He looks at me. "Try not to outline the hurricane."
"Try not to tell me what to do."
That almost-smile again, and then he's gone, moving toward the house with the quiet, ground-eating stride that I am absolutely not watching.
My phone buzzes.
Weather alert:Tropical Storm Helena upgraded to Category 1 hurricane. Coastal evacuation advisories in effect for Charleston County.
My stomach drops.
No. No, no, no. I just got here. I just found something—a thread, a voice, a reason to sit at the keyboard. Diana's workshop cracked something open, and the words were starting to move, and now a hurricane is going to sweep in and scatter everything.
Around me, the other writers are checking phones, murmuring, gathering belongings. Renee appears on the veranda with a forced smile and a clipboard.
"Everyone, we're monitoring the situation. If evacuation becomes necessary, we'll move to an inland location. Please pack a bag with essentials, just in case."
"Just in case," the memoirist repeats. "That's the most Southern way I've ever heard someone say we're definitely evacuating."
She's not wrong. I retreat to my room and stare at my suitcase, which I unpacked with meticulous care twenty-four hours ago. Clothes sorted by outfit, shoes lined up, toiletries in labeled pouches. My system. My control.
I start repacking and make myself a deal: if the hurricane comes, I write through it. Wherever they send us, I find a corner and a power outlet and I keep going. The block is cracking and nothing—not weather, not relocation, not the distracting existence of Tucker Brennan—is going to stop me.
The wind rattles my window, and the ocean has turned the color of steel. Rain starts—not gentle coastal rain but fat, aggressive drops that hit the glass like they're auditioning for a disaster movie.
A hurricane. Of course there's a hurricane. The universe really doesn't want me finishing this book.
Chapter 4
Tucker
Helena makes landfall at 0600, and by 0800, the evacuation order shifts from advisory to mandatory.
My phone hasn't stopped since 0400. Calder on the main line, coordinating the team's response. Channel 16 lighting up with operational chatter that's, for once, actually operational. Weather service updates every fifteen minutes, each one worse than the last. Category 1 upgraded to Category 2. Wind speeds at 110 mph and climbing. Storm surge projections that would put Hargrove House under three feet of water.
I'm in the foyer when Calder calls directly. "Status."
"Evacuation in progress. I've got two vehicles loaded—Decker's taking the first group to the Tidehaven Inn, twenty miles inland. I'm running the second transport with Hartwell and remaining guests."
"Hartwell's your priority. Eyes on her at all times."
"Understood."
"And Brennan?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't be a hero. Get everyone out, get yourself out. The house is insured. You're not."
There's a roughness in Calder's voice that goes beyond the professional. He lost a man on his last deployment—not to enemy fire, but to a guy who stayed behind to secure equipment when he should have fallen back. It changed the way Calder runs his team. Every operator comes home. Every time.
"Copy that, boss. We're moving."
The house is organized chaos. Renee, the coordinator, has transformed into a calm, efficient evacuation machine—clipboards traded for walkie-talkies, pleasantries traded for direct orders. The writers cluster near the front entrance with their bags, faces caught between annoyance and fear.
The poet clutches a leather journal to his chest like a lifeline. The thriller writer has a go-bag that looks suspiciously professional—I make a mental note to check her background. The memoirist stands by the door with mascara smudged under one eye, a suitcase in each hand.
"Is this really necessary?" she asks. "It's just wind."
