I walk the shoreline like I’ve done since I was a kid, scanning for shells as the waves roll over my ankles. The air smells like wet sand and home. I wished for Coconut Beach mornings when I was in California. I worked nonstop and had no free time while climbing the corporate ladder.
In the distance, a fishing boat rocks with its lights still on even though the sky is turning pink.
I bend down to pick up a shell the size of a quarter. When the wave gushes forward, I rinse the sand from it, admiring the iridescent inside. When I was younger, I’d fill mason jars full of shells, and Josie started helping. Sorting them by size and color became our weekend tradition, something I did to bond with my little sister. Ten years ago, when I moved to California to get my master’s degree in hospitality, I gave her everything we’d collected over the decade. As a teenager, she launched her seashell jewelry and accessories business. Every piece she’s eversold has a sentimental value because each shell was handpicked. Even now, I still pocket the pretty ones.
A few steps later, I find several more.
My mind wanders to last night at Cocktails & Chaos, where Carter Banks watched me across the bar. He looked at me like I was the only person in the room. Our gazes locked, and we held a silent conversation. I turned first because I didn’t trust what would happen next. Past me was more confident than I am now.
In my twenties, I would’ve crossed the room and confronted him. The version of me that’s currently existing doesn’t want to get involved with anyone. Men suck. Every last one of them. The grumpy guest in the Captain’s Room needs to get the hell out of my head.
I continue my search for pretty shells as the sound of the ocean calms me. There’s no place like Coconut Beach.
A sparkling light catches my eye near the waterline. It’s a perfect scallop, cream-colored with a thin orange line running along the ridges. I crouch to pick it up and brush the sand off with my thumb. The good ones are harder to find because tourists take them as keepsakes. Being on the beach early is a requirement and local trade secret. The sand is usually picked clean by noon.
Behind me, I hear the footsteps of someone running. I glance over my shoulder and didn’t expect Carter Banks. He’s jogging toward me, shirtless and sweaty, with his golden-brown hair pushed back from his face. The morning light illuminates the muscles in his shoulders, chest, and his stomach while his red shorts hang on for dear life. I gulp, not fully prepared for a show this early. I continue to scan the ground without making eye contact, but I know he clocked me watching him.
Please keep running. Please.
When he passes me, I let out a sigh of relief. I catch a hint of his cologne, mixed with sweat. Everything about himis intoxicating. When the sound of his stride fades, I breathe easier. I glance over, happy to see he’s already twenty yards away.
The muscles in his back shift with every stride. I lick my lips and shake the thoughts away because I cannot do this. Right now, I need to get off the beach and go home.
The seven shells I picked up clank in my pocket as I climb the stairs to the B&B. I give myself a firm lecture about being on a healing journey and ignoring all men. The candle is burning, which means Gran is awake.
After my grandfather passed away, she moved into the bungalow behind the B&B. Since I’ve returned home, I’ve been staying in the Sandcastle Room. Gran is giving me free room and board, along with a salary that I’ve refused to take.
I drop the shells into a collection jar by the front desk, then change into my work uniform, which consists of a Seaside Bed & Breakfast polo shirt and some cutoff jean shorts. There isn’t an official uniform, but when guests see me in anything other than this, they know I’m not working. It creates subconscious boundaries while I live on-site. I plan to move after summer.
I pour myself a cup of coffee, and my mouth waters at the smell of the food Rose, one of Gran’s friend’s, prepares each morning. I’m grateful for her because if I had to cook on top of everything else, this place would’ve shut down a week ago.
“Hi, Mrs. Rose,” I say with a grin. “How are you this morning?”
“Hi, honey. I’m blessed. I just saw your grandma, and she’s already in one of her moods,” she says as I snag a slice of bacon and take a bite.
“This is perfect,” I say, adding one sugar and a tiny splash of cream to my coffee. “And thanks for the warning.”
“Anytime.”
I move to the front counter to check this morning’s bookings to see if anything has changed since yesterday. It hasn’t. The Galloways are staying in the Driftwood and will check out tomorrow. The Coral Room is empty until this weekend, and so are many others.
At the left of the screen, beside Carter’s reservation, is a countdown of how many days until his checkout. Sixty-two days remaining. It’s lit up green, like a neon sign, a reminder that he’s the reason the electricity bill will be caught up today.
The front door opens, and I look up, expecting Gran, but it’s Carter in those slutty red shorts. Ugh.
He moves through the lobby, carrying his running shoes in his hands. Sweat drips down his chest, and his hair is damp. He’s breathing hard enough that I can see his ribs expand with each inhale.
“Good morning,” I say with a polite smile.
He doesn’t speak or glance my way as he moves toward the stairs.
Asshole.
“There are water bottles in the fridge. Help yourself,” I say because he looks as if he needs it.
The stairs creak, and then he’s gone.
I stare back at the screen, and I don’t know what it is about him that infuriates me.
