Page 1 of Run for Us

Chapter One

Kinsley

Leaving my entire life behind wasn’t my original plan to celebrate turning thirty. But my so-called friends wanted to throw a “death to my twenties” party, and panic clawed its way forward. I suffered my first ever panic attack at the most important meeting of my career. Being a designer for the socialites of Sterling Crest was never my dream job, but it fit my family’s social status. Even though I was considered a disappointment because I was expected to have a rock on my finger by now, married to some pompous asshole who couldn’t care less about me beyond giving him a namesake while he screws his secretary. My mother refused to understand why I never wanted to date. I never wanted this life, and now, nearing thirty, the reality of everything I truly wanted—but could never have—has slammed into me full force.

I ease onto Bluebell Bay’s main road. Tiny beachside shops with coral shutters line the street, white sand spills between boardwalk planks, and swaying trees frame my view.

Jace’s teasing voice comes from where my phone is wedged between my shoulder and ear. “Give small-town life a go, Kins. What could go wrong?”

I scoff, eyeing the dunes ahead. “Oh, I don’t know—I could get fired and end up a lonely old woman with lots of cats.”

Jace laughs. “If your boss fires you, she’s an asshole. And there is nothing wrong with cats.”

I snort. My mom is my boss. “I’m allergic, for starters, and it’s the lonely part I fear.”

Jace sighs. He has been my best friend since we were kids. I’m a bit older than him, but we have been tight for so long.

“You might think thirty is old, Kins, but your life is only beginning. Money and status aren’t everything. I never imagined my life would have ended up here.”

The lucky son of a bitch has found his epic loves. Willow is such a beautiful soul, and so accepting of Jace, Micah, and Zac. I was always worried the three of them might scare away any sane woman, but she completes them. Ignoring the ick factor that Jace is my cousin, I’ll admit Willow is lucky to have all those men doting on her all the time.

My tires crunch on the gravel as I pull into the driveway and kill the engine.

“Just got here, so I’ve got to run. I’ll call you later tonight.”

“Give small-town life a try and stop listening to your mother’s voice in your head. You deserve a break. You need to re-center before it all becomes too much. I love you.”

“Love you too. Now get back to work.”

He snorts. “Talk to you later.”

We say our goodbyes, and I step out of the rental car. In the city, I have a driver and have never needed my own car. After pulling my suitcase out of the trunk, I haul it onto the porch, internally crying that I packed so much as it hits each step on the way up.

The smell of salt lingers in the air, a vast difference to the city fumes I’m used to inhaling. The front door creaks open before I can knock and a man steps outside. My mouth falls open. I didn’t know small-town men looked like this—dark shaved hair, intense brown eyes, muscles visible through his crisp white button-up, and leather shoes dusted with sand.

“You must be Kinsley,” he says, offering a hand. “I’m Kasen Prescott. Welcome to Bluebell Bay.”

My hand instinctively closes around his, but I can’t stop staring. He’s tall, easily over six feet, with broad shoulders beneath his white shirt that is rolled up to the elbows, revealing arms corded with muscle.

I notice faint scars on his knuckles, and I wonder what he did to get them. I release his hand, shaking off the thought of getting to know this man. My internal freak-out over turning thirty has me all up in my head about figuring out what I want from life.

“This place is so cute,” I say to distract myself. “The pictures you emailed didn’t do it justice.”

“Thank you. Let me give you a quick tour.”

He gestures for me to walk inside, and when I struggle with my suitcase, he smirks and holds out his hand. “Let me.”

I release the handle and push open the weathered, white-painted timber door and step into a sunlit living room, the walls washed in light moss green. The wide-plank floors creak softly under my feet, and a pair of woven rattan chairs flank a driftwood coffee table. The man’s phone rings, so I don’t wait for him to show me around. The space is small, and I am capable of finding everything.

Exposed beams in the same, white-washed timber give the space a beach cabin feel. To my left, the small number of kitchen cabinets have a matching moss-green hue, their brass knobs a beautiful touch. A narrow breakfast bar holds two mismatchedstools, perfect for early morning coffee while looking through a louvered window.

Down the short hallway are two bedrooms, one with a queen bed, the other a twin, with a hammock chair in the corner. Everywhere I look is accented with pale driftwood and soft seafoam tones. It’s so different from what I am used to, it’s refreshing.

“Sorry about that. My friend is having a crisis, and I need to help him. If you need anything, here is my number, or you have my email,” he says, handing me a business card. “If you are interested in self-defense classes, I hold them down at the community hall each afternoon. We also have the July festival set up along the main road. It will go all week long and end on the Fourth of July weekend. The keys are on the table. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you. I might go down and have a look.”

He nods and leaves, closing the door.

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