Page 1 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
CHAPTER 1
EVIE
There’s a reason I never came back here.
The damn highway sign says “Welcome to Lowtide Bluffs” like the place has been sitting with its arms wide open for fifteen years, just waiting for me to come crawling home.
I don’t crawl.
But the sea breeze punches through my open window anyway, smelling like salt and wet wood and something older. Something that knows exactly who I am.
The turnoff to the beach house comes too fast. My stomach does a lazy flip as I wrench the wheel left, tires crunching gravel. I kill the engine and stare through the cracked windshield at what’s left of the Bright family legacy.
The house perches on the bluff like a stubborn old woman refusing to topple. Two stories of chipped gray paint, a half-rotted porch swing listing to one side, and windows clouded with sea spray and time. I can hear the waves below, gnawing at the rocks like they always do.
I should turn around, maybe call the realtor. Let them deal with it.
Instead, I drag my overnight bag from the passenger seat, sling my camera bag over one shoulder, and march toward the front steps like I’m not terrified out of my goddamn mind.
The key sticks in the lock. Of course it does. I curse under my breath and jiggle it until the door groans open, the smell of old paper and salt hitting me like a memory I didn’t ask for.
“Home sweet hell,” I mutter, kicking the door shut behind me.
The place looks like my mother left in the middle of a thought. Half-packed boxes stacked against the wall. A faded afghan draped over the couch. One of her ridiculous ceramic mermaid lamps is still glowing weakly in the corner.
I drop my bags with a sigh and pull out my phone. One bar. Figures.
A text from Rowan pops up:When you’re ready. No pressure. Welcome home, Evie.
I snort. Rowan always did know how to weaponize kindness. I shove the phone in my pocket and head for the kitchen.
The fridge hums alive when I plug it back in. There’s a half-empty bottle of wine in the pantry, miraculously unbroken. I pop the cork, pour a generous glass, and lean against the counter, letting the wine burn a path through the tight knot in my chest.
I didn’t come back for closure. I came back to settle the estate, sign the papers, and get the hell out. One week, tops.
Then the floor creaks behind me.
I spin around, heart lurching—but it’s just the house settling. Or that’s what I tell myself.
I take another swallow of wine and head upstairs, each step groaning beneath my boots. The bedroom door sticks like always, and I have to shoulder it open.
The room’s a time capsule. Mom’s perfume still lingers faintly in the air. An old camera—the first one she ever gave me—sits on the dresser, dusty but intact. I trail my fingers over it, throat tightening.
“Don’t start,” I whisper to no one.
Before the grief can get a good grip, a loud knock rattles the front door downstairs.
I frown. Who the hell?—?
Another knock. Firm. Measured.
I grab the wine glass—because why not—and stomp down the stairs, yanking the door open with more force than necessary.
Aeron Thalen.
Tall as ever, lean muscle wrapped in a dark shirt and worn jeans. Sea-glass green eyes cool as the tide, silver hair tied low at the nape of his neck. There’s a Harbor Master badge clipped to his belt like some cosmic joke.
For one dumb second, I forget how to breathe.
