Chapter 3
Sadie
I’m standing in the middle of a wildflower field wearing white silk and nothing underneath.
The breeze is gentle, warm. There are flowers everywhere—tied to chairs, woven through the arbor, tucked into my braid. The music’s soft, some acoustic thing I probably used to hate. But right now, it’s perfect. Everything is perfect.
Max is there.
His tie is crooked. He always hated ties. But he’s grinning like he can’t believe his luck, and I’m laughing like I’ve never been hurt. My hands are shaking when he reaches for them, but he just steadies me like he always did. His touch quiets the noise.
“You ready for this?” he murmurs, brushing a kiss against my knuckles.
“I’m ready.”
“I can’t wait for all this to be over,” he whispers. “So I can carry you home and knot you into next week.”
I laugh. “You’re terrible.”
He winks. “I’m yours.”
The officiant says something I barely register. All I see is him. All I feel is the heat in my chest when he slips the ring on my finger. My breath catches. I shudder.
Max leans in, pressing his lips to mine like he’s claiming me all over again. “I love you,” he whispers against my mouth.
“I love you too.”
“Hey—hey, are you crying?”
The voice startles me awake. My eyes fly open, but the light is too bright. Too real.
And he’s gone.
The wildflowers vanish. The silk. The warmth. The weight of his ring.
Gone.
I blink up at a girl, maybe sixteen, holding a half-eaten muffin in one hand and looking at me like I’ve just told her the moon’s fake.
Shit.
I wipe at my cheeks. They’re damp. My hoodie’s still slung on the back of the chair, and I’m very much still in Shepard’s T-shirt.
Of course I fell asleep like this. In the library. In a stranger’s clothes.
Awesome.
“I’m fine,” I croak, though my throat is raw from the sob I must’ve let out. “Just... dreaming and stuff.”
“Oh.” She doesn’t push. Just nods like that explains everything and takes another bite of her muffin. “I’m Millie, by the way. Volunteer here. Came to help open up.”
Right. Shepard said something about her maybe coming in around eight.
I check my phone. It’s 9:48 a.m.
Goddammit, Sadie.
“Shit,” I mutter, scrambling upright. “Shit, shit, I’m late. I was supposed to—fuck. Sorry. I have to go.”
I snatch up my sketchbook and phone, jam my feet into my damp boots, and practically sprint out the library door, yelling a rushed “Thanks, Millie!” behind me.
The rain has slowed to a lazy drizzle. My truck smells like damp fabric as I crank the ignition and back out, tires squealing against the curb.
Fuel. Then find the mayor. Then maybe I can collapse into a real bed and pretend I haven’t just made a total ass of myself before 10 a.m.
The Shell station Shepard told me about is thankfully open and mostly empty. I slide in, fill up, and grab a bottled water and two protein bars because the idea of sitting down for breakfast right now feels impossible.
I look like hell. My hair’s still damp. My hoodie is wadded into a ball on the passenger seat. And I’m still wearing Shepard’s shirt.
Of course, that’s the moment I pull up to City Hall and spot a man already waiting out front, leaning against the railing with a takeaway tray of coffee.
He looks… young. Late twenties? Maybe early thirties at most. Tall, broad-shouldered, light green eyes. Alpha. I know it before I even get close. His smell has a hint of saltwater—clean, bright, and buzzing with subtle pressure.
I smooth my hair as I climb out of the car, trying to act like I didn’t just dream about my dead husband and cry in front of a teenager.
He grins and strides over, extending a hand.
“Sadie Devereaux?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Jake Marshall. Welcome to Driftwood Cove.”
We shake hands. His grip is firm, warm. Confident in that Alpha way I haven’t had to stomach in a while. He’s good-looking, too. Not model-perfect, but real. Like he works with his hands sometimes. There’s a silver ring on his right hand, thick-banded and worn.
“Coffee?” he asks, holding one out.
“God, yes. Thank you.”
He passes me a cup and gestures toward the bench outside. “You’ve met Shepard, I see?”
I nearly choke on my sip. My hand flies to the collar of the shirt I’m wearing.
Oh my god. I’m still in his damn shirt. Of course he can smell him on me…
“Uh. Yeah. I got caught in the rain. He offered dry clothes.”
Jake laughs, easy and warm. “That sounds like Shepard. Nicest guy in town.”
Maybe anywhere.
I take another long sip, grateful for the distraction. Jake settles beside me, pulling a folded map from his coat pocket.
“Let’s get you oriented,” he says, spreading it over his knee. “We’ve marked the six locations selected for murals. Some are on public buildings, some on private businesses. You’ll have access to all of them.”
I nod, scanning the little red dots on the town diagram. One near the harbor. Another by a school. Two on the main strip. One near a hiking trail?
He continues. “You can use your vehicle to get to all the sites. We’ve got a small fuel budget for you. I’ll have it reimbursed weekly. And if you need equipment—lifts, paint, scaffolding—we’ve got a supply partnership lined up.”
That catches me off guard. “You’re really set up for this.”
Jake smiles. “We’re trying to do it right. No half-assing. This town needs life again. Color. Hope. You came highly recommended.”
I don’t ask who did the recommending. I just nod. “Thank you. I’ll do my best.”
He folds the map neatly and tucks it back into his coat. “We’ve also got housing arranged for you. It’s near the beach. Just east of the marina.”
My eyes widen. “Beach?”
“There’s a row of new-build cottages. Yours is the last one on the stretch. Brand new. Full kitchen. Laundry. Ocean view.”
“That’s…” I blink. “That’s amazing.”
“If there’s anything you don’t like, let me know. I can make changes. Or move you.”
“No.” I shake my head. “It’s perfect. I just—didn’t expect all this.”
Jake pulls a sleek black card from his wallet and hands it to me. “My number’s on there. Day or night. If you need anything.”
I take it, folding it into my sketchbook.
He stands and stretches slightly. “Welcome to Driftwood Cove, Sadie. You’re one of us now.”
Imake it back to the car still holding the coffee and map, shoulders finally starting to relax.
One of us now.
The words stick.
I think about swinging by Sugar Haven for that muffin Shepard mentioned, but the idea of seeing more strangers makes my stomach tighten again. I’m not ready for small talk and sunshine and bakery smells.
Not yet.
Instead, I pull into the small grocery store just off Main Street. I find a clean sweater in the back seat and tug it on over the navy T-shirt. The scent of Shepard still clings faintly to the collar.
Focus, Sadie.
Inside, I rush through the aisles, grabbing whatever catches my eye—oatmeal, fruit, cold brew, granola bars, a box of microwaveable something. Enough to survive for a few days while I figure out how to breathe again.
I don’t even look at the cashier. Just pay, bag, and go.
The cottage is exactly where Jake said it would be.
A two-minute drive down a winding road that cuts close to the rocky edge of the beach. The sky’s still gray, but the ocean is loud and endless beside me. The houses are all soft pastel colors with big front porches and wide windows.
Mine is mint green with white trim. Two steps lead up to the door. A small porch swing sways in the breeze.
There’s a sign on the door.
Welcome, Sadie. Keys are inside. —Jake
I push open the door.
It smells like new paint and lemon cleaner. The inside is all exposed beams and clean lines—white walls, light floors, modern furniture. The windows stretch wide, and beyond them is nothing but ocean.
It’s too quiet.
I set the groceries down, walk to the window, and press my forehead to the glass.
You’re really here.
You’re doing this.
One mural at a time.
I whisper the words out loud, just to hear them.
And for the first time since Memphis, I think maybe I can.
Iwake up starving.
Like stomach-gnawing, bone-deep, full-body starvation. It takes me a second to remember where I am. The ocean outside the window. The silence. The clean smell of lemon polish.
Not Memphis. Not Max’s apartment. Not my old pack house.
Driftwood Cove.
My legs ache from yesterday’s drive, and my brain still feels like it’s catching up from last night’s emotional nosedive, but I make it to the kitchen without falling apart.
I tear into the protein bar first—dry, chalky, sweet with fake chocolate—but I don’t care. I chase it with cold brew straight from the bottle and then toss together toast and peanut butter and half a banana. I eat leaning over the sink like if I stop moving, I’ll start remembering again.
When the ache in my belly finally starts to settle, I press my palms against the counter and breathe deep.
You’re here. You’re doing this. One day at a time.
A hot shower helps. I scrub hard—skin, scalp, everything—like I’m trying to wash off years of grief and the faint trace of Shepard’s cologne still clinging to the shirt I wore to sleep.
I change into black jeans, a slouchy charcoal tank tucked into the waistband, and my favorite oversized green flannel. My hair’s still damp from the shower when I twist it into a high ponytail and lace up my worn black Doc Martens.
There. Ready to face the town.
But when I get outside to the car, my phone’s still there—dead, screen blank, tethered to Shepard’s power bank like some half-finished thought. I unclip it, grimacing. The library key is still on my passenger seat, too. The one I was supposed to return to City Hall.
Shit. Sorry, Shepard.
I unlock the car, settle into the driver’s seat, and check the time. 3:48 p.m.
Not enough time to paint, but enough to drive around. Scope out the town. Get a feel for the mural spots and maybe grab something to eat before the sun disappears.
I turn the ignition. The engine coughs once, then kicks to life.