Page 1 of At First Catch

Chapter One

HADLEY

By seven thirty in the morning, Sweet Gum Café smells like espresso, butter, cinnamon sugar, and decisions people make before they’ve had enough caffeine to defend themselves.

Tourists cluster near the pastry case in brand-new Coral Bell Cove ball caps, studying the menu board like ordering a latte requires a strategy meeting. Locals occupy their usual spots with newspapers, crosswords, reusable mugs, and the quiet confidence of people who know no one will ever ask them to move.

At table six, two fishermen argue over tides like their disagreement might influence the moon.

And in the middle of the café floor, directly between the register and the pickup counter, Rook has decided this is the perfect place to die dramatically of neglect.

“Holt,” I call toward the back corner booth, “your dog is becoming a workplace hazard.”

My twin doesn’t look up from his phone. “My dog? Interesting, considering he’s lying on your foot.”

I glance down.

Sure enough, Rook’s adorable head is draped over my sneaker like I’m a pillow he personally commissioned.

“See?” Holt says, lifting his coffee. “He chooses me emotionally and you financially.”

I slide a caramel latte in front of Mrs. Henderson and narrowly avoid stepping on Rook’s ear. “You feed him dry kibble and emotional neglect.”

“Are we doing this again?”

“Did you or did you not forget his birthday last year?”

“Dogs don’t know what birthdays are.”

I gasp loudly enough for table six to go silent. “Rook, did you hear that? We’re calling you illiterate now.”

One of the fishermen snorts into his mug.

Holt raises a brow. “I built him custom stairs so he could get on the bed without jumping.”

“Out of guilt.”

“Out of love.”

“Guilt with a power drill.”

Rook’s tail thumps, clearly enjoying the attention while contributing nothing to his own defense.

This is how mornings usually go when I work the opening rush at Sweet Gum. Technically, I don’t own the place, and technically, I don’t need the extra shifts now that I work with the town’s tourism and community development office, but Mrs. Pace has let me pick up hours here since I was sixteen. At some point, the café became less of a job and more of a second living room with better pastries.

I like the rhythm here. The gossip. The way everyone’s stories overlap before eight in the morning. I like knowing who takes oat milk, who pretends to hate whipped cream but always accepts it, and which tourists need directions to the boardwalk after their first cup of coffee.

The bell over the café door jingles, letting in a gust of wind scented with marsh grass, salt water, and blooming honeysuckle.

Lila walks in first, sunglasses pushed into her blond hair and a stack of folders tucked under one arm, looking annoyingly put together for this hour of the morning. If she weren’t my sister, I would probably hate her on sight, but she’s also got the biggest heart in the world. Dean follows with Oliver upside down over one shoulder while Evelyn clings to his free hand, chattering at top speed.

“Dean Harrington,” Lila says, grinning. “He has school in twenty minutes. He cannot go in dizzy.”

Dean flips Oliver right side up. “He requested astronaut training.”

“I said pancakes,” Oliver protests.

“Same thing.”