Lottie grins, unbothered. “Okay, first of all, breathe. You don’t start for a week. Second, close the laptop. Third, put on something cute because we’re going out.”
I blink. “Out?”
“Yes, out. A little sunlight will do us good. Fresh air, people. There’s a farmer’s market down by the water, and a café that serves croissants the size of your face.”
“I have things to do.”
“You have seven days to panic about your new boss,” she counters. “So, you have exactly zero reason to waste a perfectly good Saturday morning doing it now.”
She’s walking toward her room before I can argue, humming to herself like it’s already been decided.
“Charlotte—”
“Put on something cute,” she repeats over her shoulder. “You’ll thank me later.”
I sigh, snapping my laptop shut like that’ll also contain the crisis inside it. But the email will still be there when I get back.
Unfortunately, so will Jesse Winters.
By the time we settle on the patio outside the café, my shopping bag’s half full, and my wallet’s half empty.
We spent the morning wandering down Front Street, drifting in and out of little shops that smelled like cedar and sea salt. Lottie had fallen in love with everything—candles, linen dresses, the bookstore cat that followed us out to the sidewalk. I’d bought a mug I didn’t need and a jar of homemade jam because the woman behind the counter smiled warmly and called me “sweetheart” and it felt rude not to.
Now the late-morning sun spills across our table, warming the chipped blue paint and the half-eaten croissants between us. The air smells like butter and coffee, sweet and heavy with summer. Laughter drifts from a nearby table, mingling with the low hum of passing cars and the cry of a gull overhead.
“This croissant is perfect,” Lottie says around a mouthful of her pastry. “If I go missing, don’t look for me. I live here now.”
I smile, tearing off another flaky bite. “I bet you say that about every cute coffee shop.”
She waves a hand. “Yeah, but this time I mean it. Isn’t Deep Cove just a dream?”
Honestly, it is. There’s something about this place—the pastel shopfronts, the faint smell of salt in the air—that makes it feel like you’re stepping into a postcard. The whole town seems to be moving at half-speed. The sunlight, the easy pace, the sound of the ocean just beyond the street—it’s impossible not to exhale a little.
Lottie stands and wipes her hands on a napkin. “Okay, I’m running inside to use the bathroom. Don’t eat my croissant.”
“No promises,” I say, leaning back in my chair as she disappears through the glass doors.
I glance around, taking in the slow rhythm of Deep Cove on a Saturday morning. Families push strollers past flower boxes bursting with color, couples walk hand in hand with ice cream cones already melting down their fingers. For the first time in a long time, everything feels simple.
Until I see him.
Jesse Winters.
He’s on the other side of the street, walking toward the florist with a little blonde girl perched on his hip. She’s maybe six or seven, wearing a yellow sundress and laughing at something he’s saying. The sound of it carries, bright and pure, even over the noise of the traffic. He looks at her like she’s his whole world.
My stomach twists.
Is he a dad?
He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring at the brewery, and if he was married, I doubt he would have been flirting with women in front of his friends. But maybe he has a daughter? A child from a previous relationship, a child he keeps out of the spotlight?
I shouldn’t care, but there’s something about him I can’t seem to shake. His easy smile, the effortless charm that should serve as a warning. The feeling that bloomed in my chest just from his smile.
He shifts the little girl higher as he lowers his head to listen to something she’s saying, and the corner of his mouth lifts in a smile that’s enough to stop traffic. I pause mid-bite, the croissant suddenly forgotten, a strange twinge catching low in my chest.
This Jesse Winters seems nothing like the version I met atReplay last night, the one who seemed to flirt for a living. This one is softer, gentler, more focused. The way he steadies the little girl on his hip, the way his expression melts when she laughs…it’s such a sharp contrast to who he was last night.
Across the street, he sets her down gently before slipping his hand into hers, and they disappear into an ice-cream shop. I’m still staring when Lottie slides back into her chair, fanning her hands. “Okay, whoever invented bathroom hand dryers deserves jail time.”
