“Surfing has a way of bringing people together,” Luke said simply. “Started running into him at dawnpatrol a lot after I moved back to Laguna. He needed that outlet after everything, with your mom leaving.”
A pang of guilt hit Meg.
“He never really talked about that time,” she said softly.
“Not his style.” Luke crumpled his burrito wrapper. “Anyway, I started helping out at the shack when he needed breaks. Kind of a tradition now. Especially lately. Margo’s been having some dizzy spells, getting tired more easily. Tyler was worried about leaving her alone during the lunch rushes.”
“You work at the Beach Shack too?” Meg couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice.
“Not really work. Fill in sometimes. I make a decent grilled cheese, but Margo says I flip with ‘unnecessary flourish.’” He demonstrated with an exaggerated wrist motion that made Meg smile despite herself. “If you need backup while you’re figuring things out, just let me know.”
“I think I can handle grilled cheese,” Meg said, though the offer was tempting. The thought of facing the lunch rush alone was more daunting than she wanted to admit.
“Of course you can.” Luke’s easy agreement held no trace of sarcasm. “But Tyler would kill me if I didn’t offer to help his big sis.”
Meg checked her watch and sighed. “I should get ready. I have a client call at seven, then I need to be at the shack by ten-thirty.”
“That’s right. You tell businesses how to tell their stories.” At her questioning look, he added, “Tyler mentioned it once or twice.”
“And you protect the ocean,” Meg said, remembering his earlier correction.
“Try to.” Luke straightened, heading for the back door. “Thanks for the company, Meg. Unexpected but nice.”
“Thanks for breakfast,” she replied, oddly reluctant to see him go.
He paused at the door. “You know, the waves are perfect this morning. Best therapy for corporate emergencies.”
“I don’t surf anymore,” she said automatically.
Luke’s eyes—still that impossible shade of blue she remembered—studied her face. “Shame. You used to race into the water before even dropping your towel on the sand.”
The memory hit her with startling clarity—the exhilaration of running toward the waves, the freedom of letting go.
“I was a kid then,” she said quietly.
“You were eighteen,” Luke corrected, “and you knew how to live in a way most adults forget.”
Before she could respond, he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that seemed to punctuate his observation.
Meg stood in the sudden silence of the kitchen, the scent of coffee and jalapeño sauce lingering in the air.Her phone buzzed with another email, and she turned back to her laptop, trying to push away the uncomfortable feeling that Luke had seen straight through the person she’d carefully constructed herself to be.
Whatever teenage feelings she’d once had belonged firmly in the past.
CHAPTER NINE
Meg arrived at the Beach Shack earlier than necessary, the quiet of early morning providing a welcome respite after yesterday’s chaotic juggling of work demands and shack responsibilities. She hadn’t spoken to Anna since the video call two nights ago, but the easy rhythm of that conversation still lingered. For the first time in years, it felt like her sister was just a phone tap away.
The sun had barely cleared the horizon, just lighting the empty parking lot. She’d left Tyler’s house at 6:30, relieved to escape the endless stream of emails that had consumed her evening.
She unlocked the back door with the key Margo had given her, stepping into the familiar smells of sourdough starter and coffee beans. The Beach Shack felt different in this pre-opening stillness—peaceful, expectant, like a theater before the show.
Meg flipped on the lights and moved through heropening tasks with surprising ease, muscle memory guiding her despite the years away. Fill the coffee machine. Check refrigerator temperatures. Prep the grill. Count the float in the register.
She wiped down the counter that ran the length of the small building, polishing the surface where customers would soon line up to place orders. She checked that the number cards were neat in their holder beside the register and that the outdoor tables on the deck were clean and ready. The takeout window facing the beach was still shuttered, but soon enough surfers would be lining up, sand-covered and hungry after morning sessions.
As she worked, her gaze kept drifting to the ceiling, seeing it with fresh eyes after noticing how lovingly Margo had handled the shell gift at her birthday. What had appeared random for years now revealed subtle patterns—was that a spiral of shells forming an ocean wave in the corner? Did those pale pink shells create a heart shape near the counter?
She was still studying the patterns when her phone rang. Meg glanced at the screen, surprised to see her sister’s name.
