Second Epilogue
HARPER
ONE MONTH AFTER CHASE’S PARTNERSHIP
I leaned back in my chair, the protesting groan of its ancient springs a perfect harmony to the sigh that escaped my own lips. It had been that kind of week. Another Sunset Siesta workday was drawing to a close, or at least, my official involvement in it was. The resort itself, of course, never truly slept. A scribbled note lying on the corner of my desk—Pick up Finn @ Kids Club 5:00 p.m. SHARP!—served as my primary directive for the next hour.
The week had been packed with decisions that irrevocably altered the landscape of our family and the future of this resort. Eli, my wild, wonderful, exasperating brother, was solidly in a genuine, for-real relationship. I barked a laugh that it was with none other than our brilliant, formidable accountant who now possessed a smile that could melt glaciers. Their joy was a bright, infectious thing.A reminder that sometimes, against all odds, things did work out.
And then there was Chase Ashworth.
My gaze drifted to the large roll of architectural paper dominating my small conference table. It had been unfurled there this morning by Chase himself, a bare canvas upon which he’d already begun to sketch the audacious, exhilarating, and frankly terrifying future of Sunset Siesta. His partnership, his investment, was the miracle we hadn’t dared to hope for, the lifeline that might just pull us back from the brink.
My practical, budget-conscious, general-manager brain was still doing frantic, slightly panicked calculations about the sheer scope of his vision. But the part of me that had grown up within these sun-bleached, salt-kissed walls, the part that loved this place with a fierce, protective loyalty, couldn’t deny a thrill of anticipation.
A light knock on my open door pulled me from my thoughts. Chase stood there, looking less like the high-powered architect who had calmly presented a multi-million-dollar renovation strategy and more like someone who’d forgotten what time it was. His dark hair had that slightly disheveled look it only got when he was deep in a design problem, and he was holding a drafting pencil like it was an extension of his own hand.
“Harper, got a minute before you head out?” He didn't wait for an answer, already stepping inside, his energy immediately filling the small space. “I was just looking at the lobby footprint again, and an idea hit me about the flow toward the ocean view. Mind if I sketch it out quickly while it's fresh?”
I glanced at the clock on my computer screen. 4:40 p.m. My date with a five-year-old loomed. “Just a quick one, Chase.” I wanted to get that up front, knowing fromexperience that Chase’squick sketchcould easily morph into a full-blown design symposium. “I’m picking up Finn at five.”
A flicker—amusement? Understanding?—crossed his face. “Noted. This won’t take long. Promise.”
He’d always been wonderful with Finn, and my son was slightly awestruck that he designed huge buildings for a living. I’d always been slightly apologetic about Finn’s persistent and verbal interest in Chase’s work, but he would just give me that slightly shy smile and say it was nice to be noticed.
He joined me at the conference table, unrolling more of the paper with an impatient flick of his wrist. Then he removed some clips out of his pocket to attach the huge sheet of paper to the table surface.
I bit my lip, but a laugh still escaped. “You keep clips in your pocket?”
He smiled without removing his attention from what he was doing. “Occupational necessity.”
The man was a study in focused intensity when a design problem had its hooks in him. It was impressive. He retrieved the drafting pencil from behind his ear, and suddenly, he wasn't just Chase, Eli's lifelong friend. He was Architect Ashworth, a creator, his hand moving with a swift, sure precision that was almost mesmerizing to watch. I couldn’t stop staring at his hands, at how they were sure, confident, and... sexy.
Shit.
“See, if we re-angle this existing load-bearing wall here, even by just a few degrees…” He was completely absorbed as lines and shapes began to appear on the paper. “And yes, I know, structural engineer consultation required, budget implications, the works… But if we do that and use a lighter, more reflective material for this soffit detail, it will completely transform the entryway. It will draw the eye directly through the main space, past the new reception area, straight out to the terrace and the beach the moment someone walks through those front doors.”
He paused, tapping the paper with his pencil, his hazel eyes, flecked with gold in the afternoon light, fixed on his emerging vision. “It’s about the initial impact, Harper. That immediate sense of stepping into paradise. It sets the tone for their entire stay.”
I leaned closer, trying to follow his logic, to see what he was seeing in those bold, confident strokes. And I did. Chase had a way of articulating potential, of making you believe in the transformative power of space and light, that was undeniably compelling. Even as my internal calculator was screaming about demolition costs and the price of custom-milled, hurricane-rated, unicorn-hair-woven soffit material.
“That sounds beautiful, Chase,” I conceded, my own pen tapping against a notepad where I was mentally itemizing the new line items he was casually creating. “But what does re-angling a load-bearing wall actually do to our meticulously crafted budget? And that reflective soffitmaterial. Is it sourced from a rare, extinct Keys tree and priced accordingly by the square inch?” My tone was light, teasing, but the underlying concern was real. My job was to keep his magnificent vision tethered, however loosely, to the planet Earth and our current financial stratosphere.
He shot me a quick smile and dipped his head, acknowledging my point but not remotely deterred by it. “There are always options. But the core idea of that unobstructed sightline is non-negotiable if we want to create something truly special. It’s about the promise of what Sunset Siesta offers, delivered the second guests arrive.”
He was right.
Annoyingly, breathtakingly right.
He saw things I didn’t, possibilities I hadn’t dared to imagine for this place I loved so fiercely. He wasn’t just talking about moving walls. He was talking about shifting perceptions, about elevating the entire guest experience while staying true to our roots. He painted pictures with architectural jargon and charcoal lines, and damn him, they were beautiful, intoxicating pictures. And I was the one who focused on figuring out how to pay for all that five-star paint.
We were both hunched over the blueprint now, heads close as he pointed out a specific angle for the new, more discreet reception island to improve guest flow and create a more personal check-in experience. His shoulder brushed mine as he reached across me to indicate a potential spot for a stunning piece of local art he envisioned as a focal point.
The contact was fleeting, purely accidental, the kind of incidental brush that happens half a dozen times a day in a busy office. But my skin registered it with an unexpected, entirely unprofessional zing. Heat. A ridiculous little jolt that shot straight up my arm and settled somewhere in my chest, making my breath catch for a split second. I looked up, startled, and he was already turning back to the plan, probably oblivious to my minor internal combustion.
Or was he?
It was hard to tell with him, but our eyes met often over blueprints and meetings. The faint, clean scent of his aftershave, something woodsy and understated that I hadn’t consciously registered before, hung in the small space between us. Chase straightened up and ran a hand through his dark hair, leaving it slightly rumpled in a way that was far too endearing for a man who was about to add at least another fifty thousand dollars to my renovation headache.He blinked, as if just surfacing from whatever deep architectural waters he’d been swimming in.
