11. Ash
11
ASH
T he dream lingers even after I wake up. Mia, sitting on a checkered blanket, the sun warm on her face, laughing as she shoves a strawberry in my mouth.
I can still hear her voice, light and teasing. I can still see the way she smiled at me like I was her whole damn world.
Then—nothing.
Just the cold motel room, the shitty yellowed ceiling, and the ache in my chest that never really leaves.
I stare at the clock. Two minutes after six in the morning. Too early to do anything, too late to fall back asleep without her slipping back into my dreams.
I push myself up and rub a hand down my face. Shower. That’s what I need. Something to shake this feeling off before it settles in too deep.
The motel water is lukewarm at best this morning, the pressure barely there, but I stay under it longer than I need to.
When I finally step out, steam clings to the mirror, and I swipe a hand over the glass, staring at my reflection.
My stubble’s getting thick. Should’ve packed my razor.
Fuck. Another thing to add to the list.
The motel sucks. No breakfast. No real privacy. I’d hoped I could stay here until I found a nice place to rent, but I’ll have to speed up the search.
Maybe I’ll find something quiet, something that doesn’t smell like mildew and regret.
I throw on jeans, a plain shirt, and lace up my boots. The air outside is crisp, the sky still soft with early morning light.
Grocery store first. Razor, breakfast, maybe a coffee if I’m lucky.
The place is quiet when I step inside, just a few early risers milling around. I grab a basket, head toward the toiletries aisle, and then?—
BAM.
Something solid hits me. Or—someone.
“Shit, sorry,” a voice says, and I look up just as she yanks out an earbud, pushing her cart aside.
Grace.
Gas station girl.
Her hair is swishing over her shoulder, and a long skirt is hugging her waist. She has boots laced up her legs.
She’s gorgeous, and for a second, I forget what I was doing.
She also smells… incredible. She’s in heat.
I look for the telltale marks that indicate she belongs to someone. I don’t see anything. How can that be?
Her eyes flick up, recognition sparking.
“Well, if it isn’t the man from the gas station,” she says, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
And fuck. That smile.
Something shifts in my chest, something too warm, too easy. She remembers me.
“That’s me,” I say, clearing my throat. “Ash.”
“Grace,” she says, even though I already know her name. She tilts her head, eyes sweeping over me like she’s taking stock. “You new in town?”
“Yeah. Just got in a few days ago.”
She moves her cart a bit. “Just visiting?”
“Sticking around for a while,” I say. “Studying the tide pools.”
She raises a brow, intrigued. “Interesting.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “To some people.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” she says, playful. “Just wasn’t expecting that.”
“What were you expecting?”
She shrugs. “Something less… I don’t know. Science-y.”
I smirk. “Should’ve gone with traveling salesman.”
She grins, and there’s something so easy about this. About her.
“Actually,” I say, shifting my basket, “I was thinking of finding a place. A house. Staying in a motel for six months doesn’t sound great.”
“Probably not,” she agrees. “You need a real estate agent?”
“Or something.”
She chews her lip for a second, then nods. “I can put some feelers out. You should stop by the flower shop tomorrow—I’m always there.”
Right, the flower shop. I can smell the flowers on her skin underneath the cloying invitation of her heat.
“Yeah?” I say. “Might take you up on that.”
She nods, then glances at her cart. “Well, I gotta get moving before the old ladies take all the good bread.”
I grin. “Can’t have that.”
“Definitely not.” She steps around me, starts walking off, then glances back. “See you tomorrow, Ash.”
And just like that, she’s gone.
I stand there for a second, staring at where she was, feeling lighter than I have all day. The grief that sat so heavy on my chest when I woke up? Gone.
I exhale, shaking my head, and keep moving. Tomorrow’s already looking better.
After shopping, I decide to explore a little more of my new home.
The bakery smells like coffee and fresh bread, the kind of scents that make waking up early worth it.
The place is small, tucked between a hardware store and some boutique selling overpriced seashell necklaces.
A chalkboard sign out front says, “ Best damn bagels in town.”
You’ll get no arguments from me.
I step inside, and an older woman behind the counter looks up from a crossword puzzle. “Morning, hon. What can I get ya?”
“Coffee, black. And a bagel. Whatever’s fresh.”
She nods, grabbing a plain bagel and slicing it. “Passing through?”
“Sticking around for a while.”
“That so?” She hands over my order, eyeing me like she’s already placing bets on how long I’ll last.
I just nod, toss a five on the counter, and take my stuff to go.
Back at the motel, I settle on the stiff mattress, sip my coffee, and go through my gear.
Field notebook. Waterproof bag. Calipers. Some containers of pH strips. My old, beat-up copy of Marine Ecology in Temperate Zones .
I check my phone—battery’s decent, but I packed a portable charger just in case.
Halfway through stuffing my bag, my phone rings. Dr. Lowe, checking in on me again.
I swipe to answer. “Morning, Doc.”
“Morning, Ash. You settled in?”
“As much as I can be in a place that smells like old socks and regret.”
She chuckles. “Well, make the most of it. We’re hoping for solid results this time—you know how the board gets when funding season rolls around.
I sent over the first set of documents for your study. Let me know if you have any questions.”
“Yeah, yeah. No pressure or anything.”
“A little pressure’s good for you. Keeps you sharp.”
I take a sip of coffee. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Good. Check in later. And Ash?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t piss off the locals too soon.”
“Can’t make any promises.”
She hangs up.
I shove the last of my bagel in my mouth, grab my gear, and head out.
* * *
The coastline is rugged, all jagged rocks and rolling waves. The tide’s starting to pull back, exposing slick patches of kelp and shallow pools teeming with tiny crabs and darting fish.
I crouch near the water, jot down a few notes, snap a picture.
The air is sharp with salt. Peaceful.
Then a voice behind me says, “That some kinda fancy city job, or you just like staring at puddles?”
I turn.
The guy’s older, maybe late sixties, built like someone who’s spent his life hauling in nets. He’s got a blade of grass between his teeth, arms crossed over a weathered jacket.
“Depends on who’s asking,” I say.
“Name’s Tom.” He jerks his chin toward my notebook. “And what exactly are you doin’?”
“Studying the tide pools. Water levels, marine life, stuff like that.”
He squints. “For what?”
“Changes in ocean patterns. How they affect fish populations, erosion rates?—”
“Uh-huh.” He chews on the grass. “So, a bunch of science shit.”
“Pretty much.”
He nods like he’s filing that away for later. “You need a boat?”
I sit back on my heels. “Yes. Why?”
“Got a guy who could take you out. If you ain’t too particular about the company.”
I raise a brow. “Who’s the guy?”
Tom just grins. “Never mind that. Here he is now.”
I follow his gaze to the shore, where a boat is pulling in. The Helene is painted across the side in weathered blue.
A tall, broad-shouldered man steps onto the dock, water dripping off his boots.
He moves with the kind of ease that says he’s been doing this his whole life.
He has dark brown hair, wavy from the salt air, and steel-gray eyes that barely flick to me before he starts offloading crates of crab and lobsters like I don’t exist.
Tom calls out, “Rowan!”
The guy glances up, unsmiling.
“This fella here needs a boat,” Tom says. “Think you could help?”
Rowan sets a crate down with a thud. “Not for hire.”
I step forward. “Not asking for a tour. Just need a ride to a few locations, out past the main reefs. I pay, you fish. You don’t have to do anything else.”
He doesn’t look impressed. “Don’t take people out.”
“I work with a research institute. I need to observe the tide pools regularly for six months.”
“Still not my problem.”
I exhale, pushing a hand through my hair. “Look, I’m not asking for favors. I’ll pay you two hundred a trip. Twice a week.”
That gets his attention. He pauses mid-motion, looking at me for the first time.
Then he turns back to his crates. “Talk fast.”
I take that as progress. “The studies I’m doing help track changes in the marine ecosystem. Water temperature shifts, acidity levels—things that affect fishing patterns. I’m not just looking at rocks.”
Rowan doesn’t say anything, just keeps working, muscles flexing under his jacket as he lifts another crate.
I try again. “If certain species start moving because of temperature shifts, it means adjusting fishing routes before it’s too late. Could help prevent a lot of problems down the line.”
Finally, he stops, wipes his hands on a rag, and looks at me. “How much again?”
“Two hundred a trip. Twice a week. You just fish, I do my work.”
He thinks on it. Long enough that I start wondering if I should up the price. Then he nods once.
“I leave early,” he says. “Six too early for you?”
“Not at all.”
“Good. Meet me at Thorne Beacon lighthouse tomorrow.” He picks up another crate. “Don’t be late.”
I grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I thank him, excitement settling in. Looks like I’ve got my ride