Harbor Festival (Starlight Shores #2)

Chapter 1

The sunrise over the Gulf was stunning. Cassidy Wren knew this because the wellness blog she’d bookmarked had specifically recommended watching sunrises as a therapeutic practice for high-functioning professionals in recovery from burnout.

She sat on the upper balcony of Heron Cottage with her tablet propped on her knees. The spreadsheet glowed against the soft dawn light. She’d color-coded her sabbatical schedule by activity type. Blue for physical wellness. Green for mental health. Yellow for creative exploration.

Six o’clock. Sunrise Reflection. Check.

She tried the breathing exercise from the app. Four counts in. Hold for seven. Eight counts out. Her chest tightened instead of releasing. She was doing relaxation wrong. There had to be a more efficient method.

The waves rolled against the shore beyond the lighthouse. Rhythmic. Predictable. The kind of sound people paid good money to download for sleep aids.

She just wanted to throw her tablet at them.

The silence was unbearable. In Chicago, her mornings started with the rumble from the L, the coffee cart vendor’s greeting, and the elevator’s digital chime.

Her calendar pinged every fifteen minutes.

Her phone buzzed with Slack notifications before she’d finished her first latte.

The noise meant motion. Motion meant progress, and that she existed.

Here, the only sound was water and the occasional cry of a seabird that sounded vaguely accusatory.

She glanced at the schedule again. Six thirty. Hydration and Journaling. She had seventeen minutes to achieve inner peace before moving to the next block.

Her phone sat on the wicker table beside her, face down.

She’d promised Dr. Smith she wouldn’t check work email.

She’d promised the HR director the same thing when he’d handed her the sabbatical paperwork with that practiced expression of concern that barely masked his relief at getting her out of the office.

“Two months,” he’d said. “Fully paid. Come back refreshed.”

What he’d meant was come back fixed or don’t come back at all.

She picked up the phone.

Just one look. Just to make sure nothing was on fire. She’d built the Sampson campaign from scratch. She’d landed the pharma account after nine months of pitching. Her team needed her. They had to need her.

She opened her email.

Forty-three unread messages. She scrolled past the newsletters and the automated reports. Nothing urgent. Nothing with her name in the subject line. Nothing that even suggested anyone had noticed her absence beyond the auto-reply she’d been forced to set up.

Then she saw it.

From: Steve Hodges Subject: Weekly Recap. All Good!

Her jaw clenched. She opened it.

Hey team! Quick update on accounts. The Sampson campaign launched successfully (minor tweaks to Cassidy’s original plan, but we’re tracking above projections).

Pharma contract signed this morning. They loved the pitch.

Thanks for the foundation work, Cass, wherever you are!

Beach treating you well? Don’t worry about a thing.

Honestly, we’ve hit our stride. Barely even notice you’re gone.

She read it again. Barely even notice you’re gone.

Her heart rate spiked. The watch buzzed a warning. She dismissed it.

Steve had taken her account. Steve, who’d spent three years riding her coattails and taking credit for her late nights. Steve, who smiled in meetings and undermined her in emails, was apparently thriving in her absence.

She wasn’t relieved. She was erased.

The screen blurred. She blinked hard. She was not going to cry over Steve Hodges’s passive-aggressive emoji.

She closed the email, deleted it, then pulled it back from trash and marked it unread so she could delete it again later with more intention.

The sunrise had finished happening without her. The sky was fully light now. She’d missed her window for therapeutic reflection.

As she stood, the wicker chair scraped against the wooden deck. She couldn’t sit here. If she sat here, she’d open her laptop. If she opened her laptop, she’d start working. If she started working, she’d prove Dr. Smith right about her inability to disengage.

She went inside and paced the small main room, taking in details she’d been too numb to notice when she’d arrived late last night.

There were whitewashed walls, pale blue curtains, and a bookshelf stocked with weathered paperbacks and seashells.

A vase of fresh wildflowers sat on the counter.

The kind of place that showed up in vacation rental listings under tags like cozy and charming or escape the everyday grind.

She felt like she’d been stuffed into someone else’s vision of peace.

The sunroom off the main room made it worse.

Winnie Lockhart—her landlord, the lighthouse keeper, the woman who’d greeted her last night with warm eyes and zero questions—had mentioned it when she’d handed over the keys.

“Lots of natural light in there. Some of our guests like to write, paint, or knit. It’s a good space for thinking. ”

She had nodded politely and hadn’t looked inside.

She looked now.

Floor-to-ceiling windows faced east, washing the room in soft morning sun. Bookshelves lined the far wall. A cozy chair rested beside the windows, begging someone to come sit. She didn’t.

It looked like the kind of place where people came to find themselves…

She needed coffee. She needed to be around people. Even strangers. Even small-town strangers who probably moved at half speed and said things like “bless your heart” without irony.

She pulled the sunroom door shut and headed to the bedroom. Her suitcase sat open on the bedroom floor. She hadn’t unpacked because unpacking felt like commitment.

She’d bought new clothes for this trip. Resort wear. Flowy linen pants in cream and soft pink. Loose cotton tops. A straw hat that the sales associate had promised was very beachwear chic.

She ignored all that and pulled out her charcoal blazer. It was sleeveless, structured, with sharp shoulders that meant business. She paired it with tailored black trousers that she’d had hemmed to exact specifications and leather wedges that cost more than most people’s monthly car payments.

She dressed with precision. Each piece was armor. Each button was a declaration. There was no reason she couldn't just look like her normal self, was there?

The bathroom mirror was already fogging from humidity despite the air conditioning. She applied her makeup with the same focus she used for client presentations. First concealer, then foundation and a thin line of eyeliner. She finished with red lipstick that said I am not here to make friends.

Her hair was another battle. She’d had it cut into a sleek, angled, grazing-her-shoulders bob specifically because it required minimal maintenance. Wash. Blow dry. Flat iron. Done.

Except the Gulf Coast humidity had other plans.

She ran the flat iron over each section twice. The moment she stepped away from the mirror, the ends began to curl in tiny rebellions against her control. She unplugged it and headed out into the main room.

A knock at the door startled her badly enough that she flinched.

“Morning! It’s Winnie. I’ve got muffins if you’re interested. No pressure.”

Cassidy opened the door because refusing would require explanation.

Winnie Lockhart stood on the small porch holding a basket covered with a blue-checked cloth.

She was wearing jeans and a cotton shirt like someone who’d never worried about a dress code in her life.

Her smile was kind without being invasive.

“Saw you out on your balcony earlier.” Winnie held up the basket. “Blueberry. Thought you might like some.”

“That’s—yes. Thank you.” She accepted the basket awkwardly. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know. I wanted to.” Winnie’s gaze was steady, assessing without judgment. “Sleep okay?”

“Fine.”

A lie, but a polite one. Winnie didn’t push.

“Good. Well, I won’t keep you. Just wanted to say welcome properly and let you know that if you need anything, I’m just up at the main house.”

Winnie left, and Cassidy stood in the doorway holding a basket of muffins, watching the older woman walk the path back toward the lighthouse with the kind of unhurried grace that came from never having to prove anything to anyone.

She thought of her mother, who moved the same way.

She had stayed in the same small Indiana town her whole life, raised two kids, worked part-time at the library, and seemed perfectly content with a life that had never included a corner office, a six-figure salary, or a business card with Senior Vice President under her name.

Cassidy had spent her entire adult life making sure she would never become her mother.

And now here she was. Sidelined, exiled, and holding muffins in a cottage by the sea like some kind of recuperating Victorian invalid. She set down the basket and grabbed her phone and wallet.

She did not grab the journal Dr. Smith had recommended. She did not grab the novel that three different people had told her she must read.

She locked the cottage door behind her and started walking.