4. Chapter 4
Kara
By the time I make it back through the dunes to The Sandpiper, I have four shells in my palm and one man lodged inconveniently in my thoughts.
Cole.
Even his name fits him in a way that irritates me a little. It’s short, solid, with no extra garnish. A man who stands barefoot in the surf before most of the island is awake, catches fish with a fly rod, and thinks heat, lime, salt, and protein qualify as a meal plan.
Survival isn’t the same as flavor.
I smile again when I think of saying it to him.
Maybe because it came out more flirtatious than I intended.
Maybe because he smiled as if I’d genuinely amused him.
Or maybe because it has been so long since a man looked at me without feeling like he was looking at Kara Stone, brand, business, chef, camera-ready personality, woman who somehow built an entire life out of sharp knives and hotter kitchens.
Cole looked at me like he was trying to solve something. Not recognize or impress me. He wasn’t asking for a selfie or pitch a restaurant idea. Thank God he didn’t tell me his mother makes better gumbo than I ever could.
Instead, I feel the faintest flare of warmth low in my stomach as I climb the stairs to the cottage, my flip-flops snapping softly against my heels.
The shells are still damp in my hand, grit clinging to my skin.
The red polish on my nails is chipped on one corner from kicking through wet sand, which seems oddly unfair because I have been on this island less than twenty-four hours and already the beach is trying to humble me.
Inside, the cottage is bright and tranquil. I set the shells on the kitchen island in a little row and stare at them as if I’ve brought back evidence of something. I broke away from my business life, maybe. Or at least proof that I tried.
My laptop sits open on the small desk near the window, exactly where I left it.
Even from across the room, I can see the unread emails waiting for me.
Cookbook edits. Ingredient notes from Talia.
A brand approval request for a sponsored summer grilling segment.
Two calendar invites I have already ignored.
A message from my publicist with the subject line: Quick question, which is almost never quick and rarely only a question.
Normally, I would be halfway through all of it by now.
I would have coffee brewed, hair twisted up, glasses on, and three separate documents open while mentally rewriting a recipe headnote and deciding whether smoked paprika belongs in a citrus marinade.
Normally, I would know exactly what I was supposed to be doing, and the act of doing it would make me feel anchored.
But this morning, the ocean is louder than my inbox.
It keeps pulling at me through the glass doors, steady and blue and impossible to dismiss.
The tide has shifted since I walked out earlier.
The light is different now too, brighter and more demanding, flashing silver beyond the dune grass.
I can hear gulls fussing somewhere overhead and the muffled sound of someone laughing far down the beach.
I came here because I was afraid. That part is true.
But standing here in my red swimsuit with sand on my ankles and shells on the counter, I have to admit there might be something else waiting here too.
Something that has nothing to do with fear.
A rhythm I do not control. And if most of the men on this island look anything like Cole, my productivity is definitely going to take a nosedive.
My phone rings before I can follow that thought into dangerous territory. Vanessa’s face fills the screen.
For one strange second, I almost let it go to voicemail.
Not because I don’t want to talk to her, but because I know exactly what she’ll see when I answer.
Wind-tangled hair. Sunglasses pushed on top of my head.
Swimsuit straps. The guilty expression of a woman who walked on the beach instead of opening her laptop.
Then I answer anyway.
“There she is,” Vanessa says, her face brightening on the screen. “Oh my God. Look at you. You look almost human again.”
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”
“It is from me. I’ve seen you three espressos deep at midnight with a whisk in one hand and murder in your eyes.”
“That was one time.”
“That was every cookbook deadline you’ve ever had.”
I carry the phone with me to the kitchen and prop it against the fruit bowl, adjusting the angle so she sees less of my swimsuit and more of my face.
Vanessa is in her restaurant office from the look of it, hair swept into a messy knot, gold hoops catching the light.
She’s wearing a black apron already tied over a deep green blouse.
Behind her, shelves hold binders, wine samples, receipts, and the controlled chaos of a woman running a business that never stops asking for pieces of her.
For a second, guilt presses at me. While I’m here looking at the ocean, she is there doing what I would normally be doing. Working. Solving. Keeping the machine fed.
“You went to the beach,” she says.
“I was instructed not to work.”
“I said that, yes, because I am wise.”
“I found shells.”
“Very vacation of you.”
“I also met a fisherman.”
The words leave my mouth before I think better of them.
Vanessa’s brows rise. “A fisherman?”
“Maybe a fisherman or a philosopher with a fly rod. It was early.”
“Did he have all his teeth?”
“Vanessa.”
“Was he old? Married? Wearing socks with sandals?”
“He was forty-ish, maybe. Not married from anything I noticed. No socks. No sandals. Barefoot in the surf like a cologne ad.”
Her mouth opens slowly in delight. “Kara Stone.”
“Don’t.”
“You met a hot beach man before breakfast?”
“I met a man who thinks grilling is a complete culinary philosophy.”
“Tragic.”
“Deeply.”
“Handsome?”
I pretend to inspect the shells. “Objectively, I suppose some women might think so.”
“Some women,” she repeats, grinning. “How noble and detached of you.”
“He had a fly rod, a tan, and the kind of shoulders that make a woman question the structural integrity of her standards.”
Vanessa laughs, loud and bright, and for a moment she is exactly what I need her to be. The person who can drag me out of myself without asking permission.
“There she is,” she says again, softer this time. “That’s the Kara I’ve been trying to revive.”
I look down at the shells.
“I don’t know about revived.”
“Better than last night?”
“Yes,” I admit. “A little.”
“Good.”
She pauses and there's a moment of quiet. I brace myself because this always means she's going to ask something maybe I don't want to talk about.
“Did you sleep?” she asks.
“Some.”
“Nightmares?”
“Not really. I woke up a few times, but the ocean helped.”
“And the cottage?”
“It’s beautiful.” I glance toward the porch. “Quiet. Private. Maybe too private, but beautiful.”
Her mouth tightens almost imperceptibly. “Too private how?”
I wave it off. “Just me being me. I heard something under the porch last night and almost convinced myself a murderer had followed me across Florida.”
“Kara.”
“I know. It was probably nothing.”
“Your nervous system is fried. Of course, you’re jumpy.”
It’s a reasonable assessment. Exactly what anyone who loves me would say. Still, the word probably crawls back into my mind and curls up there like it plans to stay.
Vanessa leans closer to the camera. “Listen to me. Do not let what happened in Orlando steal this from you. You needed to get away before that awful break-in. This island may be the best thing that could have happened, minus the criminal prelude.”
“Criminal prelude sounds like a bad restaurant theme.”
“Don’t tempt me. I’ve seen worse concepts funded.”
I laugh because she wants me to laugh, and because it feels good to let something loosen inside me.
“Are you working?” she asks.
“I was about to.”
“No.”
“Vanessa, I have deadlines.”
“You have Wi-Fi. That does not mean you have to use it.”
“Talia moved everything she could, but there are still things I need to approve.”
“Fine. Approve one thing. Then go into town. Buy groceries. Eat something you didn’t make. Find out if the fisherman has a name.”
“Cole,” I say before I can stop myself.
Vanessa freezes for a second. It is so quick I would miss it if I weren’t looking right at her.
Then she smiles. “Cole. Of course his name is Cole.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means hot beach men are never named Gary.”
“Poor Gary.”
“Gary can find love inland.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you love me for it.”
I do. That is the easy answer. The automatic one. The one that has always been true in the way old friendships are true even when they fray in places no one wants to inspect too closely.
“I do,” I say.
Her expression softens with something that looks almost like relief.
“Good,” she says quietly. “Then listen to me. Give yourself today. One day without punishing yourself for needing a break. One day without proving you can still perform like nothing happened. The work will be there tomorrow.”
“I’ll try,” I say.
“That’s all I’m asking.”
We talk for a few more minutes about nothing that matters.
Her restaurant shipment delay. A regular customer who keeps asking if her risotto can be made without rice.
Talia’s dramatic voice memos. By the time we hang up, I feel steadier and strangely drained, as if being loved loudly still costs a little energy when I am already running low.
I pour coffee, sit at the desk, and open the cookbook notes. For the next hour, I pretend to work.
I approve a photo caption. I leave three comments on a recipe revision.
I answer one email from my publicist with the calm professional language that makes it sound like I have not recently catalogued the sounds a beach cottage makes at night.
I try to write a paragraph about summer meals meant to be eaten barefoot and end up thinking about Cole standing in the surf with water curling around his ankles.
Barefoot, apparently, is now a dangerous word.