Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Cole
The tires crunch over cracked gravel as I pull into the parking lot, the sticky atmosphere already clinging to my neck. The motel sits low against the sky—stucco walls, mint-green trim, and the same flickering neon sign from decades ago.
Rich steps into view with two cold beers in hand and a grin that hasn’t changed since the day I met him.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Cole Wesley.”
I cut the engine and step out, stretching my legs. The peaceful, nostalgic scene before me is punctuated by the car door closing behind me.
It’s like I never left.
“Rich Montgomery. Still holding down the fort, I see.”
He laughs and meets me halfway, clapping me on the back with a bear hug.
“You ever think you’d see this place again?” Rich says.
“Sometimes,” I say. “But I figured it would’ve crumbled into the ocean by now.”
Rich barks out a laugh. “Not yet. She’s holding on. Just like me.”
He hands me a beer and I clink it gently against his.
“To the ones still standing.”
We head toward the pool, the buzz of partiers off in the distance, rising under the sound of light splashing. Palm trees fringe the concrete, casting shadows across the sun-washed patio.
My camera would eat this place alive—the soft colors, the stillness, the kind of forgotten corner that always tells a good story. Old lines, big sky, colors that don’t care what decade it is.
A cluster of older women in oversized sun hats wade through the water, lifting their arms in slow, synchronized movements, swaying to the tinny music coming from a speaker somewhere out of sight.
Beside me, Rich eases into a recliner and sighs, nodding toward the pool and taking a long pull from his beer.
“That’s going to be us in a few years.”
I grin and sit down.
“Speak for yourself, old man. That looks boring as hell.”
“You were always the adventurous one,” he chuckles. “You’re going to be swinging off vines and zip-lining in Antarctica for the rest of your life.”
I raise the bottle halfway to my lips and smile, watching the women move in time with the music.
“Down to the very last day.”
Rich taps his bottle against mine.
“At least you’ll die doing what you love.”
Rich and I met when we’d both bummed a ride from someone who had questionable taste in both car fresheners and music. I liked Rich immediately—same reckless streak, same need to chase whatever was just out of reach.
Then he met a girl down here—funny, smart, the kind who didn’t take shit from anyone—and together they bought this place. He was committed to her.
I remember thinking he was crazy at the time. Settling down? With no plan except fixing leaky pipes and keeping drunk assholes from falling into the pool?
But he was happy. Their wedding took place right here at the motel. The ceremony was on the patio with the sunset in the background, and the reception was in the bar. Everyone drank champagne from paper cups, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen my best friend so happy.
It was awful when his wife passed away. Their daughter was just a little kid then.
I came down here as soon as I heard the news and took over managing the motel for a few months so he could dedicate himself to taking care of his daughter during that rough time. He was a committed father. He still is.
The only thing I’ve ever really committed to is the road—and my magazine. What started as a travel blog turned into a global publication. Interviews, dispatches, photo spreads. A billionaire on paper, built from airports, faraway cities, and long days behind a lens.
The restlessness hasn’t gone away. I’ve just trained it. Fenced it in with discipline. It keeps me sharp, gets me up at four in the morning, and drives me to perfect every shot, every page layout, every word.
I love the constant motion, the new places, the way my camera can catch something no one else sees. But sitting here, breathing in chlorine and warm air, I feel something shift — quiet and slow, like the calm before a storm.
Then I see her.
And the breath gets sucked out of my lungs.
A woman with long brown hair steps out of the motel looking like an absolute goddess, droplets of sweat clinging to her sun-warmed shoulders, and suddenly the sweating bottle of beer clutched in my hand stops just shy of my mouth.
She tilts her head slightly to the side, eyes half-lidded against the sun. Her lips are slightly parted, breath steady. There’s a hint of a smirk there, or maybe that’s just how her mouth rests. Either way, it pulls at something in me.
Her neck, her collarbones, the curve of her shoulders…they all shimmer under the Miami sun. Droplets of sweat trace the slope of her skin, clinging to her like it doesn't want to let go. The way her chest lifts and falls with each breath makes it very clear I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
She doesn’t look at me.
But Jesus, I cannot look anywhere else.
I stand up slowly, the beer bottle hovering near my mouth, dripping with condensation. My hand tightens around it like it might ground me.
It doesn’t.
This woman is more beautiful than the Aegean Sea, more captivating than the Cherry Blossoms in Japan.
I’ve been everywhere in the world, but I would shred my passport if it meant even a chance of getting close to her.
Who is she?
And how much of an asshole would I be to whip out my camera and start taking photos right now?
“You remember my daughter,” Rich says next to me as he stands up.
“Yes,” I say, completely and utterly distracted. His voice is muffled beneath the swooshing of blood through my brain. “When will I get to see her?”
I can’t take my eyes off the goddess emerging from the motel. She seems too beautiful to be real. I take off my sunglasses and slip them into my pocket. Now I can see her in full, bright color. I might have to put them back on again. I might go blind without them.
What in the everloving fuck is going on with me?
My best friend claps me on the back.
“You’re looking right at her.”
I do a double-take as I look between him and Ella.
This is Ella? My oldest friend’s daughter?
“Ella,” he calls out. “Come say hi to Cole!”
I feel like I’ve fallen into the pool and have no way to swim to the surface.
“She has been so excited to see you,” Rich says with a hearty chuckle. “She’s been talking about this day non-stop for a week.”
Me?
She knows who I am?
She walks toward us, her white flip-flops smacking against the pavement.
“Don’t embarrass me, Dad,” she says, elbowing Rich in the side as her cheeks blush.
“She’s your biggest fan.” Rich grins as he rubs his side, pretending she actually got a shot in. “She devours your magazine like clockwork. It’s in her hands before it can even hit the mail room.”
“So you’re the one who still gets a copy in the mail,” I say to her. “You’re the sole person keeping my print business afloat.”
“I guess I just like old-fashioned things,” she replies with a sweet smile.
“And thank god for that,” I murmur, taking a step closer. “Without you, I’d have nothing.”
Rich’s phone buzzes. He pulls it from his pocket with a sigh.
“Damn it,” he says. “I’d give you that tour I promised, but I’ve got invoices, and the ice machine is busted again.” He looks at Ella. “Feel like showing Cole around?”
“My shift at the bar is starting in a few minutes,” she says.
I don’t know if that’s an excuse or an invitation.
“I should get settled in my room…” I say.
“Do you want me to show you where it is?” she says.
“I can find my own way,” I blurt out, a little too fast.
“Go have a drink,” Rich says. “Cool off. Get out of the heat. Try to enjoy yourself a little.”
Two guys walk toward the motel, giving each other a fist bump as they look Ella up and down with creepy smirks on their faces.
My stomach churns as a territorial, possessive instinct barges through me, smashing every thought in my brain like it’s an unforgiving bull in a china shop.
I can’t believe her father is standing right here, allowing this to happen. Maybe he still thinks of her as a kid, but she isn’t. He’s oblivious.
“Ella,” one of the guys shouts as they keep walking. “We’ll be waiting for you.”
What in the everloving motherfucking goddamn hell is that supposed to mean?
“Fabulous,” she grits out through a fake smile. “Can’t wait.”
“Ella,” I say, my voice dropping. “Who the hell were those guys?”
“They’re just a couple of regulars,” she says. “They don’t tip well, but at least they keep the place in business.”
“Regulars.” I swallow thickly. “So these guys are always around?”
“Yeah,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Take a look around this place. I can’t exactly turn away paying customers.”
Oh. Okay. That settles it. I am definitely going with her.
And it’s not just to have some stupid drink.