Prologue
Letmetellyoua story.
Not the kind with a perfect ending. Not the kind that fits into some neat little box with all the right moments happening at all the right times. No, this story is messy. It’s raw. It’s full of every beautiful, painful, gut-wrenching thing that love is made of.
Because love—the real kind—doesn’t follow the rules. It doesn’t fit inside a timeline. It doesn’t care about logic or reason or whether you’re ready for it. Love happenstoyou. And once it’s there? It never really leaves.
I learned that the hard way.
I used to think love was a choice. That if you were strong enough, disciplined enough, you could decide when to let someone in and when to walk away. That you could control it. Shape it. Keep it from wrecking you.
Then Savannah Monroe happened.
And nothing has made sense since.
She was never supposed to be mine, not really. Not in the way that counted. But that didn’t stop me from wanting her. From loving her in a way that changed me. From losing her in a way that nearly destroyed me.
I used to sit on this dock and stare at the water, trying to convince myself that time would wash her away. That if I stayed still long enough, the ache in my chest would dull, that one day I’d wake up and not feel her absence like a ghost wrapped around my ribs. But no matter how many nights passed, no matter how hard I tried to move on, she was still there.
In the way the wind brushes against my skin.
In the way the tide rolls in, unrelenting, impossible to ignore.
In the whispers of the past that never quite let go.
I’ve spent a long time trying to rewrite the ending. Trying to be the man who lets go, who moves forward, who builds something new. But the truth is, somestories aren’t meant to be rewritten.
Some stories are meant to pull you back in.
So, if you’re looking for something simple, something easy—this isn’t it.
But if you want the truth, if you want to know what it’s like to love someone so deeply that they become a part of you, even when they’re gone—then keep reading.
Because this?
This is theEchoes of Us.
-Chase Montgomery
Echoes of Us
Aaron McLean
1
Beyond The Reputation
ChaseMontgomerywasthekind of man everyone in Wrightsville Beach knew—some by name, others by reputation. He was the golden boy with a devil-may-care attitude, the kind of man who could walk into a room and turn heads without trying, who could make a woman feel like she was the only person in the world with a single glance.
He had it all—looks that made people stare, southern charm that made them weak, and a reputation that made them talk. The stories about him traveled faster than the tide, whispered over drinks at The Low Tide Tavern, passed between friends with knowing smirks. Some swore he had a new woman every weekend, others said he never called the same girl twice. And yet, for all the tales of his conquests, no one ever had a bad word to say about him. He was the type to leave a woman breathless, never broken.
At The Low Tide Tavern, the bartender barely needed to ask what he was drinking. He always ordered bourbon, neat, with the kind of slow, confident nod that made the act feel like a ritual rather than a habit. The waitstaff knew better than to bet against him in a game of pool. The tourists found him irresistible, drawn in by the casual swagger, the effortless way he made them feel like they were stepping into a story they’d never forget. And the locals? They simply accepted that Chase Montgomery was as much a part of Wrightsville Beach as the ocean itself—constant, unchanging, always there.
Women chased after him, but he never let anyone catch him. He played the game well, knew exactly what to say, when to touch, when to pull away just enough to leave them wanting more. He could be reckless, intoxicating, impossible to resist—but never cruel. He had a way of making women feel like they were special, even if just for one night. And that was the most dangerous thing about him. It wasn’t the fleeting romances or the stolen kisses under the pier at midnight. It was the way he made them believe, even if just for a moment, thatthey were the exception.
But there was another side to Chase, one few got to see. The one who would stop in the middle of the road to help an elderly couple load their groceries. The one who knew the names of every fisherman at the marina, who made sure the old man who sat on the pier every morning had a hot cup of coffee when the air turned crisp. He was the guy who coached Little League when a buddy needed help, who took his mama to dinner every Friday night, who never missed Sunday lunch at his grandparents’ house. He’d flirt with your sister, steal your girl for a dance, and then turn around and help your grandmother carry her bags to the car. A contradiction wrapped in a smirk and a well-worn pair of jeans.
The duality was what made Chase so impossible to define. To most, he was a smooth-talking, fast-living ladies’ man, content to spend his nights tangled in someone else’s sheets and his days running the consulting firm he built from the ground up. But the truth was, behind the smirk and the reputation, he was searching for something more. He wanted love—the kind of love that seeped into his soul, settled into his bones, and felt like home. The kind that wasn’t rushed, wasn’t reckless, but slow-burning and certain. The kind of love that wrapped around you like a warm breeze on a summer night, steady and unshakable. Not just passion in the dark, not just stolen moments that faded with the sunrise, but something real—something that made forever feel too short.
