Could I handle it all? The question echoed inside my head.
A soft knock sounded at my door before it opened. Marilyn stood there, holding two coffee mugs and a small, familiar pink box from Sweet Dreams Bakery on Main Street. She placed one mug—my usual black, strong—and a classic glazed donut on the corner of my desk, pushing aside a stack of material samples to make room. Her presence was quiet, unobtrusive, but deeply supportive.
“I saw the email,” she said simply, her voice calm and pragmatic. She’d been copied on the bid reply. She took a sip from her own mug, her gaze sympathetic but not pitying.
“Thanks.” I managed a weak smile as I reached for the coffee. Its warmth felt good in my hands. “Yeah. Marino got it. Longer track record.”
Marilyn nodded, settling into the visitor chair. “Theirloss, Chase. Your proposal was better.” She wasn’t just saying it. Marilyn didn’t give false platitudes, and I knew my design was top notch. “We’re still landing more contracts than we’re losing. That’s huge for a firm that’s only been open six months. The Franson recommendation today? That’s worth more than you think. Word gets around fast in their circle.”
I took a bite of the donut. The sugary sweetness was a small comfort, a reminder of simple pleasures amidst complex anxieties. “I know. It just… this one would have helped. A lot.”
“It would have, but we adjust. We keep building momentum. You knew starting your own firm wouldn’t be easy.”
“I know. I’m just frustrated.” I took another, larger bite of the donut.
She stood and headed for the door, both hands wrapped around her mug. “You’re already miles ahead of where most new firms are at this stage. Focus on Sunset Siesta, knock that out of the park, and the next Thorne-level client will be callingus.”
Her pragmatic confidence was what I needed to hear, even if I wasn’t entirely feeling it myself. “Thanks, Marilyn. I needed that.”
“Anytime.” She gave me one last encouraging look. “Now finish your donut. Sugar helps.”
She left, closing the door softly behind her. My gaze returned to the Sunset Siesta plans, the weight of the project pressing down with renewed force. Marilyn was right—we were doing well, technically. But the margins were thin, the pressure immense.
Failure wasn’t an option. Not with Latitudes Design. And certainly not with Harper. I finished the donut and wiped my hands clean. Picking up my coffee, I forced myself to focus on the guest room lighting schematics.
“One problem at a time,” I said softly. “That’s how you build something lasting. Right?”
The fluorescent lightsof the home improvement store hummed overhead, casting a flat, unforgiving glare on endless aisles stacked high. Lumber, plumbing fixtures, garden supplies—each section smelled distinctly different, a strange olfactory map of domestic ambition and weekend projects. This wasn’t my usual environment. My world was typically one of curated samples, precise CAD drawings, and client consultations in tastefully appointed offices. But after the day I’d had, I needed the distraction.
I pushed the oversized shopping cart, its wheels rumbling unevenly on the concrete floor, searching for the specific marine-grade sealant Harper had mentioned needing for a minor repair near the pool pump house. A practical problem with a practical solution. Unlike the tangled mess currently occupying my thoughts.
Losing the Thorne bid stung like hell. And Harper was tangled inextricably with that professional anxiety. Harper, whose presence in my life was both essential and fundamentally destabilizing to the ordered world I’d always inhabited.
It took a while, but I located the sealants in aisle nine. I scanned the labels, my focus blurring from lack of sleep and too much caffeine, and found what I needed near the bottom. Given Siesta Sunset’s oceanfront location, I grabbed an entire case. My eyes drifted past the caulking guns to the endcap display. Bright primary colors snagged my attention. A child-sized tool belt, complete with a miniature hammer, wrench, and screwdriver clipped neatly into loops.
I moved the cart toward the display.
My hand reached out, almost of its own accord, and picked up the tool belt. The red canvas fabric was sturdy yet lightweight. The tiny hammer head was blunt and safe, but pretty well made. It was exactly the sort of thing Finn would adore.
A faint smile raised my lips as a vivid image flashed in my mind—Finn, his face screwed up in concentration, wearing this very tool belt as he “helped” me measure a two-by-four on the worksite. Or maybe using the little hammer as we built a birdhouse for the backyard. Or standing beside me at my drafting table back home, his small hand reaching for one of my specialized pencils, wanting to draw buildings too.
Before I could analyze it, before logic could intervene, I tossed the tool belt into my cart alongside the marine sealant. It landed with a soft clatter next to the sensible, necessary item I’d actually come here for.
I pushed the cart toward the checkout lanes, feeling slightly dazed. After checking out, I walked out into the bright, humid glare of the parking lot, the automatic doors sliding shut behind me. Inside the quiet sanctuary of my SUV, I placed the box of sealant onto the floor but placed the child’s tool belt deliberately on the passenger seat beside me.
I stared at it. At the cheerful red belt, the tools designed to build interest without smashing fingers. It looked out of place against my sleek black leather upholstery. A gaudy, innocent anomaly in my controlled environment.
And I knew, with a certainty that made my breath freeze in my lungs,whyI’d bought it. It wasn’t a random impulse. It wasn’t because Finn might like it. It was because when I saw it, I hadn’t just thought of Finn. I’dthought ofus. Me, Harper, Finn. Building something, and not just sandcastles. Something real.
A family.
The realization hit me with the force of a physical impact. My hands closed over the leather-wrapped steering wheel, my knuckles pale and ghostly. This feeling for Harper wasn’t just intense attraction or deepening affection anymore. It had expanded, shifted, and grown roots that now intrinsically included her son. I wasn’t falling only for the competent, beautiful, frustratingly guarded woman who challenged and captivated me. I was also falling for the idea of a life with her, a life that included bedtime stories and scraped knees, and coaching little league, maybe. A life filled with the kind of messy, unpredictable, warm chaos I’d witnessed in her cottage, so different from the cool, ordered quiet of my own upbringing. Or my present life.
Panic, icy and razor sharp, immediately followed the revelation.
A family? Me?
The concept was enormous, terrifying. My parents’ marriage had been a masterclass in emotional distance, a polite arrangement devoid of warmth or genuine connection. I’d spent my adult life prioritizing control, precision, professional success—things I understood, things I could manage. I could calculate wind shear and load-bearing capacity, but the physics of falling in love were entirely beyond my expertise.
The pressures I was already juggling magnified exponentially. Latitudes Design, teetering financially after the Franson near-disaster and the lost Thorne bid. The massive, complex Sunset Siesta renovation, where my professional reputation and personal investment were deeply intertwined with Harper and her family.
What if I failed?
What if I failedthem?
I needed control. I needed stability. I needed to focus on the tangible, the solvable—the architectural plans, the budget spreadsheets, the construction schedules. That was my territory. That was where I felt competent. I needed to get a grip on these emotions. I wanted Harper and Finn in my life. But in order to feel secure with that, I had to get the business on firmer footing.
I started the SUV, the engine humming smoothly, a familiar sound of controlled power. I relaxed my clenched hands and shook them out. The child’s tool belt sat on the passenger seat, a bright red symbol of both the future I impulsively reached for and the overwhelming vulnerability it represented. I pulled out of the parking space, heading back toward the resort, toward Harper. Not with a plan, not with any clear answers, just with the terrifying, sinking realization that I was out of my depth, drowning in these uncharted waters of actually giving a damn.
And I had absolutely no idea how to swim.
