High Hopes (Coastal Rivals #3)

5. Birdie

5

BIRDIE

The pretty little envelope sits on the edge of my desk, taunting me. It’s thinner than I imagined it would be, a single crisp piece of paper enclosed inside the smooth, cream-colored card stock. I don’t know why I expected something grander, something more—after all, it’s just a letter.

A letter that could change the course of my entire life.

With shaky hands, I tear it open and pull out the folded sheet inside.

Miss Bridget Collins,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected as one of the five finalists for the prestigious Dayton Fellowship in the Arts. As a finalist, you are invited to present a detailed proposal for your intended body of work, which will be evaluated by a panel of faculty and esteemed artists. The selection process will involve an interview and studio visit, where you will have the opportunity to discuss your artistic vision in depth.

If chosen as the recipient, you will receive a stipend of $15,000, as well as the opportunity to participate in a summer mentorship with renowned artists David Donovan and Claire Mahler. The fellowship will culminate in an exhibition at the Oriel Gallery, where you will have the opportunity to showcase your completed works.

Best regards,

Margaret Ellis

Arts Director

Dayton University

My breath catches as I read it again, slower this time, trying to let the words sink in. I’m one of five. I’m in the running for this fellowship, the single thread of hope I’ve been clinging to. The award amount would be just enough to cover a year of tuition.

And I desperately need it. Desperately enough to feel like everything rides on this.

I was raised by a single dad who’s been gracious enough to help with my medical bills since the accident, but there are still outstanding costs—the physical therapy copays I’ve been covering, the ever-mounting credit card debt, on top of everything else with school.

Not to mention the money I donated to the Matthis family to help with Emily’s funeral expenses. A small gesture to show that I held no contempt for her, to make sure they knew I wasn’t planning on suing.

All I’ve ever wanted since the accident is for all of us to find peace.

And the mentorship? I’ve admired Claire Mahler’s sculpture work since I was a preteen. Unlike the other big names, she’s always felt grounded, approachable. Her work reflects it, too—raw, unpolished, but somehow more human because of it.

Watching her rise in the art world has been like seeing the path I’ve always wanted to take. She wasn’t born into success. She fought for it, piece by piece. And now, the thought of potentially working with her? It’s almost surreal.

My heart does this weird stuttering thing in my chest, and I grip the letter tighter, like holding it will somehow cement it into reality. One of five . This isn’t a dream—it’s happening.

All those late nights in the studio, the hours spent hunched over the wheel, the constant fear that I wasn’t good enough ... it might all actually pay off.

I have a real shot here.

But what if I blow it? What if I can’t handle the pressure of competing against the other finalists, artists who are just as hungry and talented as I am? Four other people are fighting for this just as hard, and only one of us will win.

The pressure to perform, to be perfect, has already overwhelmed me. And on top of that ... there’s the whole David Donovan of it all. I’ll have to work with the man if I win. The stern-faced father of the man who just waltzed into my life with that careless grin of his.

Pretty boy Liam. I wonder what he’ll think if I win, if I end up working with his dad after all. I wonder if he’ll even care.

From what little I know about him, he’s made it clear he doesn’t get along with his dad. Or, at the very least, they have some strange oil-and-water dynamic. A bit of a prickly yet begrudgingly loyal situation if I’ve clocked it right.

But, complicated or not, he still knows his dad, knows how he operates . . . what he looks for in a fellowship recipient. Maybe he could give me tips on how to impress him. What the illustrious David Donovan really wants in a protégé.

Liam seemed eager enough the other night—he called me pretty, for God’s sake. Maybe he’d be willing to help me out. It wouldn’t hurt to ask, right?

A part of me cringes at the thought of relying on someone else to get ahead, but it’s not like I’d be asking him for a handout, just a little insight. A teeny tiny home-grown advantage.

The problem is, I’m not sure what I could possibly offer him in exchange. What does a guy like Liam Donovan need from someone like me? His family is wealthy, he’s a soccer star, and he’s ridiculously good-looking in that effortless way that’s almost infuriating. He’s got everything in his life going for him.

And I’m the girl who spends most of her time covered in clay, barely scraping by.

Still, Liam doesn’t strike me as the type who’s too concerned with what’s in it for him. He didn’t exactly stick around at the gallery event to win points with his dad. If anything, he looked just as out of place there as I felt. Maybe that’s something we have in common—hating the pretense, the forced politeness, the endless schmoozing that comes with the art world.

I lean back, staring at the letter in my hands, the weight of the decision settling over me. If I want to win this thing, I need every advantage I can find. And Liam? Conspiring with him might just give me the edge I need.

I wait for Liam after practice on Friday night, pacing the edge of the field, arms crossed against the evening chill. It’s a weird sort of feeling, being stationed out here. Almost like I’m waiting for my boyfriend after a game or something. But I haven’t had a boyfriend in years, and Liam Donovan is definitely not that.

I tug my sleeves down, watching as the team finishes their final laps. The soccer guys are all sweat-slicked and flushed from exertion. They look good. Mouthwateringly good. They’re laughing, shoving each other around, and even from here, I can see the easy confidence in the way they move, like they own the field.

A couple of them eye me as they jog past, probably wondering what the hell I’m doing out here. Am I a groupie, a stalker, or just a random girl who wandered too close to their territory? I ignore it, pretending to be absorbed in my phone.

When practice ends and Liam finally spots me, he smirks. That kind of smirk that suggests he’s not entirely surprised to see me, but he’s still amused by it. He gives a quick nod to his friends and says something to them under his breath, waving them away as they file off the field.

He jogs over to meet me, sweat glistening on his skin, his shirt sticking to every line of muscle. “Waiting for me, Birdie?”

I snort. “Obviously.”

“It’s because I called you pretty, isn’t it? Careful now—you can’t fall in love with me over a single compliment.”

I elbow him lightly. “Are you that full of yourself?”

“Someone has to be.” He grins wider, leaning back on his heels. “What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering .. .” I glance at the ground, already regretting how awkward this is about to sound. “If maybe you needed help with anything?”

He stares at me, wide-eyed and mystified, like I’ve just offered to clean his cleats with my bare hands. “Help? With ... anything?”

“You kn-know,” I stammer. “Some light cleaning, laundry ... um, homework help? I could make you a set of mugs or something.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Mugs? Really?”

I groan. I put myself in this ridiculous position, and now I can’t even dig myself out gracefully. Subtlety is not my forte. But more than that, asking someone for help feels like admitting defeat.

“Yeah, I’ve been practicing with the thumbprint technique,” I say. “They’re supposed to be much more ergonomic, and I figured—hey, useful, right?”

He taps his foot, waiting. “Just come right out with it, okay? Tell me what you want.”

I suck in a breath. “I’m officially a finalist for the arts fellowship. And your dad’s on the committee, so ... I was wondering if you could, you know ... help me impress him.”

He stares at me, slowly scratches the back of his neck, and for a moment, I swear he’s about to laugh. I know I’m out of my league here. It’s humiliating, plain and simple.

These highbrow people—art world elites with their galleries and trust fund kiddos—are so far out of my wheelhouse it’s almost laughable. I grew up in a world where impressing someone meant melting a slice of cheese over a pan-fried burger and cracking open a cold beer.

My dad’s blue-collar through and through, the kind of guy who measures success in hard work and calloused hands, not fancy titles or expensive art shows.

But Liam? I never would’ve assumed he belonged to that world, either. Not when we first met, not even now. There’s something about him that feels like he’s caught between two places—like he’s equally out of step at those gallery events as he would be in my dad’s garage.

A wry grin pulls at his lips. “Believe me, if I knew how to influence my dad and win his favor, I’d do it myself.”

“Please,” I say, giving him the biggest puppy-dog eyes I can manage. “There’s got to be something you can do. Maybe just some insider knowledge? What he likes, what he hates, how he thinks ... anything, really.”

He rolls his eyes. “Look, Birdie, I wish—”

Before he can finish, frustration boils over, and I turn on my heel to leave. I don’t need this—don’t need to stand here and beg for scraps of information. But before I can take more than a step, his hand gently wraps around my arm, stopping me.

“Okay, okay, just wait a second,” he says, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “I make no promises, but I can try my best to help you.”

I turn, and his hand falls away. “Thank you so much. Really. I’m still working on my proposal, but maybe you could take a look at it when I’m finished? From there, we could brainstorm or something. I don’t know, I just—”

“How about I read over what you have now, and we’ll go from there?”

Of course, he’s making it sound easy, like I haven’t already started to pour my heart and soul into this. Like I haven’t spent sleepless nights agonizing over my art in the first place.

But maybe to him, it is easy. Maybe the strained relationship with his dad has taught him how to navigate this world without flinching. I guess that’s what comes with the confidence of never needing, or wanting, anyone’s approval.

I sigh. “And you’re sure there’s nothing I can do for you in return?”

His gaze shifts, sweeping over me from head to toe in one long, deliberate look. Green eyes sharp with mischief, perfect mouth curling like he’s already got some clever thought brewing. It’s unnerving, it’s electric, all sorts of distracting.

An involuntary shiver runs down my spine, even though I tell myself not to react. His lips quirk into a faint, knowing smile, and when he finally speaks, his voice drops, low and smooth. “I’ll let you know if I think of something.”

I swallow hard. “Right. Well . . . just make it reasonable, yeah? Quid pro quo. No weird or borderline illegal favors.”

He taps me on the tip of my nose. “Don’t worry, I’m a very reasonable person.”

I snort. “Debatable.”

“You haven’t known me long enough to make a comment like that.”

“I’m making an educated guess.”

He steps a little closer, just enough to make my pulse spike. “Guess you’ll have to spend more time with me to find out for sure.”

My cheeks flush. “Is helping me impress your dad just a ploy to get me to hang out with you?”

He laughs, a low, easy sound. “Maybe it’s a win-win.”

I shake my head. “I’ve got a bit too much on my plate to play games here, Liam.”

“No games,” he says, still grinning. “Just business.”

Business. Sure. Except nothing about this grinning, golden-haired man feels like business. It feels unpredictable, and messy, and dangerous, like getting too close to something you can’t fully control.

I pull out my phone and hand it over to him. “You should put your number in, then, for business purposes.”

He takes my phone, types in a few words, and then hands it back, still smirking like he’s in on his own private joke. I glance at the screen, expecting something ridiculous, and sure enough, he’s saved his name as “Liam (your only hope).”

I roll my eyes and pocket the phone before he can see me smile. “Real mature.”

“Always,” he replies.

“Right,” I say, stepping back a bit, trying to regain my footing in this weird push-pull dynamic we’ve got going on. “Well, thanks for agreeing to help . . . Whenever you think of something I can do, just let me know.”

“I will.” His voice is casual, but there’s a glint of something in his eyes that makes my stomach flip. “Oh, and Birdie?”

His messy blond hair falls over his forehead as he leans slightly closer, like he’s about to share a secret. “You really are pretty, you know? Alarmingly so,” he says roughly. “Just—I find it a bit distracting looking at you, talking to you, that’s all.”

It’s a trite sentiment. I know it is. But it stops me in my tracks anyway.

It’s not like I haven’t heard it before. Men always try flattery as an easy in. But something about the way he says the words, like it’s not just a throwaway compliment but a fact , leaves me speechless. This isn’t a man fishing for approval or trying to get in my pants. There’s no hidden agenda in his voice, just a blunt sort of honesty.

I give him a quick smile, trying to shake off the unexpected flutter in my chest. “Thanks. Er, I’ll keep that in mind next time you’re tongue-tied.”

“Small mercies,” he says and then gives a two-finger salute.

I finally turn to walk away, trying to focus on anything other than the heat crawling up my neck. But as I step back onto the path, my heart pounds in my ears, my pulse betraying me. I was right.

Inviting Liam Donovan into my world means opening the door to something messy, something unpredictable. And I think some strange, reckless part of me might actually want that.

It’s not about letting my guard down, moving on, or letting go. It’s just him. Just Liam.