Chapter 1
Beyond The Reputation
Chase Montgomery was the kind of man everyone in Wrightsville Beach knew—some by name, others by reputation.
He was the golden boy with a devil-may-care attitude, the kind of man who could walk into a room and turn heads without trying, who could make a woman feel like she was the only person in the world with a single glance.
He had it all—looks that made people stare, southern charm that made them weak, and a reputation that made them talk.
The stories about him traveled faster than the tide, whispered over drinks at The Low Tide Tavern, passed between friends with knowing smirks.
Some swore he had a new woman every weekend, others said he never called the same girl twice.
And yet, for all the tales of his conquests, no one ever had a bad word to say about him.
He was the type to leave a woman breathless, never broken.
At The Low Tide Tavern, the bartender barely needed to ask what he was drinking.
He always ordered bourbon, neat, with the kind of slow, confident nod that made the act feel like a ritual rather than a habit.
The waitstaff knew better than to bet against him in a game of pool.
The tourists found him irresistible, drawn in by the casual swagger, the effortless way he made them feel like they were stepping into a story they’d never forget.
And the locals? They simply accepted that Chase Montgomery was as much a part of Wrightsville Beach as the ocean itself—constant, unchanging, always there.
Women chased after him, but he never let anyone catch him.
He played the game well, knew exactly what to say, when to touch, when to pull away just enough to leave them wanting more.
He could be reckless, intoxicating, impossible to resist—but never cruel.
He had a way of making women feel like they were special, even if just for one night.
And that was the most dangerous thing about him.
It wasn’t the fleeting romances or the stolen kisses under the pier at midnight.
It was the way he made them believe, even if just for a moment, that they were the exception.
But there was another side to Chase, one few got to see.
The one who would stop in the middle of the road to help an elderly couple load their groceries.
The one who knew the names of every fisherman at the marina, who made sure the old man who sat on the pier every morning had a hot cup of coffee when the air turned crisp.
He was the guy who coached Little League when a buddy needed help, who took his mama to dinner every Friday night, who never missed Sunday lunch at his grandparents’ house.
He’d flirt with your sister, steal your girl for a dance, and then turn around and help your grandmother carry her bags to the car.
A contradiction wrapped in a smirk and a well-worn pair of jeans.
The duality was what made Chase so impossible to define.
To most, he was a smooth-talking, fast-living ladies’ man, content to spend his nights tangled in someone else’s sheets and his days running the consulting firm he built from the ground up.
But the truth was, behind the smirk and the reputation, he was searching for something more.
He wanted love—the kind of love that seeped into his soul, settled into his bones, and felt like home.
The kind that wasn’t rushed, wasn’t reckless, but slow-burning and certain.
The kind of love that wrapped around you like a warm breeze on a summer night, steady and unshakable.
Not just passion in the dark, not just stolen moments that faded with the sunrise, but something real—something that made forever feel too short.
He had seen glimpses of it in the quiet corners of life.
In the way his grandparents still held hands on their porch swing, their fingers effortlessly laced together, as if even time itself couldn’t wear down the connection between them.
He saw it in the way his grandpa still kissed his grandma’s forehead every night before bed, whispering the same words he had for decades, "Sweet dreams, my love.
" It was in the way his mother still smiled when she spoke about the first time she met his father, as if that love had never aged, never lost its magic.
He heard it in the stories the old fisherman at the dock told, sipping whiskey as he spoke about the girl he let get away.
The way his voice softened when he said her name, the way his eyes still carried the weight of a love unfinished.
A love that had never quite loosened its grip on his heart.
There was a lesson in that, one he tried to ignore, but it whispered to him in the quiet moments, in the spaces between all the faces he had memorized but never kept.
And then there were the nights when Chase lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the waves crash against the shore.
Nights when the emptiness felt heavier, when he realized that, for all the faces he had memorized, not one had ever truly stayed.
He wondered if there was someone out there who would see beyond the stories, beyond the smirk and the reputation, beyond the carefully crafted version of himself the world had come to expect.
Someone who would love him not for the chase, not for the thrill, but for the man he was in the moments no one else saw.
Because Chase Montgomery didn’t just want love.
He wanted her—the one who would make every restless night worth it, the one who would turn a house into a home, the one whose love would feel like the softest place to land.
The one who would kiss him slow, who would trace the lines of his face with fingertips that made him believe in something bigger than himself.
The one whose laughter would echo through his days, whose presence would feel like the missing piece he’d spent a lifetime searching for.
And if he ever found her, he knew—he would never let her go.
And when he finally had her beneath him, writhing, breathless, whispering his name like a prayer, he’d make damn sure she knew exactly what it meant to be his.
Every kiss, every touch, every tangled sheet between them would be a promise—one he’d never break.