And then, from somewhere I hadn’t been able to access since I’d moved to Willet Cove, an idea sparked. Just one line. Just a handful of notes.
Or something like that anyway.
3
SERAPHINA
Iwas as nervous as a cat all day, looking at the clock while trying to write. Finally, I gave up and took a shower, spending extra time on my hair and makeup, then standing in my walk-in closet wondering what I should wear. I wanted to look nice, but not like I’d tried too hard. After all, this was a guitar lesson, not a date.
At twenty after four, I got a text from Tyler saying practice had run late but he was on his way. The house was already clean because of my wonderful housekeeper who came once a week, but I found myself straightening things that didn’t need straightening. Fluffing pillows that were already fluffed.
Hunter knocked at four-twenty-seven. I drew in a deep breath and opened the front door. He was in a gray henley and dark jeans, guitar case in one hand, his hair slightly damp.
“Hi.” I smiled, forgetting for a moment that I should invite him in.
“Hey.” He smiled back and my stomach fluttered. How could anyone be this good-looking? Or smell this good? “How are you?”
“I’m fine. Tyler’s running late,” I said, stepping back to let him in. “Baseball ran late. He’ll be here by quarter to.”
“No rush.” He stepped inside and looked around my front room, his gaze lingering at the sight of the Pacific out my windows. “Your home’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. I tore down the original house and had this one built. I never in a million years thought I’d live in a place like this.”
“It suits you.”
“Lila helped with the decor.” I closed the door behind him. “Do you want a tour?”
“I’d love one.”
I started in the front room The whole back wall faced the Pacific, floor to ceiling. A view that always took my breath away, even after all the years I’d been lucky enough to live here.
“What a view,” Hunter said. “Perfect for a writer.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that beauty begets beauty,” Hunter said, his gaze turning toward me, his eyes intense.
I flushed. I don’t know why. It wasn’t like he was talking about me. He was talking about my house.
“I bought the property a few months after I first moved here. The original cottage had one small window facing the water. I used to press my face against it like a child.” I laughed a little. “When the Netflix deal came through, I told the architect I wanted to be able to see the ocean from everywhere.”
“It’s spectacular.” He’d turned back to look at the water, the late afternoon light breaking flat and silver across it. Then he turned to the room itself, seeming to take in the white built-ins flanking the fireplace, the shelves filled with books arranged by theme rather than alphabet. The white sofa with its pile of gray and cream pillows. The knit throw draped over the arm, the coffee table with its stack of novels and a vase of lilacs I’d cut earlier that day.
He moved toward the bookshelves. “Where are yours?”
“Oh, I keep copies in my office. My publisher always sends me a box and I never know what to do with them. Dorian has me sign some for his shop, which always makes me feel kind of strange.”
“Strange how?”
“Imposter syndrome,” I said.
“Oh, yeah, our old enemy.”
“Right?”
Hunter moves over to my white brick fireplace, peering at a small framed photograph I’d taken of Tyler at his first baseball game—age six, gap-toothed, filthy and triumphant. He picked up the photo, looking at it closely. “He was adorable back then.”
“Still is, actually. He’s always been the easiest person in the world to spend time with. He’s like my dad. Easy-going but compassionate. Fiercely loyal. Old soul.”
