Page 1 of Tides of Redemption
CHAPTER ONE
Mason
The scents of fresh ink and rich coffee curled through the Tides & Tales bookstore and into my makeshift office behind the checkout counter. I stared at my laptop screen until the numbers blurred, then ran my fingers through my hair for probably the hundredth time that afternoon. My stomach clenched as the spreadsheet mocked me with its cold reality: the store was barely breaking even. Again. March had always been a slow month, but this year was worse. The winter storms had kept tourists away, and competition from Amazon was killing my bottom line.
“There has to be another way,” I muttered. But I’d already tried everything else. Hosting more events. Updating my website. Starting a delivery service. I shuffled through the pile of applications on the counter. The only option left was the one I’d been avoiding—renting out the third-floor apartment.
My chest tightened at the thought. My grandfather hadn’t had the heart to rent it out. My parents and I had lived there for the first twelve years of my life, and Pop-Pop had kept the apartment as a virtual shrine to them. But Pop-Pop had been gone eight months now, and sentiment—my own or Pop-Pop’s—wouldn’t pay the bills.
Some days, the ache of his absence still felt fresh, especially when facing decisions like this alone. With a heavy heart, I’d finally listed the apartment two weeks ago. So far, every application had been a disaster. Bad credit. No references. One guy who wanted to turn it into a drum studio.
The bell above the shop door chimed, its familiar brass tone echoing through the empty store. “Be right with you,” I called, not looking up from the latest application. This one had three evictions in five years. Definitely not.
“Is the apartment still available?” The voice was soft, cultured. Familiar in a way that sent electricity shooting down my spine.
I jerked my head up, my heart lurching painfully in my chest. Caleb Sullivan stood in my bookstore, holding one of myApartment for Rentflyers. The afternoon light caught the new crinkles at the corners of his eyes, a distinguished touch that only enhanced his attractiveness. He looked like he belonged in the Louvre—charcoal-gray wool coat tailored perfectly to his trim frame, Italian leather shoes polished to perfection, that artistic soul now wrapped in European sophistication. His well-defined cheeks and strong jawline had sharpened over the years, making him even more handsome than the young man I’d known in college. The sight of him made my mouth go dry.
My heart stopped, started, stumbled, while my palms began to sweat. “No,” I said automatically, the word feeling thick in my throat. “It’s not.”
He held up the paper, and his hand quivered slightly. “The sign was still in the window.”
“Haven’t had time to take it down,” I lied, heat creeping up my neck. I started gathering the applications, needing something to do with my hands, which wouldn’t stop shaking. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be in Paris?” I snapped.
He took a step closer to the counter, and I caught a whiff of his cologne—amber and sandalwood. A sharp pang hit my gut as I recalled that comforting fragrance.
“I’m the new director at Coastal Light Gallery.” His gold-flecked brown eyes, still as warm and observant as I remembered, met mine. “Six-month contract while the owner, Mary Anne, takes a break. I need a place to live, and your apartment would be perfect. Close to the gallery, furnished…”
“No.” The word came out sharper this time, backed by a surge of panic. “Absolutely not.”
“Mason.” The way he said my name was still the same—soft, almost reverent—and my traitorous heart skipped a beat. “I know it’s awkward, but?—”
“Awkward?” I gave a hollow laugh that sounded brittle even to my own ears. “You left for Paris and never looked back. Never answered my calls, never texted, never emailed. And now you want to live in my building?” The old pain ripped through my chest, fresh as eleven years ago.
Caleb flinched, and something in me ached at causing him pain, even now. “That’s not entirely fair. You told me to go, to follow my dreams.”
“I told you to take the job! I didn’t tell you to cut me out of your life completely.” I ran my fingers through my hair again, probably making it stand on end, my scalp tingling from too much nervous tugging. “Look, I’m sure you can find something else in town.”
“In tiny Seacliff Cove?” He raised an eyebrow, a gesture that had always made my stomach flip. “You know there isn’t much available. I’ve already checked every rental listing. None are furnished, and I left everything in storage in Paris.”
I glanced at my laptop screen, at the diminishing numbers. The rent from the third floor would cover the store’s shortfall and give me breathing room. Six months of guaranteed incomefrom a tenant I knew would actually pay. But six months of seeing Caleb every day, of trying not to remember how it felt when he left…? My chest constricted at the thought.
“It would have to be a six-month rental agreement,” I said finally, the words feeling like gravel in my throat. “I would need first, last, and a security deposit. We’d have to share a staircase, but there would be no reason for us to interact beyond rent payments.” My hands clenched on the counter, knuckles white.
“That’s all fine. Do you take Zelle?” he asked quietly, already pulling out his phone.
“Wait—don’t you want to see the apartment first?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll take it.”
My heart hammered as I gave him my payment information. Seconds later, my phone pinged with the notification. First, last, and security deposit, all at once. The amount made me dizzy with relief.
“I’ll show you the apartment.” I grabbed the extra set of keys from my drawer. “The entrance is outside to the right.” I flipped theOpensign toClosed. It wouldn’t matter for the few minutes I’d be gone.
We walked in silence to the external staircase. Each step felt heavy as we climbed the creaking stairs past my second-floor apartment to the third floor. The key stuck slightly in the lock—I’d have to lubricate it. It was an ominous start to being a landlord.
Inside, dust motes danced in the light from the front windows. The furniture was all vintage, not in a good way, and the kitchen hadn’t been updated since the nineties. But Caleb didn’t seem to mind.
“Perfect,” he said, though I saw him trying not to grimace at the old refrigerator and faux wood cabinets.
