“Jules!” Adrienne called out to her, but she didn’t turn. She couldn’t. She could feel the burn of tears and the heat of shame and remorse. It fired through her. Stinging her cheeks, causing her nose to tingle.
She heaved the heavy metal door open at the back of the shop and stumbled out into the brutal January wind. Beams of sunlight cut through a blanket of gray clouds, and the wind sliced through her sweater, chilling her to the bone. Her teeth chattered, and the cold air slapped her face, leaving her skin frozen and numb. At least this way she could blame her tears on the weather. What difference did it make if she was crying, or if the strong gusts of wind coming off the beach caused her eyes to burn?
Juliette leaned back against the solid brick building. Her heart ached, a slow pain that spread through her chest, making each inhale uncomfortable. A dull, pounding sensation throbbed at the base of her neck, the headache gradually making its way to her temples. Her mind was exhausted. Her nerves were frayed. She was teetering on the edge of a breakdown, balancing on that fine line between panicked instability and total collapse. This place was too much. The flower shop. The town. The people. All of it a harsh reminder of why she left in the first place.
She couldn’t stay here.
But she had nowhere else to go.
Oh, she could work at Mystic Florals. She was certain her mother would let her take on a gig at the flower shop, but the last time she worked for Gigi, it ripped apart the final thread holding their relationship together. They had both spoken awful things to one another, things Juliette still heard in the darkest corners of her mind. The kinds of things a person could never truly take back. She didn’t particularly want to live through that kind of disaster again, which left her with the second choice. The one that had only been presented to her ten minutes ago by Brockton Gallagher.
Juliette’s chest heaved, and she winced against the bitter cold and salty tang of the air. Shoving a few loose strands of hair from her face, she gently let her body sag against the brick exterior.
She had to decide.
She could work for her presumptuous, overbearing mother, or she could work for the one man who’d broken her heart into a million pieces.
Or she could find something else. Someone in Mystic Cove had to be hiring. Maybe she could put in some applications, make a few phone calls. It was never too late to learn a new skill. She could be a barista. Or scan items at a register. Or find another position that would barely bring in enough money for her to survive, let alone be able to move out of the apartment above her mother’s shop.
Juliette squeezed her eyes shut. There had to be another way, and she was going to find it.
CHAPTER 4
Brock wasn’t much for loitering, but even though he took his time finishing up the final measurements for Gigi’s apartment, Juliette never came back. So he said goodbye to the twins downstairs, left Mystic Florals, and headed toward his next project of the day.
The beach house.
It was located outside of town, further south from the main shopping district, and was one of the only homes situated on a skinny stretch of peninsula that curved outward to the Atlantic Ocean. Three levels of prime real estate sat upon a weather-beaten dune, surrounded by shimmering sand and beautiful blue water. Patches of seagrass popped up over rising sand dunes, revealing and hiding pathways to the shoreline on the whim of the wind. In the distance, he could see the house clinging to its last bit of life as he drove closer.
Regret turned in his stomach.
He should’ve come out here sooner. He should’ve fixed it up before his father found a way to steal it out from under him.
The road gradually faded from smooth pavement to cement roughened by sand and gravel. Not many other cars came out this way, usually only those looking for a good time or thoselooking for trouble. But today a familiar car was parked in the driveway of the beach house.
Lounging against the door of a black Jeep in the frigid winter wind was his good friend and business partner, Anders Sorenson. They’d served together in the Marine Corps, and after Brock got out, Anders planned on continuing his career. But if time in the military had taught him anything, it was that plans are never set in stone. When an injury forced Anders out and the prospects of a job back home were bleak, he and Brock got too drunk one night and Silver Eagle Construction was born.
Over the years, their two-man team had grown to include a full crew and some of the largest projects in Mystic Cove. They’d made a name for themselves renovating and restoring residential properties and had most recently been hired to build a few bungalows from the ground up closer to town.
Unfortunately for them, they’d always had to outsource whenever it came to interior design. So maybe he had a slight ulterior motive when he’d offered the position to Juliette.
Brock climbed out of his truck and lifted his hand in a wave.
Anders adjusted his baseball hat and folded his arms over his chest. “How much do they want for the property?”
Before leaving Mystic Florals, Brock texted Anders and told him about his run-in with his father. He also mentioned the fact that Aidan was looking to sell. The one thing Brock kept to himself was the price. “More than you want to know.”
They exchanged a look and Anders arched a dark blond brow.
Brock angled his head, squinting up at the house’s dilapidated roof. “Little over two mil.”
Anders let out a long, low whistle. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat, he rocked back on his heels. “Tell me again why you don’t want to sell?”
Because years ago, Brock made a promise to his grandfather that he’d make something of himself. That he’d never back down from a challenge. That he would always do the right thing. That he’d keep the beach house and return it to its former glory, something time had stolen from his grandfather.
He shifted his shoulders at the memory. “Just an old promise.”
“Any ideas?” Anders nodded to where the steps looked to be decaying with rot. “We fix it up and then what?”
