Chapter 2
New Year’s Day fell on a Tuesday morning, and Brockton Gallagher found himself driving to his typical spot—his grandmother’s house.
It had become sort of a habit to visit with her at least once a week, and usually during the mornings, her favorite time of day.
He considered himself more of a night owl, though life and work forced him to wake up at the crack of dawn, but he asked her why she preferred mornings once.
And her answer sold him. She told him it was because the world was still and sleeping, and for a moment, it was as though that precious carving of time belonged solely to her.
She said there was nothing more magical than witnessing the sun just breaking on the horizon, its glow of warmth not yet touching the sand, or when there was nothing but the sound of the sea and the call of the breeze.
And so he’d begun to visit during those favorite times in the morning, when it was just the two of them, the ocean air, and a fresh cup of coffee.
Except today was more important than normal.
Today they would discuss the future of her beach house.
It had been in their family for years, but no one lived there in quite some time.
At some point, there were plans and discussions to renovate and rejuvenate the house, as its location was prime, and the property was pristine.
But when his grandfather had fallen ill, the beach house was all but forgotten, and after his death, it suffered from neglect.
Now, however, Brock had the opportunity to change all of that, to bring the beach house he grew up in back to its former glory.
Small-scale renovations and construction were how he made his living.
He’d built a name for himself in Mystic Cove, from overhauling the town’s only hotel to remodeling outdated houses along the shore.
He had a decent-sized crew, and though it was winter, they were busy this time of year as everyone wanted to book their upgrades and improvements before the weather warmed.
However, he blocked out a specific amount of time for the beach house.
After visiting it a handful of times and making note of the necessary repairs and upgrades, he was certain they could have it revamped and completed in two months.
Give or take. Either way, it would be ready to go well before spring graced them with an early, unbearable heat.
But as he approached his grandmother’s driveway, contemplating how he was going to convince her to agree, he slowed down.
A sleek black Mercedes was parked in front of her house.
Not the kind of car usually seen in Mystic Cove—those luxury vehicles were usually found cruising the strip further north in Virginia Beach.
This kind of car down here could only mean one thing.
Unease twisted in the pit of his stomach and trepidation slowly prickled along his spine.
Brock parked his truck and climbed out, ignoring the growing sense of apprehension that seized his shoulders.
The winter wind gusted into him, and he scrubbed his palms against his jeans as he approached the yellow house with green shutters.
He rapped the front door twice with his knuckles, then opened it.
“Yaya?” he called out, and his nose was instantly assaulted by the smell of overpriced cologne. “I’m here.”
“In the kitchen, honey.” Her soft voice floated to him from the right side of the house.
He followed the sound through the living room, which looked as though it could’ve been purchased straight from a farmhouse-style magazine.
Not that he minded the crisp whites offset with grays and creams and splashes of black, but a place by the beach should draw in the color from the outside, not wash it away.
He turned the corner toward the kitchen and stopped dead in his tracks.
His instinct was right, even though he’d been hoping he was wrong.
It’d been three years since he’d seen him last.
Fine. Three years, five months, and two days.
Not that he was counting. No, he was rather accustomed to the man who called himself his father drifting in and out of his life.
It was constant, like the flow of the tide, and something Brock had come to expect.
The only thing that ever changed was the length of time his father spent away from him.
Eventually, days blurred into weeks, those weeks extended into months, and months bled into years.
It was only a matter of time before he stopped coming back to Mystic Cove completely.
Brock gave him a once-over.
Aidan Gallagher stood in the kitchen, dressed in his typical attire.
He wore a sharp, slim-cut suit with cufflinks that blinked in the light and an overly loud tie at his neck.
His dark auburn hair was slicked back, but age had threaded it with strands of gray.
His charm won him favor, and he acquired properties with pretty words and broken promises.
He swindled and bartered, sweet-talked and stole.
He made fools out of those who worked hard for a living.
He sold them a pipe dream and walked away when it crumbled to ash at their feet.
Aidan Gallagher was a fraud. A cheat. And a pitiful excuse for a father.
“Good morning, Kelly.”
Brock softened at her use of his middle name.
Whereas his father was a hulking statue of wealth and intimidation, Yaya was all soft florals and warmth.
The wrinkles lining her eyes and mouth were reminders of years full of smiles and laughter.
She wore a long dress with embroidered flowers sprouting from the hem and a fuzzy cardigan that smelled lightly of honey.
Her white hair was twisted into a braided bun, and Brock stood almost a foot taller than her.
He bent down and gave Yaya a kiss on her cheek.
Rolling his shoulders back, he finally turned to face his father. “What do you want?”
“There’s no need to—” Yaya attempted to chide him, but Aiden interrupted her. Like always.
“It’s fine, Ma.” Aidan cut a hand through the air, his watch glinting, his tone dismissive. He stepped forward, his overly shiny shoes clicking against the hardwood flooring, and smirked in appreciation. “He’s my son. He’s allowed to be angry.”
Brock scowled. “I can think of a more colorful term.”
“I bet you can,” his father retorted.
“That’s enough, you two. I mean it.” Yaya moved through the kitchen like an aging ballerina. Graceful and delicate. She set out a plate of buttery croissants and poured Brock a cup of coffee—black, as it was meant to be enjoyed—while Aidan took his drowning in cream and sugar.
“Now, Kelly.” She seated herself at the small round table, the morning winter light highlighting the wisps of silver framing her face. “Your father is here to discuss the beach house.”
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and the familiar, empty pit in his stomach returned. Except this time it was corrupted by a rising ball of impending rage.
“What about it?” Brock bit the words off, preparing for the inevitable fight.
Immediately, Aidan shifted into business mode. He flicked his wrists, adjusted his overpriced cufflinks, and set a leather briefcase on the table. When he smiled, it was razor sharp. Bloodthirsty.
“Well, to start, it’s old and dilapidated.”
“It’s got character,” Brock countered with a surge of agitation. He took a hasty swig of his coffee, not caring when the hot liquid scalded his tongue and the back of his throat. “And for the record, I was asking her. Not you.”
Aidan ignored his pathetic dig and flipped open his briefcase.
Inside there were stacks of tidy papers tucked into glossy black folders.
Colored tabs stuck out from the folders, and there were multiple notes written in his looping scrawl.
He pulled out one of the folders and flipped it open, setting it directly in front of Yaya.
“The beach house is located on prime real estate.” Aidan flipped to a page displaying a map of Mermaid Avenue and the surrounding property lines. “And I’ve got an interested buyer.”
Brock didn’t give him the opportunity to finish. “It’s not for sale.”
“Not yet,” Aidan countered.
“Not ever,” Brock volleyed back.
Aidan arched one brow. “The house is an eyesore, Kelly.”
“That’s Brockton to you, Dad.” He took another drink of his coffee and stared at the map. He wasn’t stupid, he knew exactly the kind of business his father had planned. He’d tear down the beach house and probably build an overpriced condo in its wake.
“Yaya, you can’t sell.” Brockton placed his hand on his grandmother’s shoulder. “You love that house.”
Even though the house he stood in now was less than a mile from the ocean, the beach house had always been more like home.
Growing up, he spent every summer there.
Mornings consisted of his grandfather taking him fishing on the pier that stretched out into the water and staying there until the sky filled with the early colors of dawn.
Afternoons were for the beach—languid, lazy days where he did nothing but surf, swim, and sleep.
When the evenings rolled around, he’d watch the rise of twilight take over the horizon alongside his grandparents, with a sweet tea in one hand, then eventually a beer.
He never noticed the paint peeling away from years of salty, wind-battered beatings.
He ignored the splintered wooden steps leading to the beach, and the way the handles would fall off cabinet doors, never to be replaced.
On a whim, he’d up and joined the Marine Corps right out of high school like he had something to prove, and when he returned eight years later, his grandfather had already fallen ill, and the beach house was all but forgotten.
Okay, maybe he loved that house.
“I don’t know, Kelly.” Yaya absently stirred her hot tea, considering the numbers laid before her. “There's quite a bit of money on the table.”
Right. Money that would eventually go to his father.