Page 11 of At First Catch

I stop near the far end of the dock and look back toward shore.

The Sweetspire Hotel used to sit just beyond the marina entrance before the hurricane destroyed most of it two years ago. Only fragments remain now—pieces of foundation, sections of stonework, the ghost of something that mattered once.

Everyone told me buying this place was a terrible investment.

Too expensive to restore. Too damaged. Too risky.

Maybe they’re right.

Still, I can already see it. Fresh docks. String lights reflecting off the water at night. Families crowding the restaurant deck again. A little girl drops her fishing pole and bursts into tears. Her grandfather grins instead of getting frustrated. Somebody rings the bell outside the bait shop because another kid caught their first fish. The dock echoes with applause.

Life.

The idea settles low in my chest with unfamiliar weight.

I spent most of my adult life building things for other people.

Hotels. Office buildings. Luxury homes.

Places I never stayed.

Pierce Construction grew faster than anyone expected, especially once Celeste Carrington, Lark’s mother, started funneling high-end restoration contracts our way through her connections. Bigger projects. Bigger investors. Bigger expectations.

Eventually, I stopped sleeping enough and started measuring my life in deadlines and contracts instead of anything real. Then the inn fire happened. Then Lark walked away from her family. Then I looked around one day and realized I was thirty-two years old with a successful company, an empty house, and absolutely no idea what I actually wanted anymore.

So I sold the company. Which still feels insane.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

For one stupid second, I know who it is before I even look.

Hadley.

The mere thought of it sends jolts through my nerves.

I pull out the phone.

No new text. Damn phantom vibrations. Just the thread from earlier still sitting open on the screen. Questionable choices are my specialty.

My thumb lingers briefly over the conversation before I lock the screen again, which is probably for the best. A man should only make so many bad decisions before noon.

A laugh drifts across the marina from somewhere near the fuel dock, and I glance up. Two younger guys are unloading fishing gear from the back of a truck while arguing over bait coolers. One of them waves when he notices me watching.

“You the new owner?”

“Guess so.”

The guy grins. “Town’s been taking bets whether somebody would finally buy this place or let it collapse into the ocean.”

“That optimistic, huh?”

“Oh, people love the marina. They just didn’t think anybody was crazy enough to take it on.”

Fair.

The second guy nods toward the shoreline. “You’ll probably want to talk to Hadley Wright about summer permits if you’re planning events.”

There it is again. Her name. And my attention sharpens in a way that’s becoming embarrassing.