Chapter 1
Kassidy
The gravel crunches beneath my rental car's tires like a countdown. Every pop and crack says you're running out of time, you're running out of ideas, you're running out of?—
"Stop it," I mutter, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "You are a professional. You have written six books. You can write a seventh."
The coastal estate materializes through a corridor of live oaks draped in Spanish moss, and okay, fine—it's stunning. Whitewashed columns. A wraparound porch that belongs on a magazine cover. The Atlantic glittering beyond a manicured lawn that slopes toward the dunes. Hargrove House, the website called it. A sanctuary for the creative soul.
My creative soul hasn't shown up in three months, but sure. Let's try a sanctuary.
The parking area is already dotted with cars—a Tesla, a vintage Volvo wagon, a cherry-red Jeep with a bumper sticker that reads I'd Rather Be Reading. My people, theoretically. Except right now, being around other writers feels like showing up to a marathon with a broken leg and pretending you just like the energy.
I cut the engine and sit for a moment, staring at my laptop bag on the passenger seat. Somewhere inside it is a manuscript with forty-two thousand words of pure, unmitigated garbage. My editor thinks I'm "almost there." My agent used the phrase "close to a breakthrough" three times on our last call, which is agentspeak for please don't miss another deadline.
My phone buzzes. Speaking of.
Mariana: How's the retreat? Feeling inspired yet?
I type back:
Me: Just arrived. The house looks like a Nicholas Sparks movie. So either I'll write a masterpiece or drown poetically. Will report back.
Her reply is instant:
Mariana: That's the spirit. Now go be brilliant.
Right. Brilliant. That's the plan.
Getting out of the car feels like stepping into a wall of salt and humidity. Late September on the South Carolina coast means the air has weight, and my hair—carefully straightened this morning—is already staging a revolt. By dinner, I'll have a full halo of frizz. Excellent first impression.
I haul my suitcase from the trunk, then stack my laptop bag and tote on top like a Jenga tower of anxiety. The wheels of the suitcase immediately jam in the gravel.
"Of course," I say to no one. "Because that's my life now."
The front porch is maybe fifty yards away. Fifty yards of uneven ground between me and whatever's left of my career. I yank the suitcase, and the tote slides. Catch the tote, and the laptop bag shifts. It's a one-woman comedy routine, and not the funny kind.
"Need a hand?"
The voice comes from my left—low, unhurried, like the person attached to it has never rushed a single day in his life. I turn and find a man leaning against the corner of the house, arms crossed, watching me wrestle luggage like it's entertainment.
He's tall. That's the first thing I notice. Tall enough that I—five-six on a generous day—feel like a different species standing near him. Dark hair cropped close, jaw cut sharp enough to be annoying, and shoulders that stretch his plain gray T-shirt in ways that should require a permit. Sunglasses pushed up on his head. Radio clipped to his belt.
Estate staff. Has to be.
"Actually, yes," I say, shoving a curl out of my face. "If you could grab the suitcase, I can manage the rest. The wheels are stuck."
He pushes off the wall and crosses the distance in about three strides, because apparently his legs are roughly the length of my entire body. He lifts the suitcase like it weighs nothing—which it doesn't, to him, clearly—and stands there holding it with one hand.
"Where to?" he asks.
"Inside, I assume? I'm checking in for the writer's retreat. Kassidy Monroe."
Something flickers across his face. The corner of his mouth twitches, just barely. "Writer's retreat. Copy that."
"Copy that?" I repeat. "What are you, military?"
"Something like that."
