Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Caleb
The croissant at The Coffee Cove was decent—the butter properly layered, the exterior appropriately crisp—but it couldn’t compare to the ones at my favorite boulangerie in the Marais. Not that it mattered. I hadn’t come to Seacliff Cove for the pastries.
I’d come for Mason.
My hands curled around my latte as I watched clouds roll off the ocean and remembered how Mason had looked yesterday in the bookstore.
The years had changed him in subtle ways—short hair instead of the longer style he’d worn in college, the heavy scruff along his jaw that made me want to reach out and touch it.
But some things remained achingly familiar.
The way he ran his fingers through his hair when stressed, leaving it standing in wild tufts.
The expressive hands that punctuated his words.
The warm brown eyes that still made my heart race.
Six years together, then eleven years apart. No other man had ever measured up to him. But I couldn’t tell Mason why I was here. Not yet. Not when the hurt in his eyes was still so raw. I had to earn his forgiveness first, prove I wasn’t going anywhere this time.
Merde. The gallery position was real—I’d never lie about that—but it wasn’t why I’d left Paris. The truth was, I’d returned to the US for Mason.
For eleven years, I’d regretted leaving him to follow my dream career—eleven years of missing him, of profound loneliness no amount of professional success could fill.
I’d ghosted Mason to preserve what remained of my heart, but had kept in touch with his former roommate.
Anthony had provided reluctant updates, never failing to chastise me for not contacting Mason myself.
When I’d learned his beloved grandfather had died, I knew Mason needed support, even from the man who’d left him.
It was time to beg for a second chance, but I needed to tread carefully.
After the hurt I’d caused, any direct approach would only make him retreat further.
I’d applied to all three art galleries in Seacliff Cove and struck gold when Mary Anne, owner of the Coastal Light Gallery, seized the opportunity for a six-month break.
The bells on the coffee shop door chimed, capturing my focus.
Mason walked in with a tall, handsome man in a deputy sheriff’s uniform, laughing at something the officer said.
My stomach clenched as I watched their comfortable exchange, the way Mason’s entire face lit up as he talked to the deputy.
If only he’d looked at me like that again.
Then Mason spotted me at my corner table, and his smile vanished. “What are you doing here?”
I gripped my cup and fought the urge to retreat from his cold reaction. “Eating breakfast. I haven’t had a chance to buy groceries.”
The deputy glanced between us, clearly sensing the tension. Mason’s jaw tightened. “Garrett, this is Caleb Sullivan. He’s renting my third-floor apartment. Caleb, Deputy Garrett Whitlock.”
Garrett raised his eyebrows and asked Mason, “Where you used to live? You rented out your family’s apartment?” Kindness softened his voice.
Mason nodded, the movement jerky.
My breath caught—the apartment held sentimental value to him. I hadn’t known. I would take good care of it for him, of course.
Garrett clapped Mason on the back and politely nodded at me. He moved to the counter where the barista was already preparing Garrett’s order. The easy friendship—I hoped it was friendship—made my chest ache. This was Mason’s world now. These were his people, and I was the intruder.
“How, uh, is the apartment? Any problems?” Mason’s fingers twitched toward his hair, but he stopped himself.
“It’s good. No problems.” Any space near Mason was fine, even if it was a closet.
Mason ordered his coffee, greeting the barista by name—Cooper—and another spike of jealousy shot through me at their closeness. But what right did I have to be jealous? I was the one who’d left, who’d let our relationship wither across an ocean.
But I was there, in Mason’s building. After eleven years, I had a second chance.
I couldn’t afford to ruin it.
I wandered over to the bookstore when it opened.
Dull gray clouds blocked the sunlight, but the interior of Tides & Tales was brightly lit and welcoming.
I’d forgotten how beautiful the store was, with its second-floor balconies, rolling ladders, and the careful arrangement of books by topic and genre.
I inhaled the scents of paper, glue, and endless adventures between the covers of the books.
Quiet voices drifted from the back storeroom while I browsed the art section. I tried not to listen, but Mason’s voice—taut with distress—carried.
“I’m so sorry, Emma. I wouldn’t do this if I had any choice.”
“But I need those hours.” Her voice cracked. “Tuition is due next month, and—”
“I know. God, I understand. But I can only afford ten hours a week right now. As soon as business picks up…”
My chest tightened. The previous night, I’d heard the creak of Mason’s hardwood floor as he paced, a restlessness that matched my own sleeplessness. Now I understood why.
The storeroom door opened. A young woman emerged, wiping her eyes. Mason followed, his face drawn. When he spotted me, his expression closed off.
“Finding everything okay?” His attempt at a professional tone didn’t quite mask the strain in his voice.
I quickly pulled an art book from the shelf without looking and tucked it under my arm. “Just rebuilding my collection since everything’s in storage.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t have to make pity purchases.”
“It’s not pity.” I raised my chin as I pulled another random book from the shelf. “I actually need these. The gallery’s reference library is…lacking.”
That was partly true. The gallery needed updating. But we both knew I was buying more books than necessary when I added two more books to those under my arm. I made my way to the counter and pulled out my credit card.
The muscle in Mason’s jaw twitched, but he rang up the sale without further comment.
Wind rattled the shop’s windows as I left, carrying my carefully bagged purchases. The sky had turned an ominous dark gray, and the air held that musky tang that preceded a major storm. My stomach clenched as I thought of Mason. He’d always hated storms. And with good reason.
I spent the afternoon at the gallery, changing exhibits.
I removed a show of local Seacliff Cove artists and carefully packed away their paintings.
I was disappointing the local artists, but their time was up.
I replaced the exhibit with contemporary paintings by reclusive, renowned Seacliff artist Austin Beaumont.
Beaumont showed his work exclusively at Coastal Light Gallery, and a new collection would draw sizable crowds from miles around.
I watched the weather deteriorate. By closing, the storm had become a monster, howling in from the Northern California ocean.
A brilliant flash of lightning sliced through the storm clouds, casting everything in harsh white light for one breathless moment before the answering thunder arrived—deep and menacing—shaking the building to its foundation.
The mental image hit me like a physical blow: Mason’s parents, their car sliding over a cliff in weather just like this. Mason, twelve years old, waiting for them to come home.
Did storms still trigger panic attacks for Mason?
Oh, they hadn’t happened every time it rained.
Just those violent thunderstorms that echoed the horrible night of his parents’ accident.
Throughout college, he’d explored every avenue for relief: therapy sessions, hypnosis, medications.
Nothing had worked like the comfort of my arms. And I’d abandoned him to face those terrors alone, leaving him without the one remedy that seemed to work.
“Merde.” Was he panicking? I grabbed my coat and ran out the door, barely remembering to lock up. Rain stung my face as I sprinted the three blocks to the bookstore. The lights were off in the shop, but a faint glow came from his second-floor windows.
I took the stairs two at a time, my wet, squelching shoes slipping on the treads. “Mason?” My knock echoed in the narrow stairwell. “Mason, are you okay?”
Nothing.
I tried the doorknob, surprised to find it unlocked. “Mason? I’m coming in.”
The apartment was dark except for a single small lamp, its weak light barely pushing back the shadows. Thunder crashed again, and I heard a whimper from the direction of the couch.
Mason sat curled into himself, rocking slightly, his eyes unfocused. My heart cracked. In my imagination, he was twelve years old again, waiting for parents who would never come home.
I flipped on every light I could find, chasing away the darkness. Then I sat beside him and pulled him into my arms. He was shaking, his skin cold and clammy.
“I’m here. You’re safe,” I murmured.
His breathing was too fast, too shallow. I remembered how to help from all those storms during college. “Breathe with me, mon coeur. Deep breaths. In…out…in…out.…”
Slowly, his breathing steadied. His rigid muscles began to relax. When another thunderclap rattled the windows, he flinched but didn’t retreat into himself.
“I know I shouldn’t be here,” I said softly, though I made no move to let him go. “But I remembered how difficult storms are for you.”
“I’m fine now.” His voice was hoarse, clogged with emotion. “You can go.”
He pulled away, and I let him, though everything in me protested.
That’s when I noticed the stacks of books on the coffee table.
First editions, their spines pristine, their dust jackets carefully preserved.
I recognized many of them—I’d been with him when he bought the books, watched him handle them with reverence.
The copy of Gone Girl we’d found in that tiny bookshop in Berkeley. The signed copy of Where the Crawdads Sing that he’d spent three months’ savings on. The complete collection of Percy Jackson first editions that Pop-Pop had given him for graduation. More.
“What are you doing with these?” But I already knew. The sick feeling in my stomach grew worse when he wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“It’s none of your business.” His voice was flat.
I knew without a doubt he was going to sell them.
Another crash of thunder, but this time he held himself firm. His walls were back up.
“Mason…” What could I say? That he shouldn’t sell his treasures? That there had to be another way? I’d only shame him.
“You should go.” He stood, wrapping his arms around himself. “I’m fine now. Really.”
I stood, too, and shoved my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for him again. “The storm’s still bad.”
“I’ve survived plenty of storms alone.” The words carried a meaning that made me wince. “I’ll be fine.”
Walking away from him felt wrong, like leaving a broken bird in the rain. But he’d learned to survive storms without me. He’d learned to survive everything without me. I sighed, my heart aching.
I scribbled my number on a notepad beside his books. “Call me if you need me.” But I knew he wouldn’t. With a heaviness in my chest that made each breath an effort, I let myself out.
As I climbed the stairs to my apartment, my mind was already working. An idea started forming—a collaboration opportunity that could benefit both the local artists and the bookstore.
I’d have to be careful how I presented it. Mason’s pride was as strong as his love for the bookstore. But I’d find a way to help him save his precious books, his business, his grandfather’s legacy.
I owed him that much, at least.