She hadn’t realized Tyler traveled to Australia so regularly.
The espresso machine beeped, and she gratefully poured herself a cup, adding the precise amount of milk she preferred. Laptop open on the counter, she began drafting an email to the creative team while simultaneously reviewing Reeves’ original contract specifications.
She was so focused on her work that she didn’t hear the back door open. It wasn’t until a male voice said, “You’re definitely not Tyler,” that she realized she was no longer alone.
Meg spun around, coffee sloshing over the rim of her cup and onto her silk blouse. “Darn it!”
Standing in the doorway was a tall man with sun-streaked brown hair and the kind of tan that came from living outdoors rather than visiting a salon. He wore board shorts, a faded t-shirt with a marine conservation logo, and a startled expression that quickly morphed into recognition.
“Meg Walsh,” he said, his voice deeper than she remembered but still carrying that easy confidence that had once made her stumble over her own feet in the sand. “That’s definitely not Tyler’s usual morning look.”
“Luke.” His name came out more breathlessly than she intended. She set down her coffee cup and looked down at the spreading stain on her blouse.
Luke Donovan. Her former surf instructor. The guy who’d taught her to surf during senior year, who she’dhad the biggest crush on but who’d never seemed to notice.
Now standing in her brother’s kitchen, looking unfairly good for this early hour, and holding a paper bag that smelled tantalizingly of breakfast burritos.
“Sorry for barging in,” he said, holding up a key. “Tyler gave me this. I didn’t realize he had... company.”
“I’m not company,” Meg said, still blotting her blouse. “I’m helping Margo while Tyler’s gone.”
Luke’s eyebrows rose. “Gone? Where?”
“Australia. Some emergency. He didn’t tell you?”
“He mentioned maybe heading there soon, but not that he’d actually left.” Luke set the bag on the counter and reached for a paper towel, offering it to Meg. “Here. Silk and coffee aren’t great friends.”
“Thanks,” she said, stepping back to put distance between them. “Tyler left. Quite suddenly.”
“That explains the urgent text asking me to check his tide charts.” Luke glanced around the kitchen. “I figured he was just heading out for a morning photo shoot.”
Meg frowned. “You two are friends?”
“Going on eight years,” Luke confirmed, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Hard to believe?”
