Inside, the cottage smells faintly of lemon cleaner, sun-warmed wood, and the ocean. The main room is brighter than I expect, with whitewashed floors, soft blue furniture, and sunlight spilling through a wall of glass doors on the far side.
That is when I finally see what the photos promised.
Beyond the living room, a screened porch stretches across the ocean side of the cottage, wide and welcoming, with cushioned chairs, a small dining table, and gauzy curtains shifting in the breeze. Past the screen, dune grass ripples silver-green in the wind, and a narrow private path disappears through the sand toward flashes of blue water.
The rental isn’t just beautiful. It’s hidden beauty, the kind you have to step inside to find.
The kitchen is larger than I expected and beautiful in a casual way, with butcher-block counters, open shelving, a farmhouse sink, and a wide island perfect for prep work. Of course, Vanessa noticed the kitchen.
A welcome basket sits on the island with a handwritten note tucked against a bottle of sparkling water.
Welcome to Sunbreak Harbor, Kara. Wishing you rest, peace, and beautiful sunsets. —Marianne
My throat tightens unexpectedly. It sounds like what I need. Such simple wishes, and suddenly they feel extravagant.
I carry my suitcase to the main bedroom, which faces the dunes and catches the sound of the water through the glass. The bed is dressed in white linen. A ceiling fan turns lazily overhead. One wall holds framed photographs of the lighthouse at sunset, the marina during a regatta, and a line of beach bonfires glowing beneath a purple sky.
I can breathe here. Maybe not fully yet, but more than I could this morning.
I unpack enough to feel less like I’m running and more like I’ve arrived. Toiletries in the bathroom. Laptop on the desk near the window. A few dresses hung in the closet. My favorite soft pajamas tucked into a drawer.
Then I walk back to the kitchen and make tea. As the kettle heats, I step onto the screened porch and watch the dune grass bend in the late-afternoon breeze. Beyond the rise, I catchflashes of water, sun bright and restless. A couple walks along the beach in the distance, their laughter carried faintly on the wind. Farther out, a boat cuts across the horizon.
Peace, I remind myself. This is peace.
My phone buzzes with a text from Vanessa.
ARE YOU THERE?
I send back a photo of the porch view. Her reply comes almost instantly.
TOLD YOU. BREATHE, WOMAN.
I laugh softly, the sound surprising me. Then I hear something beneath the porch … a faint crunch. Shells shifting in the driveway perhaps, or wind dragging a palm frond across the ground. Something ordinary. I’m sure it’s easily explained. Still, I go quiet.
I stand perfectly still with my phone in my hand, listening as the kettle whistles in the kitchen. I watch the dune grass move and only hear the waves beyond as they keep rolling.
After a few moments, I make myself turn away. It’s nothing. It has to be nothing. But when I step back inside and close the porch door behind me, I lock it twice as the tea kettle calls.
Chapter 3
Cole
The ocean is honest before most people are. That’s one reason I enjoy being out here before sunrise, standing barefoot in the wash with my fly rod in hand while the rest of Sunbreak Harbor is still deciding whether to wake up. Nature tells the truth with its wind direction and the current of the water. You can sense the pressure shift before a storm. If you pay, the ocean gives plenty of warning. People usually don’t.
I strip line from the reel with practiced fingers and cast toward a trough where the darker water cuts parallel to the shore. The fly lands light, just beyond the foam line, and I let it drift for a moment before giving it a short retrieve. Nothing.
The sun is barely up, just enough gold spilling over the horizon to turn the water copper in places. Behind me, dunes rise in soft shadows, sea oats bending with the breeze. Beyond them sit the oceanfront rentals, pretty from the beachside andpractical from the road, all pilings, stairs, outdoor showers, and places to rinse off sand before people climb back into their expensive little vacation lives.
I know these houses better than most of the guests who rent them. Which owners install decent cameras and security systems. Sunbreak Harbor looks like a postcard when you’re drinking coffee on a screened porch, but I’ve lived long enough to know postcards leave plenty out.
A wave rolls in around my ankles, cool against skin. I shift my stance without looking down. Balance is a habit now. So is scanning. Even on a quiet beach with no assignment and no immediate threat, part of me counts movement.
There’s a jogger heading north. An older man far down the beach with a metal detector near the public access point. Two gulls fighting over something they probably shouldn’t eat. Fishing boat moving beyond the first sandbar.
No problem. I cast again. The fly cuts through the brightening air smoothly. And for a few minutes, I let the rhythm settle me. Cast. Retrieve. Watch the water. Breathe with the surf.
I’m between assignments for once, which should feel like a gift. Three weeks ago, I was sleeping in pieces during a private security job in Bogotá, eating protein bars in the back of armored vehicles and listening to a billionaire tech founder complain about slow Wi-Fi while men with actual weapons watched his hotel.
