Chapter 3
Chapter Three
EWAN
Iwake up when the silence becomes too loud to sleep through.
Flat on my stomach, I open my eyes and slide my hand underneath the pillow, looking for a cooler patch of sheets.
The room isn’t perfectly dark, with the light from the streetlamp filtering through the wooden slats of the blinds, but it’s dark enough for me to know it’s too early to be awake.
Reaching a hand out for my phone, I tap the screen and groan.
“It’s too early,” I complain to the empty room, rolling onto my back and starfishing my limbs across the mattress.
I’m not good at falling back asleep. Once I’m awake, I stay there.
I’m also not good at falling asleep in the first place.
Honestly, anything to do at all with sleeping gives me trouble.
I used to make the insomnia work for me, back when I lived in my studio flat in LA.
I’d get up, pop in my headphones, and paint under the artificial light of a single lamp.
Those days are hard to think about, if only because the memories aren’t sharp.
They’re murky and vague, clouded by sleeplessness and hunger.
My best work came from those nights, though, so I can’t help but think on them with fondness.
Sure, I was tired. But the artistic muse was singing, and boy, were my ears tuned in.
My eyes catch on the single framed piece of art hung on the cottage wall.
A beach scene, naturally. I stare at it through the dim lighting, waiting for that urge to paint.
The itch of fingers that want to pick up a brush.
It doesn’t come. Disappointed, I turn my face in the opposite direction and close my eyes.
I can’t paint, which means I need to try and sleep.
If only there were someone here to fuck, that would help get me out of my own head for half an hour.
I don’t manage to fall back asleep and instead spend the final hours until dawn rolling around on the bed as though comfort was the reason I couldn’t settle.
When I finally admit defeat and get up, the sheets are trashed enough to look as though somebody did get fucked in this bed.
It only gives me something else to be annoyed about—a reminder of just how long it’s been since I’ve had that pleasure.
“Ugh, fuck you!” I shout at my phone when it starts ringing on my way to the bathroom.
It’s Daniel, I know it is. The interfering, mothering bastard.
By the time I finish peeing, his first call has gone to voicemail, and he’s trying his hand at a second.
I contemplate throwing the thing against the wall.
Wasn’t the whole point of me coming here to rest and relax?
Kind of hard to do when I’ve been here less than twelve hours and he’s already bothering the shit out of me.
“Daniel!” I snap, unable to stand the ringing any longer and finally answering the phone. “What the fuck! I could have been asleep—you know there’s a time change, right?”
“It’s six in the morning where you’re at.” He scoffs. “If anyone might have been asleep right now, it would be me. You realize it’s three a.m. over here?”
“You realize you called me,” I reply tartly.
“I’m shipping your equipment today. Watch out for that invoice, because lord knows how expensive that will be. What size canvases do you want? I’ll send a few choices,” he says before I can answer the question. “If you end up needing more, I’ll send them. Sound good?”
“I’m not going to paint.” Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I rest my elbows on my knees and drop my head, closing my eyes. I’m tired, which is ridiculous. I just spent the last three hours unable to sleep.
“You might if you have your accoutrements.”
I snort. “Nice.”
“Did you download that app I sent you? I’m going to go through withdrawals if I don’t have my Scrabble buddy to provide my fix.”
“I’ll set it up today,” I promise, rubbing a hand over my forehead.
Daniel, going a step beyond usual PA duties, would sometimes join me on my sleepless nights, a Scrabble board set up between us and something acoustic on the stereo.
He’s a good friend. My only real friend from my life in LA, if I’m being honest.
“And get groceries,” he reminds me.
“Groceries,” I agree. He makes an amused noise.
“Go find some coffee. I’ve had more titillating conversation with the neighbor’s cat than I’m having with you right now. That’s another Scrabble word for you, kid. Get the app set up.”
I’m still chuckling when we hang up the phone, and whether he intended it that way or not, I feel a little more relaxed than I was five minutes ago—the tension unspooled enough to give me room to breathe.
This is supposed to be a vacation, but the need for it burns like an iron pressed to my chest. I don’t want to be on vacation.
I want to be working. I want to stand in front of a blank canvas and see beauty, not the threat of failure.
The gulls are screaming when I step out of the front door of the cottage.
A particularly brave one lands, hopping toward me over the uneven paving stones leading up the walk, trying to determine whether I’ve got anything edible I might share.
It takes me a few minutes to get the door locked, the wood warped from years of living so close to the sea, lock mechanism crusted with salt.
Finally managing to get it latched, I slip the key into my pocket and disturb the seagull as I move down the walk.
That first deep inhale of salt water and fish hits me like a shot of straight adrenaline.
It’s not as though I didn’t have access to the beach or the ocean while I was living in LA.
I could have hired a private charter at any point and spent a day out on the water, spent a day connecting with my fisherman’s roots.
But everything available to me in California never felt quite right when I compared it to what I left behind here in Siren’s Point.
I wanted to leave so badly—spent those final months staring down the road and dreaming of one day.
I still haven’t quite come to terms with the fact that maybe the grass somewhere else wasn’t quite as green as I thought it would be.
The wind has a slight bite to it. Putting my hands in the front hoodie pocket, I hunch my shoulders against the chill and set off at a pace that will hopefully help keep me warm.
By the time I get to Triton’s Brew, I’m pretty sure I’ve got the first stages of hypothermia and also pretty sure that I don’t remember it being this cold here in the spring seven years ago.
I push through the glass door of the coffee shop without peeking through the window first, desperate to be in the warmth.
For the second time already this morning, I’m hit with the olfactory equivalent of crack cocaine.
As an insomniac and an artist, I have an ongoing love affair with coffee in all its beautiful forms. I almost groan at the aromantic scent of beans, the bold, nutty aroma of brewed coffee.
Honestly, the desire from this morning for an orgasm is long gone. Coffee will do me just fine.
“Welcome to Triton’s Brew!” a cheerful young voice greets me, pulling me out of my slightly disassociated state.
“Morning,” I reply, smiling back as I walk up to the counter where—a peek at her name, stitched into the apron pocket—Braxton is waiting for me. “How are you, Braxton?”
“So good!” she replies enthusiastically. “How are you?”
“So good,” I agree. She beams. I glance up at the menu, handwritten on a chalkboard in a beautiful flowing script.
Holding my hands up in a visual representation of a gallon, I look back at Braxton.
“Can I have something this big and with all the caffeine you can manage to fit in there? Hot, please.”
She nods gamely, grabbing a large cup and clicking open a Sharpie. “Do you like sweet?”
“Just black, please. Give me something dark and acidic enough to peel paint from the walls,” I request. She giggles, scratching away at the cup.
“Name?”
“Ewan. Also, let’s make it two of the same.”
She rings me up, and I wait until her back is turned toward the espresso machine before dropping a twenty into the tip jar.
Stepping to the side, I look around the mostly empty café.
Like they always do, my eyes immediately catch on the art hanging on the cheerful yellow walls.
Moving closer, I peer at the photographs.
They’re mostly local attractions—the lighthouse, the main drive downtown, and the wharf.
When I see a black-and-white shot of a lobster boat, my heart squeezes in pain before I look closer and see it’s not Shiloh’s.
I’m not a professional photographer, but I can recognize and appreciate talent when I see it.
Each print has a tag underneath, giving credit to a Cedric Knox and advertising the price.
I don’t recognize the name, which means he’s probably not a local.
Or perhaps I should stop assuming I know anything about this place when I’ve been gone for over half a decade.
“Well, well, well.”
Turning to the right, I watch a tall woman skirt the edge of the counter and walk toward me.
Her blond hair swings behind her in a braid, and the arms peeking out from her short-sleeved shirt are covered in tattoos.
She grins at me, and I return it, holding my arms wide for a hug.
I grunt when she gives it to me, practically lifting me off my feet as she makes every effort to crack my rib cage.
“Jean Anderson, is that you?” I ask breathlessly, lungs screaming in pain. She lets me go, smacking a hand on my shoulder when I make a production of clutching my chest.
“I could be asking you the same thing. Ewan Fate walking into my coffee shop? Hell, if I’d known I’d be seeing a pretty face like yours, I’d have done a little extra with mine.”