Chapter Two
T he first thing Hailey noticed about Santa Monica was the light.
New York had light, of course. It sliced between buildings, flashed off windows, turned puddles silver after rain.
But this was different. California light sprawled.
It poured itself over everything—the palm trees, the sidewalks, the sun-warmed stucco buildings, the ocean glittering beyond the road like someone had spilled diamonds across blue silk.
By the time her rideshare pulled up to the bungalow, Hailey had taken off her blazer, pushed her sunglasses onto her face, and decided she might forgive Amanda for being right.
The bungalow sat at the edge of a narrow lane, tucked between two slightly larger beach houses with climbing flowers spilling over fences.
It was exactly as the photos promised: white walls, blue shutters, a small porch, and a weathered wooden deck that faced the sand.
A cluster of lavender grew near the steps, bending lazily in the ocean breeze.
Hailey stepped out of the car and inhaled.
Salt.
Sun.
Coconut sunscreen drifting from somewhere nearby.
And beneath all of it, the steady hush and crash of waves.
The sound moved through her like a hand smoothing wrinkled fabric.
The driver unloaded her suitcase while Hailey stared at the ocean.
“You good?” he asked.
She blinked. “Yes. Sorry. Thank you.”
He smiled like he had seen this before. “First day of vacation?”
“That obvious?”
“You look like you’re trying to remember how.”
Hailey laughed, tipped him through the app, and dragged her suitcase up the path.
The bungalow was charming in a way that made her chest ache.
Not polished, not cold, not arranged for performance.
The floors were pale wood scuffed by sand and years.
The kitchen had open shelves stacked with mismatched blue-and-white dishes.
The living room held a soft cream sofa, a round rattan chair, and a bookshelf full of battered paperbacks left by previous guests.
On the coffee table sat a handwritten note from the owner.
Welcome to Santa Monica. There’s coffee in the cabinet, beach towels in the closet, and a bottle of white wine in the fridge. Please enjoy the sunset. It’s the best part.
Hailey read it twice.
Please enjoy the sunset.
No action items. No timeline. No deliverables.
Just enjoy the sunset.
She unpacked because she was the kind of person who unpacked even on a one-week trip. Dresses in the closet. Sandals lined up beneath them. Skincare on the bathroom counter. Laptop placed on the small desk by the window, then stared at with immediate suspicion.
“No,” she told it.
The laptop sat there, sleek and silent, radiating temptation.
Hailey opened her phone instead.
There were thirty-eight unread emails.
She closed her eyes.
“No,” she said again, more firmly.
Amanda had made her promise three things before she left New York.
One: no checking work email unless someone called twice in a row.
Two: at least one real meal per day eaten somewhere that required sitting down.
Three: no using the words I should probably just handle this quickly under any circumstances.
Hailey had agreed because Amanda had threatened to change her email password.
Now, standing in a beach bungalow with the Pacific Ocean outside her window, Hailey turned off her notifications.
It felt illegal.
It also felt incredible.
After a shower to wash off airport air, she changed into a tiny red bikini she had purchased in a moment of either courage or temporary insanity. In the mirror, she studied herself with the critical eye of a woman accustomed to seeing her body mostly in pencil skirts and silk blouses.
Her skin was pale from too many months under office lighting.
Her curves filled out the bikini in ways she would have considered impractical if she were dressing for anyone but herself.
Her dirty-blond hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, softened by the humidity. Her green eyes looked tired.
But less dead than yesterday.
Progress.
She pulled on a loose white cover-up, grabbed a beach towel, sunscreen, sunglasses, and the paperback she had picked up at the airport.
Forget Me Not.
A second-chance romance currently sitting at number one, if the sticker on the cover was to be believed. Hailey had selected it because she wanted something with longing, kissing, and absolutely no athletes in need of reputation management.
Five minutes later, she stepped onto the sand.
Heat kissed the soles of her feet. The air moved around her, warm and briny, carrying the sounds of gulls, laughter, distant music, and the rhythmic smack of a volleyball being served over a net.
Hailey paused.
To her right, several beach volleyball courts stretched across the sand. Most were occupied by casual groups in sunglasses and swimsuits, laughing when they missed, cheering when someone accidentally managed a decent hit.
One court was different.
Two men moved across it with the controlled intensity of professionals. No wasted motion. No lazy steps. The ball snapped between them, fast and clean, each strike sending up small sprays of sand beneath their feet.
Hailey noticed them in the detached way any woman with functioning eyes would notice them.
The taller one had dark hair and the kind of build that suggested he had never lost an argument with a gym. The other had sun-streaked brown hair, tanned skin, and the kind of sharp, athletic build that seemed almost unfair against the bright sky.
Sun-streaked brown hair. Broad shoulders. Rock-hard body. Tan and toned in all the right places.
He dove for the ball, muscles flexing as he hit the sand, then rolled smoothly back to his feet.
Hailey’s mouth went a little dry.
“Nope,” she said under her breath.
She had been in Santa Monica for less than an hour. She was not going to stand there ogling a stranger like a dehydrated tourist.
She walked deliberately past the courts, found a patch of sand far enough away—or so she thought—and laid out her towel. Sunscreen first, because sunburn was not a personality trait. Then sunglasses. Then book.
She settled onto her stomach with a sigh so deep it seemed to come from her bones.
The sun warmed her shoulders.
The ocean breathed.
For the first time in longer than she cared to admit, no one needed her.
Hailey opened Forget Me Not and sank into someone else’s problems.
For twenty blissful minutes, the world narrowed to printed words, heat on her skin, and the comforting knowledge that the fictional hero on the page would probably make terrible choices but would at least be emotionally available by the end.
Then something hard slammed into the side of her head.
“Ah!”
Her book flew out of her hands. Her sunglasses went crooked. Pain burst bright and immediate near her temple.
For one stunned second, Hailey did not move.
A blue-and-white volleyball rolled innocently across her towel.
“Oh my God.” A male voice came closer at speed. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
Hailey pushed herself up on one elbow, yanked off her sunglasses, and looked at him.
The man from the court stood over her, breathing hard, sweat gleaming across his chest and shoulders.
Up close, he was even more ridiculous. Steel-blue eyes.
Sun-streaked hair. A jaw that could have been designed by a committee of romance readers.
His navy swim brief clung low on his hips, leaving very little about his athletic build to the imagination.
Unfortunately for him, Hailey was in pain.
Also unfortunately for him, pain made her mean.
“Do I look okay?” she snapped.
He winced. “Not exactly.”
“Correct answer.”
“I’m really sorry. The wind caught it, and Jack hit it wide, and I—”
“You hit me in the head with a volleyball.”
Technically, she did not know whether he had been the one to hit it, but he was the one standing there, gorgeous and apologetic, so he would do.
“I know. I’m sorry.” He crouched beside her. “Can I see?”
“No.”
His eyebrows lifted. “No?”
“No, strange beach man, you may not inspect my head.”
A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth.
Hailey hated that she noticed his mouth.
“Fair,” he said. “I’m Tyler.”
“Congratulations.”
The smile widened.
That irritated her further.
“Look,” he said, holding up both hands, “I apologize. Sincerely. I should have controlled the ball better.”
“Yes. You should have.”
“But you’re also lying kind of close to the court.”
Hailey went still.
Slowly, she looked at the court, then at the wide stretch of sand around her, then back at him.
“I’m sorry,” she said, voice sweetening in a way that had made seasoned agents reconsider their life choices. “Did you just hit me in the head and then critique my towel placement?”
His teammate, still standing near the court, made a choking sound that might have been a laugh.
Tyler shot him a look before returning his attention to Hailey. “That came out wrong.”
“Did it?”
“Yes.”
“How fortunate for both of us that you clarified.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, leaving it even messier. “I’m trying to say I’m sorry, and also this area can be dangerous when we’re practicing.”
“Then perhaps you should practice not assaulting vacationers.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, though amusement still flickered there. “Perhaps vacationers should avoid setting up camp near active courts.”
Hailey sat up fully, pressing a hand to the sore spot near her temple. “Perhaps athletes should learn to keep their balls to themselves.”
The moment the words left her mouth, silence fell.
Tyler stared at her.
His teammate doubled over laughing.
Heat rushed up Hailey’s neck.
Tyler’s mouth twitched. “I’ll work on that.”
“Do.”
“I really am sorry.”
She picked up the volleyball and shoved it toward him. “Apology noted. Please leave me alone.”
Something shifted across his face. Not anger, exactly. Maybe embarrassment. Maybe disappointment.
For half a second, Hailey regretted the sharpness.
Then he took the ball.
“Enjoy your book,” he said.
“I was.”
He huffed a laugh, shook his head, and jogged back toward the court.
Hailey watched him go.
She told herself it was because she needed to make sure he returned to a safe distance.
It had absolutely nothing to do with the flex of his back, the sand clinging to his calves, or the way his navy swim brief showcased a body that looked like it had been built through years of sun, sweat, and discipline.
Absolutely nothing.
She adjusted her sunglasses, retrieved her book, and tried to find her place.
The heroine had just discovered an old love letter.
Hailey read the same paragraph three times.
From the court, Tyler jumped, spiking the ball with such force that a group nearby cheered. His body cut against the sky, all golden skin and coiled power.
Hailey’s gaze betrayed her immediately.
He landed in the sand, glanced over, and caught her looking.
Even from a distance, she could see his grin.
Damn it.
She snapped her attention back to the book.
The words might as well have been in another language.
She lasted six minutes.
Then she shoved everything into her beach bag, stood, and shook sand from her towel with more dignity than she felt.
She did not look back as she walked toward the bungalow.
Not once.
Well.
Once.
Tyler was watching her.
The knowledge followed her all the way up the beach, warm and inconvenient and more dangerous than any volleyball.