Chasing Stars (Cape May #2)

1. Jenna

JENNA

“ T his can’t be it…” I mutter to myself, squinting through the front passenger window at the dilapidated Craftsman bungalow before me. It’s not how I remember the house on Monarch Street, but then again, I haven’t laid eyes on it since I was nine years old.

I exhale sharply causing the impulsive trauma bangs I just got to fall into my eyes.

I brush them out of my face, cursing myself for running to my stylist last week when I lost control of literally everything in my life.

“Not my hair, though. Nope. I’ve got control of my hair, and to prove it to myself, I want bangs,” I told her.

Ten out of ten do not recommend doing that.

I groan and squint out the window again.

The lawn is cut, thanks to the property manager I guess, but the garden is way overgrown.

The cedar fence is rotting and broken. Some of the siding is coming off.

The exterior is not promising. “Well, there’s only one way to find out.

” I force optimism into my self-talk, throwing open my driver’s side door more aggressively than I intend.

It catches in the late September sea breeze and bounces back at me, hitting my calf.

“Ow!” I shout as I get out of my teenage Toyota Camry.

“Stupid car.” So much for optimism. I slam the door shut and stomp up to the sidewalk, shading my eyes as I take in the house up close.

It’s possible it looks more promising from the front yard than the front seat of my car.

I squint. The outside definitely needs some work and curb appeal, but I think I can make it look decent for listing photos.

Lord knows I can’t pay anyone. I have to use my inheritance money very wisely now that I’m no longer gainfully employed—hence, the bangs.

I spent five years as a personal assistant at a high-end interior design firm on the Main Line in Pennsylvania, hoping to break into actual design work.

But my entry-level job remained entry-level.

Last week, after returning from bereavement leave following my mother’s funeral, my boss called me into her office and told me she no longer had use for an assistant.

“People just aren’t hiring interior designers like they used to—not with all of the online platforms that they can use to DIY,” she said.

She had to let me go. I understand it, I really do. The design industry is hard, and she needs to keep every penny she earns. Times are tough, but now what am I supposed to do? I packed up my desk, went out to my car, and screamed into the abyss. And then I got bangs.

I pull my tote bag higher up on my shoulder and trek across the front lawn, the dried yellow grass crunching beneath my Chelsea boots.

I don’t have a key—I didn’t know this house still existed until last week—but I wanted to have a look at it for myself before going over to the property manager’s office.

I walk up the concrete front steps, holding the rotting wooden railing while carefully avoiding a splinter. That would be the icing on the cake.

The small porch is really just a stoop, large enough for a couple of people to stand on while they ring the doorbell.

A memory flashes in my mind—my mother, in this very spot, helping me tie my shoes before I ran off to catch lightning bugs.

It’s a heady mix of grief and nostalgia.

I close my eyes, letting the feelings wash over me. I shudder and blink my sadness away.

Focus on the task in front of you, Jenna.

The front door is a faded brick red with stained glass windows on either side, caked in dirt and grime. I use the cuff of my shirt to wipe away some of it and attempt to peer in, but it’s dark inside. Just for kicks, I try the handle. Locked, of course.

I turn and walk around to the side of the house.

The gate to the weather-worn fence takes no effort to push open.

Immediately inside the gate is a side door with paned windows, offering me a view inside of a narrow hallway with an ancient stackable washer and dryer beside a large sink basin.

A little girl’s bathing suit is draped over the side of the sink. My heart sinks.

My bathing suit...from twenty-five years ago.

I had wondered where that one went; it was my favorite.

The brightly colored print looks like a Lisa Frank folder design.

I lean against the buckling aluminum siding and catch my breath.

For years, my world of possibility was reduced to pill bottles, insurance calls, doctor visits, and ‘how-are you-doings’ that I never could quite answer.

In the blink of an eye, all of that’s over and here I stand—no job, no plan, nothing but a Lisa Frank bathing suit that made me feel like a mermaid all those years ago—in front of a house that once held so much promise.

I sigh and close my eyes as grief for the last twenty-five years without my dad consumes me. And now I have lost my mom too. I’m all alone. My eyes well up and soul-crushing sadness almost envelops me when the sound of someone clearing their throat brings me back.

“Can I help you?” a curt male voice asks, startling me.

His voice abruptly pulls me from my private moment.

I whirl around, unable to formulate words, my jaw hanging open.

Standing before me is an attractive man about my age, and he doesn’t look happy.

He is tall and lean, with a mop of curly hair falling over his forehead and sinewy forearms peeking out from the rolled sleeves of his pale blue button-down.

“What are you doing walking around my yard?” he asks again, squinting at me, arms folded across his chest.

“Your yard?” I scoff. There we go. There’s my voice. I put my hands on my hips and frown. “This is my house.”

The man smirks, a small chuckle escaping. “No, it’s not.”

Frustration bubbling, I take a step toward him. “ Yes, it is. And who are you anyway?”

He ignores my question. “This isn’t your house, lady, and we’re not in the business of allowing squatters, okay?” He cocks his head in the direction of the street. “If you don’t mind, I’d kindly ask you to exit the property.”

Now I’m frustrated, and I suck in a shuddering breath, fighting back the sting of tears threatening to betray me. This is the last thing I need.

“This is my house!” I fold my arms across my chest indignantly.

“I haven’t been here in nearly twenty-five years, but it is.

” I open my tote bag and rummage for that folder of important papers, pausing to turn off Mom’s med reminder app on my phone.

I had forgotten to delete the app and now it’s blaring, reminding me once again that I don’t have a mother anymore.

She’s gone. Once again, the wave of grief crashes into me and I pause, closing my eyes to collect myself.

The man waits patiently for me to regain my composure. I’ll give him that.

My hands tremble as I continue to fumble through the black hole that is my bag. “Aha!” I shout when I find it. I thrust the folder into his hand. He might be good-looking, but I’m not sold on kind yet.

The man offers me a tight smile as he opens the folder, eyeing me as he reads. Then he closes the folder, his expression more somber after reading. “I’m sorry about your mother,” he offers with sincerity.

I exhale. “Thank you. See? It is my house,” I retort, frowning at him and holding my hand out for the folder.

He hands it back with a sheepish smile, ducking his head. “So, it is.”

“You never told me who you are,” I remind him, shifting my weight to the other hip. “Are you just some nosy neighbor?”

He barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “No. I’m Miles Corbin. My family’s real estate firm manages this property.”

“Okay, Miles,” I mutter sarcastically. “And you just so happened to be driving by, checking on it?”

He chuckles again. “No, a nosy neighbor called me and reported a suspicious woman peering in the windows. It’s a small town, what can I say?”

His hazel eyes dance with amusement, and I want to be annoyed, but I can’t even muster that anymore. Now, I’m just tired, and the sharp bite of the late afternoon chill is creeping in, reminding me that autumn comes much earlier by the seashore.

I crack a smile, trying to keep him in my good graces. “Okay, Miles, who can I see about getting myself a key?”

“Why don’t we go back to my office and chat?

” he asks, gesturing back toward the street.

I’m hungry and tired, and I just want to go inside and fall onto the twenty-five-year-old mattress, but I don’t have a key, or a hotel room for that matter, so I have no choice but to follow the annoyingly handsome stranger back to his office.

We walk around the front of the house, and I glance back at it, longingly, blinking back tears.

There are so many memories tied to this little bungalow, but now that I’m alone, unemployed, and forced to live on the little inheritance my mom left me, I have no choice but to let it go.

I pause on the sidewalk as Miles gestures toward a sand-colored Subaru Outback, with two surfboards on the roof rack, parked in front of my Camry. “Do you just want to follow me over?”

I nod somberly, hugging myself for warmth no one else can offer, and walk around to the driver's side.

How did I get here? I mean, I know how I got here but, in this moment, I have never felt more alone.

And then, we both notice it at the same time.

A flat tire. A completely undriveable flat tire.

I must have ridden over a nail. I groan and close my eyes, tipping my head toward the sky.

“Well, I guess you’re riding with me then.” Miles smirks, and I glare at him like he’s the reason my world is falling apart.

“You can’t be serious.” My voice cracks, filled more with defeat than anger. “I don’t even know you. Have you ever seen a horror movie?” I cross my arms protectively and take a step back. “The pretty girl trusts the handsome guy, and then—” I drag my finger across my throat. “Cue the spooky music.”

I don’t mean to sound cruel but I’m fraying at the edges—cold, heartbroken, and overwhelmed. I’m one flat tire away from completely unraveling, and he is standing before me with that maddening smirk, his lips turning upward at the corners.

“This is the last thing on earth I need right now,” I grumble, fighting the tears pricking the back of my eyes.

At this, Miles softens, stepping closer as he pulls a business card from his wallet and hands it to me.

He holds up his hands. “I promise you—I am who I say I am. Come on, Jenna. I’ll take you to the office to get your key, and then maybe we can get something to eat and talk about your options.

” He offers me his arm but drops it when I don’t take it.

I reluctantly follow him to his passenger door. His seat is cluttered with empty fast-food bags, which he hurriedly tosses in the back so I can climb in. Before he closes the door, I glance up at him, my brow knitting. “I don’t think I told you my name. How did you know it?”

“I saw it on the papers in your folder.” He grins proudly and shuts the door, whistling as he walks around to the driver’s side.

“Oh,” I say, but he doesn’t hear me. Warmth bubbles in my chest—he took note of my name. Lately, I’ve felt so lonely, I don’t bother to force the flicker of yearning back down.

Miles climbs into the driver’s seat and turns the ignition, shooting a glance in my direction. “Ready?”

I let out a defeated sigh. “I guess.”

He shifts into drive and pulls onto the street. “So, you think I’m handsome?” His lips quirk into a playful smile.

I roll my eyes, but my stomach flutters with unfamiliar tingles. “Don’t push it,” I murmur.