More Than Our Secrets (Glades Bay #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

“I love dick!” I shouted loud enough for the entire café to hear.

I got a high-five from a Viking look-alike leaving with his flat white, death glares from three yoga mums in matching activewear, and exactly zero free coffees.

Yet.

Rick doubled over, wheezing into his empty cup. “You’re a walking HR complaint, Ry.”

“Occupational hazard of being broke,” I said, shoving my dying laptop an inch closer to the centre of the wobbly table before it teetered onto the floor. “Now where’s my coffee? That was the agreed exchange.”

He raised both hands in surrender. “Fine. But when I pay, you drink what I choose.”

Ten minutes later a white teapot clanked between us.

“Tea?” I stared at the offending pottery. “I ordered a long black, not a hug from Tepid Tina.”

“When you pay, you can have rocket fuel. When I pay twice in a row, you get herbal tea and have some gratitude. Besides, I already had a long black last night.” He poured the liquid, smug as sin.

“You’re disgusting.”

“You literally just screamed about loving dick, Ry. Pot, kettle.”

“Point taken. Still want caffeine.”

I took a sip and gagged. “This has never seen a coffee bean in its life.”

“Correct. It’s peppermint. Good for the digestion.”

“If you’re raking it in, then why can’t you splurge for coffee?”

“You know I’m saving for a house. I’m thirty-one, I’m not getting any younger.”

I hated when people younger than me said stuff like that.

No, you’re not. And neither am I. Thanks for the reminder.

He looked up at my miserable expression and reached a hand across the table.

“You’re doing fine. What do they say? Obstacles are detours in the right direction?”

“Something like that,” I grumbled, letting him rub the top of my hand with his thumb. “Although it seems like there’ve been a lot more obstacles and a lot fewer right directions.”

“Don’t measure yourself by other people’s successes, to quote someone else I can’t remember. Especially mine. No one’s on my level.” His brown eyes grinned as wide as his mouth did, and I pulled my hand back to my keyboard, ignoring him.

He tapped away, with the smug glow of someone who had actual invoices to send. Paralegal gigs were booming. Meanwhile, my copywriting business had tanked with AI.

A forced career start at thirty-five was not a pleasurable experience. My inbox looked like a wasteland.

FINAL NOTICE—OVERDUE

FINAL NOTICE—OVERDUE

FINAL NOTICE—DISCONNECT IMMINENT

And one subject line that simply read: URGENT—6 Bellamy Lane.

I snorted. Scammers had really levelled up. I clicked anyway, because curiosity is my cardio.

Dear Riley Walls,

Despite numerous attempts (see attached), we have been unable to contact you regarding the transfer of property title 6 Bellamy Lane, Glades Bay, bequeathed to you anonymously. This is your 60-day notice. If unclaimed, the property reverts to the next of kin, then to the Crown.

Please see the attached legal documents and contact me urgently.

Warm regards, Trevor Shells

Burnish Lawyers’ Wills & Estates Office

I turned the screen to Rick. “Behold the international prince’s new business model. They’ve gone full Law & Order.”

Rick squinted, opened the first PDF, then the second. His grin vanished.

“Ry… this isn’t a scam.”

“Course it is. No one leaves me a house. Not in my family.”

He spun the laptop back. Trevor Shells grinned from the law firm’s website like a toothpaste ad. Same signature, same letterhead, same phone number.

My stomach did a slow, queasy somersault.

Rick’s voice dropped. “6 Bellamy Lane. Isn’t that—”

“Don’t.” I swallowed.

The same realisation had dawned on me the moment I saw Trevor’s face.

Rick reached across and closed the lid. “You have to call them.”

“And say what? Remember me? Cheers for the souvenir, here’s your house back—where do I send the ashes?”

“Either works,” Rick joked, but his eyes were looking dangerously close to giving sympathy. He nudged my foot. “Riley.”

I refused to meet his eyes.

“What if it’s real?” he asked.

My pulse hammered so hard I felt it in my teeth.

“It can’t be. Because then I’d have sixty days to decide if I’m stupid enough to walk back into the house that...” I couldn’t even finish the sentence.

Thirty years later and I still wasn’t sure if I’d always been a dumpster-fire-hot-mess, or that house had warped me into one.

I reopened the laptop where Trevor Shells was still smiling.

Hi Trevor, Riley Walls here. Tell me about the house.

I clicked send, closing the screen again and the little whoosh shot out into the universe, meanwhile my hand started shaking so hard the table wobbled.

Rick exhaled, impressed. “Jesus. You actually did it.”

I stared at the screen, heart ricocheting.

Either I’d just inherited a warped miracle.

Or someone was giving me the keys to hell.