Bear’s True Mate (Driftwood Cove #6)

1. Rose

ROSE

Ihated driving.

Not in the casual, offhand way most people said it.

I hated it the way some people hated spiders or the dark.

The kind of way that sat in my chest and made my palms sweat against the steering wheel.

Every lane change felt like a gamble. Every semi-truck that roared past my little sedan sent a jolt of adrenaline through me that took ten minutes to shake off.

And I’d been doing this for over six hours.

Six hours of white-knuckled, jaw-clenched, why-didn’t-I-just-fly-or-take-a-bus misery.

I’d stopped once for gas and a bathroom break at a rest stop that smelled like grease of some sort and cigarettes.

The woman at the register had looked at me like she could see every bad decision I’d made in the last month written across my face, and she pitied me.

Maybe she could. I hadn’t exactly been sleeping well, and the dark circles under my eyes weren’t doing me any favors.

Two weeks.

That was how long it had been since I’d packed a suitcase, shoved my laptop bag into the passenger seat, and left. Two weeks since I’d told Evan it was over and walked out the door while he stood in the kitchen telling me I was making a mistake. His words still echoed in my head.

You’ll be back. You always come back.

My grip tightened on the steering wheel. No, I wouldn’t. Not this time.

The GPS on my phone chimed, pulling me out of my head.

In one mile, turn right.

I exhaled a shaky breath and loosened my grip on the steering wheel.

The road ahead had changed in the last twenty minutes.

The flat stretch of highway had given way to something different.

The trees thinned out, replaced by scrubby brush and patches of marsh grass, and the sky had opened up wider than it had been for hours.

Beyond the road, I caught flashes of blue and knew it was the ocean peeking through the gaps.

My shoulders relaxed a little more at the sight.

When I’d found the listing online, I’d almost scrolled past it.

A beach cottage in some little town called Driftwood Cove.

One month. Furnished and walkable to town.

The photos were a little cut off but had shown a small place with white siding and a glimpse of the ocean from the back deck.

Inside, there was a desk near a window with an ocean view that looked almost too good to be real.

The price had been reasonable enough that I didn’t have to think too hard about it, which was nice because thinking too hard about anything was something I couldn’t afford to do right now.

Honestly, it seemed perfect.

I needed somewhere to go. Somewhere Evan wouldn’t look for me. Somewhere quiet enough to sit down, open my laptop, and finish the book I owed my editor three weeks from now.

This place had checked every box.

Turn right onto Coastal Route 4.

I turned, following the GPS’s instructions.

The road narrowed, winding through a stretch of trees before opening up into what I assumed was the edge of town.

As I continued forward, the town unfolded in front of me like something out of a movie set.

There was a cute Main Street with storefronts and awnings.

I spotted a café with a chalkboard sign out front.

There was a little shop with wind chimes made of sea glass hanging from the eaves, catching the sunlight.

People walked around, smiling. Beyond it all, past the rooftops and the power lines, the ocean stretched to the horizon.

It was beautiful.

Not in the polished, resort-town way I’d expected.

It was rougher than that and more real. The buildings looked like they’d been standing for decades, holding their own against the salty air and powerful storms. The sidewalks were cracked in places, and there were fishing nets strung up along a fence near what looked like a harbor or a marina.

For the first time in weeks, I felt like I could fully relax.

I followed the GPS through town, past the shops and down a side road that curved toward the water.

The houses here were spaced farther apart, each one angled toward the beach.

I rolled down my windows and enjoyed the scents of the water rolling in—salt, seaweed, and the kind of fresh air that didn’t exist back home.

You have arrived at your destination.

I slowed to a stop and leaned forward in my seat to look through the windshield at the house in front of me.

The listing had said it was a cozy beach cottage. I’d thought that would mean it was private, quiet, and perfect for writing.

What I was looking at was not what I’d been expecting.

It was a duplex.

Two units, side by side, sharing a wall down the middle.

Same white siding, same coastal blue trim, but clearly two separate front doors and two separate lives meant to exist on either side.

There was a massive truck in the driveway nearly taking up the whole space, and music coming from the other side of the duplex.

Loud music.

The kind you felt more than heard.

I sat there for a long moment, staring. Then I pulled up the listing on my phone and scrolled through it again. Cozy beach cottage. Private. Quiet. The photos showed one front door, but now I understood why the image had seemed cut off.

Because it was. Clearly.

My stomach sank.

I exhaled a slow breath and worked through my options.

I could leave. Turn around, drive back through town, find the Seaside Inn I’d noticed signs for, and book a room.

It was a solid idea, but I’d been driving for six hours already.

My back ached, my eyes felt gritty, and I didn’t have the energy to problem-solve right now.

Plus, the Seaside Inn probably cost twice what I’d already paid for this place, and who knew if they would have a room available?

Plus, could I even get a refund on this place?

I’d been so ready to get out of town I hadn’t paid attention to the cancellation policy.

Pulling up the confirmation email, I scrolled all the way to the bottom and noticed it was nonrefundable as of seven days ago.

“Perfect,” I grumbled to myself.

Surely, I had grounds to void it based on the misleading pictures and description.

Did I want that argument, though?

Not really. I wanted out of my car and to not have to drive again for the next few weeks. I turned my engine off and stayed where I was. The bass from the music was still going strong. I could feel it vibrating faintly through the frame of my car.

“Okay,” I muttered. “This is fine. Everything will be just fine.”

I swung my door open and gathered my things, feeling slightly overwhelmed still. All I could think about was that I’d been lied to by whomever had listed this place. I headed inside, hoping there weren’t more lies waiting for me.

The key was in a lockbox mounted beside the door, just like the rental email had said. I punched in the code, grabbed it, and let myself inside.

The interior was better than the outside had promised.

Clean. Simple. A small living area with a couch and a coffee table, a kitchen tucked against the far wall with appliances that looked newish.

There was a short hallway that I assumed led to a bedroom and bathroom, but the thing that caught my eye was the desk.

It sat near the front window, angled to face the ocean, and the view was exactly what the listing had shown: water as far as I could see, blue-gray and glittering under the late afternoon sun, with a stretch of sandy beach between the house and the shore.

The tension I’d been carrying since the driveway eased a little at the sight of it.

At least the entire listing hadn’t been a lie.

I set my laptop bag on the desk and my suitcase on the floor. Staring out at the sparkling water, I thought this might actually work. I pictured myself writing all the words from this spot while gazing out at the water.

Then the music from next door surged louder, the bass rattling dishes in the kitchen.

My lips pursed.

I smoothed a hand over my forehead, and then a thought came to me.

Maybe they didn’t know someone had arrived yet.

That was possible. The truck was here, so whoever was staying on the other side was home, but they might not have heard me pull up.

Not over that noise, at least. I’d give it an hour.

Maybe two. People didn’t blast music all day.

I’d unpack and settle in. Eventually, they’d turn it down.

Then tomorrow or later tonight, they’d notice my car and realize there was someone over here now. They’d keep it down after that, surely.

Then everything would be fine.

I hoisted my suitcase up and walked to the bedroom down the hall.

The room was decent sized. There was a massive bed, a nightstand with a lamp, a dresser, and a window that faced the side yard.

I hung up the few things I’d brought that needed hanging and stacked the rest in the narrow dresser drawers.

Toiletries went in the bathroom, which was small but clean, with a shower that had decent water pressure when I tested it.

An hour passed.

The music didn’t stop.

Tea seemed like a good idea. The single-serve machine on the kitchen counter was easy enough to figure out, and a few minutes later, I sat at the desk with a warm mug of Earl Grey.

The ocean was right there, gorgeous and calming, and I should have felt something settling inside me.

Instead, the bass pulsed through the shared wall like a second heartbeat, and I couldn’t hear myself think.

Still, I opened my laptop and scrolled to where I’d left off.

I’d managed to push through the first two chapters but had been staring at the start of Chapter Three for two weeks.

The meet cute. The moment that kicks the whole love story into motion.

It needed to be charming and flirty. The kind of scene that makes a reader smile and think oh, these two are going to be trouble. My fingers hovered over the keys.

Nothing came.

The music shifted to something louder. It had heavier tones to it and a faster tempo. When a door slammed on the other side, I jumped and then tried to settle back in again, but the muffled sounds of a man talking—or was he singing? It was hard to tell—filtered through the walls.

I closed my laptop and sat back in the chair.

A loud clanking noise came from next door. Then the man laughed.

What was he doing over there?

I placed my head in my hands and squeezed my eyes shut.

My editor was expecting this book in three weeks. That was all the time I had to write a book my readers had been waiting what felt like forever for. How was I going to write it living next to a man who apparently didn’t own headphones?

Still, this was better than being home and trying to write.

I stared out the window at the ocean waves. The sun was lower now, casting long gold streaks across the water. Somewhere below the noise coming from next door, the sounds of waves crashing against the shore were playing out in a rhythm I could almost feel.

The music thumped on.

I picked up my tea. I’d give it tonight. One night. If it was still like this tomorrow, when the guy next door could clearly see my car parked in the driveway, I’d figure something else out.

For now, I was here. I was away from Evan. I had a desk with an ocean view and three weeks to write an epic love story—even though I wasn’t sure I believed in love anymore—and hope my readers couldn’t tell.