Sunset Charade (Sunset Siesta #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

brYNN

I always imagined my next big life change would start with a cosmic sign—maybe a flamingo holding a banner reading This Way, Brynn! Instead, my welcome was a cheerful carved board hanging from a crossbeam, its painted Welcome to Sunset Siesta Resort faded by years of salt and sun.

My suitcase wheels rattled along the shell-strewn path, past a two-story room block whose faded pastel paint and sagging rooflines felt as tired as I did after my flight from Atlanta.

The salt-laced air of the Florida Keys, however, was a time machine, transporting me straight back to the summer I turned seventeen.

I stopped and gripped my long brown hair in one hand, the breeze stirring up old memories—long beach days with Holly, the giggly hush of post-midnight adventures, a first beer that had tasted more of regret than anything else.

But I wasn't here for a trip down memory lane. I was here with two jobs: survive my cousin Holly Shaw’s destination wedding without becoming a human exhibit for family pity, and, more secretly, figure out if I had the guts to give my what if life a fighting chance.

The lobby’s air conditioning hit me like a slap. The decor attempted to capture Old Florida, with bamboo furniture, faded manatee prints, and a taxidermied marlin mounted like a sentinel above the reception desk.

A woman in a pineapple-print blouse and a nametag reading Dana smiled. “Checking in?”

“Brynn Vance,” I replied.

She typed, her nails clicking crisply, before sliding a key folder across the counter. “Ah, you’re part of the wedding party! Room 215. The welcome mixer is at the Tidal Hops brewpub tonight at six.”

“Great. Anything I should know about the room?”

Dana shrugged. “It’s pretty standard. I doubt much has changed since your last visit. Don’t feed the iguanas.”

Laughing, I saluted her with the key folder and stepped back into the breezy air.

The walk to my room was a nostalgia bomb.

Winding shell paths crunched under my suitcase, and the sea breeze whipped my hair into the same hopeless knots I remembered.

Back then, this place was the backdrop for Holly’s wild schemes.

Now, she was getting married while I was here solo, which felt both poetic and tragic.

My second-floor room overlooked the ocean, its paint faded from aqua to the color of hospital scrubs, but the deck was freshly swept. I flopped onto the clean, palm-print comforter, my spine realigning. If this was my find yourself journey, the bar was set at shabby chic. I could work with that.

I unpacked a wardrobe of compromises, choosing a blue linen dress that had survived years of first-grade classroom drama and a pair of sandals I’d bought just for the trip.

I arranged my toiletries with the efficiency of a woman trying to impose order on her own chaos.

On the desk, my welcome folder held a map, an itinerary, and a handwritten note from Holly.

brYNN!

You made it! Don’t let my mom rope you into any “fun runs.” Meet you at the taproom at six for pre-game drinks. We’re going to make so many bad decisions. (Kidding. Mostly.)

Love you more than SPF 50,

Holly

I smiled. Only Holly could make a wedding sound like an illicit adventure.

Sliding open the door to the deck revealed a sliver of sandy beach that arched toward a weathered wooden pier, the water glittering as the sun began its lazy descent. Two pelicans argued on a mooring post.

This is it. My second chance.

I closed my eyes, the warm air filling my lungs. If I stood still enough, I could almost picture seventeen-year-old me still on the sand, plotting how to outrun the future.

The future arrived as another text from Holly.

Holly: The resort is still so unique. Rustic charm with a laid-back vibe. Not fancy, but it has character! Tidal Hops is great. Hurry!

I rechecked my hair, hesitating. I was used to minimizing myself—shrink to fit, blend in, don’t ruffle feathers. Walking into a room of strangers and family set my stomach tap-dancing.

But tonight was for Holly. And maybe for the Brynn who wondered what it felt like to own the room.

I slipped on my sandals and stepped into the humid, golden evening. The path to the taproom curved along the water, lit by somewhat rusty solar lights. I skirted a cluster of guests already deep into the welcome punch and ducked into the ladies’ room for a pep talk.

“Don’t look like you’re casing the joint,” I muttered to the mirror. “Just be normal.”

My reflection looked unconvinced, but I squared my shoulders anyway and went to face the mixer.

Tidal Hops had cheery turquoise walls hung with vintage wooden surfboards and a ceiling strung with LED string lights.

Wooden beams were etched with initials, and the walls held framed photos of fish and locals with fish.

Every table was packed, the noise level just shy of a rock concert, and the air thick with the smell of hoppy beer and fried seafood.

I barely made it past the hostess stand before a blur of floral print collided with me. Holly, bride-to-be and my lifelong partner in chaos, grinned after swallowing a mouthful of shrimp cocktail.

“Brynn! You made it!” she shrieked, shoving a skewer of something unidentifiable into my hand.

I chewed, hoping for the best. “Is this… calamari?”

Holly shrugged. “I think so. Josh’s family is super into ‘authentic coastal cuisine.’” She used air quotes and eyed my outfit. “You look amazing! Is that the Atlanta breakup dress?”

I coughed. “My moving on with my life dress, but yes.”

Holly leaned in. “Good woman! Try the Tidal Hops IPA. It’s pretty damn good. I’ve had two glasses.”

“Never would have guessed. Where’s the clan?”

She nodded toward the bar. “Mom’s making the rounds. Josh is getting a hops tutorial from the owner. Uh-oh. Here comes trouble.”

The warning came too late. Aunt Carol, her brown-gray hair helmeted against the humidity, advanced with a man my age in a blue polo, trailing her like a remora. My soul tried to leave my body.

“Oh, look at that!” Holly chirped, already scurrying away. “So many bride things to do. See you later!”

“Brynn, darling!” Aunt Carol sing-songed, seizing my elbow with the triumphant air of a dog show handler. “Todd, this is my niece. You remember Todd, don’t you, Brynn? My neighbor’s son?”

It wasn’t hard to recognize Todd. He was my age—twenty-nine—but he never changed. Average height, average build, average everything. He’d worked at a big-box electronics store for years.

“Hey, Brynn.” His handshake was wet and limp. “Wow, you look exactly like your Facebook picture.”

“Thanks, I guess?” I tried to pull my hand back, but he held on.

“Todd was just saying how he’s always wanted to see the Keys,” Aunt Carol continued conspiratorially. “And it’s so much more fun with someone who knows her way around. So I convinced him to tag along with me!”

“Dove Key is fascinating.” Todd launched into a rapid-fire monologue about it, a firehose of unsolicited facts. Then he jerked a thumb at the speakers pumping out Jimmy Buffett and sounding wonderful. “The midrange is totally blunted. If they upgraded the mixer, the whole vibe would change.”

“Oh, okay.” I had no idea how to respond to that. He couldn’t be trying to flirt, could he?

Aunt Carol beamed as if he’d just solved world hunger. “Isn’t he smart?”

“By the way, I’m in Room 217, right next to yours,” Todd added. “I brought my Fire Stick—I can reprogram it for premium channels and install a Wi-Fi range extender for you. The repeaters are on the wrong side for your room’s western exposure.”

Jeeezus.

He smiled, oblivious, and handed me a business card with a QR code. “I made these for networking, but they’re multipurpose. I’ll be your date for the weekend. If you get bored, just knock.”

It was the saddest thing I’d ever been handed.

“I don’t want to hover, so you kids have fun,” Aunt Carol said, squeezing my shoulder. “Brynn, dear, don’t let Todd hog the karaoke mic this time!”

Red flamed across Todd’s face. “I got banned from the last holiday party for doing ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ in its entirety. That song must be respected.”

I made a noise that was half laugh, half choke. “Excuse me. I need a refill.”

I fled to the bar, my hands shaking so badly it took me three tries to get the bartender’s attention. He had an easy grin and light-brown hair escaping from under a Tidal Hops baseball cap. “You look like you need a drink. What can I get for you?”

“Whatever tropical IPA you have,” I managed.

He slid a frosty glass across the bar. “Our Sunset Ale. My personal favorite.”

I clung to the cold glass, letting it leech the panic from my bloodstream, and took a long, desperate gulp. The beer was crisp and citrusy, with a perfect bitter kick at the end. “Damn. That’s really good.”

The bartender’s grin widened. “Thanks. I’m Braden Coleridge, by the way. The brewmaster.”

Before I could reply, a passing server leaned in with an affectionate eye-roll. “He’s also the owner. Don’t let him fool you.”

Braden just shrugged, unbothered, and turned to take another order.

I leaned against the bar, nursing my drink.

Of all the futures I’d dreaded, none involved being chaperoned by Todd I-Brought-My-Own-Fire-Stick Peterson.

I’d spent months bracing for this trip, worried I’d crumble under family scrutiny.

I hadn’t considered being courted by a man whose romantic overtures involved optimizing cable packages.

I had no idea what to do next, but water had always soothed me, so I took my beer and slipped out to the waterfront deck.

The sunset painted the beach in vivid pink and orange, but I barely noticed, leaning over the railing to let the briny breeze clear my head.

I nursed my beer, watching a heron pick its way along the dock pilings.

How was I going to survive this weekend?