CHAPTER ONE
Meg Walsh stood in the doorway of her brother Tyler’s guest room, holding fresh towels she’d already changed once that morning. The afternoon sun slanted through the windows, highlighting the surfboard wax fingerprints Tyler had left on the dresser when he left over a month ago—fingerprints she’d decided to leave because girlfriends probably found that kind of thing charming. Authentic.
“You’re doing it again,” Luke said from behind her.
She spun around, clutching the towels. “Doing what?”
“That thing where you organize everything within an inch of its life when you’re nervous.” He leaned against the doorframe, that easy smile of his both calming and mildly infuriating. “The room was perfect an hour ago. And an hour before that.”
“I want her to feel welcome.” Meg set the towels onthe bed, then immediately adjusted them so the edges aligned perfectly. “Tyler’s never brought anyone home before. This Stella must be special.”
“Stella,” Luke repeated, testing the name. “Sophisticated.”
“Right? I’m thinking Estelle, maybe? Or it could be short for something Italian. Tyler mentioned she’s from Australia, but that doesn’t mean—” She stopped herself, hearing the ramble building. Three deep breaths. Count them. One. Two. Three.
Luke crossed to her, placing warm hands on her shoulders. “Tyler loves you. His girlfriend will love you. You don’t need to be perfect.”
“I’m not trying to be perfect. I’m trying to be—” She gestured at the room, searching for the word. Welcoming? Prepared? Not the sister who’d been gone for fifteen years and was now suddenly playing house in Tyler’s space while he was off falling in love on another continent?
Her phone buzzed. Tyler.
Landing at 3. Bringing Stella. Important news.
“Important news,” she read aloud, her voice climbing. “What does that mean? Important news?”
“Maybe they’re engaged,” Luke suggested.
Meg’s hands flew to her hair. “Engaged? Oh God, I should have gotten flowers. Why didn’t I get flowers? There’s time—we could stop?—”
“Or,” Luke interrupted gently, “maybe the important news is just that he’s finally bringing someone home. That’s pretty important for Tyler.”
Right. That made sense. Tyler, her perpetually single brother who spent a ton of his time in Australia on mysterious photography jobs and the rest charming tourists at the Beach Shack while expertly deflecting any attempts at serious relationships. Tyler, who’d perfected the art of being everyone’s friend and no one’s boyfriend.
Meg’s phone showed 12:47. Two hours and thirteen minutes until landing. Factor in deplaning, baggage claim—they needed to leave shortly to be safe.
“I changed the sheets in here twice,” she admitted.
“I know.”
“And I bought three different types of coffee because I don’t know what she drinks.”
“I saw.”
“And I made a list of restaurants in case they’re hungry, organized by cuisine type and dietary restrictions?—”
“Meg.” Luke turned her to face him. “Breathe.”
She breathed. The afternoon light caught the silver threading through Luke’s sandy hair, and his eyes held that steady calm that made her feel both seen and safely held. How did he do that?
“What if she hates me?” The words came out smaller than intended.
“Impossible,” he said simply.
“I’m living in Tyler’s house. I’ve rearranged his entire kitchen. I threw out his collection of expired hot sauce?—”
“All valid reasons for hatred,” Luke agreed solemnly. “Especially the hot sauce.”
Despite herself, she smiled. “I’m being ridiculous.”
