Chapter 4
FOUR
Madeline
I wake up to sunlight slanting through the blinds and a pounding in my head that isn’t from alcohol. I immediately know that this headache is from—regret. Not even twenty-four hours in Deep Cove and I’ve already managed to insult, reject, and walk out on my future boss.
Perfect start, Madeline. Really crushing it.
I groan and bury my face in the crook of my arm, but that doesn’t stop last night from replaying in my mind in vivid, humiliating detail.
The second he sat down beside me I knew exactly who he was. That grin, that voice, that face—I’d seen it splashed across Cove’s website, in magazine profiles, and more than one marketing reel. Jesse Winters. My new boss. The charming, golden boy cofounder with a reputation as flashy as his watch.
And what did I do? I froze. Completely. My brain short-circuited somewhere between him sitting down and me catching the scent of his cologne.
It only got worse from there. I’d heard him earlier laughing with his friends, telling some story in a way that made it obvious he’s used to being the center of attention.
So confident. So sure of himself. And then that woman—Anna, I think that was her name—showed up, draping herself over his chair like he was some sort of celebrity.
Which I guess he sort of is in Deep Cove.
He flirted right back, of course, and then, not five minutes later, he turned his attention to me.
I cringe into my pillow. “Oh my god.”
Who does that, though? Who flirts with one woman and then tries to chat up another one sitting right there?
A guy like Jesse Winters, apparently.
I roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling with my arm draped over my forehead, replaying every smug word that came out of his mouth.
He was smooth, I’ll give him that—charming in a practiced, media-trained kind of way.
But under it all? Arrogant. The kind of man who knows he’s good-looking and leans into it like it’s part of his résumé.
And now I get to work for him.
What a nightmare.
I can’t lie here replaying last night’s highlight reel of humiliation all day, so I drag myself out of bed and to the ensuite to brush my teeth.
Somewhere in the kitchen, Lottie’s upbeat indie pop playlist is already going. The smell of cinnamon drifts from the toaster so I pull on an old, oversized St. Margaret’s hoodie and follow it down the hall.
Lottie’s perched on the counter, cross-legged, scrolling through her phone. “Morning, sunshine. You look like someone who’s been hit by a—”
“Semi-truck?” I ask, finishing her thought.
“I was going to say a revelation,” she says with a grin.
“More like a bad decision wrapped in an even worse one,” I mutter, pouring coffee into the first mug I can find.
Lottie laughs, loud and unhelpful. “You mean the bad decision that involved Jesse? Yeah, that one’s going down in history.”
I groan, dropping my head against the cabinet door. “Please stop saying ‘Jesse’ like we’re on a first-name basis. Can we just forget the whole thing ever happened?”
She smirks. “Definitely not. To recap: Jesse sat down, you froze, he flirted, and then you torched him with that ‘maybe focus on one woman at a time’ line. Iconic.”
“Mortifying,” I correct, taking a gulp of the still scalding coffee, ignoring the burn. “What was I thinking? He’s my boss, Lottie. My literal boss. I start in a week.”
She shrugs as if this isn’t the end of my professional life. “Honestly, you did him a favor. Someone needs to tell him he’s not the main character all the time.”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong, but I’m also pretty sure that’s not in my job description.”
Whether he needed to hear it or not, picking a fight at a bar with the owner of the company that just hired me is beyond stupid. I should have just kept my mouth shut and let one of his groupies do the honors.
“Maybe not,” Lottie says, hopping off the counter, “but it’s definitely your vibe.”
I sink into a bar stool, pulling my knees up into my chest. “This is bad. I called him out, then walked out on him. Next week I’ll be sitting across a conference table from him trying to pretend it didn’t happen. He’s going to take one look at me and remember every humiliating second.”
Lottie hands me a piece of toast. “Don’t torture yourself, Mads. There’s a chance he’ll have forgotten the whole thing by next week.”
I look up at her hopefully. “Really? You think?”
“No, babe,” she grins. “I was just trying to make you feel better. He’s definitely going to remember you.”
I groan. “You’re the worst. This is a disaster.”
“Or,” she says, smirking, “it’s a meet-cute-disaster. Which, in my experience, usually makes for great tension.”
I glare at her over the rim of my mug. “I’m not interested in tension. I’m interested in employment.”
“Uh-huh.” Lottie’s grin widens. “Keep telling yourself that.”
As I drown in caffeine and anxiety, Lottie rinses her mug in the sink, humming to herself. Her hair swept perfectly up into a messy knot; her oversized shirt is tied chicly over her shoulders. She moves with this kind of effortless rhythm.
Lottie’s always been the life of the party. She shines in every single room she walks into. People just gravitate toward her—her laugh, her confidence, her charm. Nothing about her feels forced or for show.
Me? I was the opposite. The good girl. The one who followed rules, showed up early, stayed late, and never once took a chance I couldn’t calculate.
Lottie was always up for anything while I couldn’t leave the house without triple-checking my schedule.
When she got tipsy at graduation, I stuck with water because I didn’t want to “ruin the night.”
She had boyfriends all through boarding school—the kind who slipped notes in her textbooks and followed her around, lovesick. I, on the other hand, never dated. I was too nervous, too awkward, too busy pretending I didn’t care, when really, I just didn’t know how to let anyone get close.
It’s always been that way between us. She’s spontaneous, I’m deliberate. She makes friends instantly. I take months to warm up to people. But somehow, it works.
I’m halfway through my coffee when my phone pings beside me. My stomach drops the second I read the notification banner that glows across the screen.
Welcome to Cove: Orientation Details.
I open the email and skim the details: start date, onboarding checklist, security badge form, a calendar invite for “Team Integration,” whatever that means, and an introduction to the Cove executive team.
My eyes land on Jesse Winters’ name.
Oh God.
“Uh oh,” Lottie says from across the counter, brow raised. “That’s a face. What kind of face is that?”
“It’s my ‘I hate my life face,’” I tell her.
She slides her mug aside and leans over to peek at my screen. “Ooh. Work stuff?”
“My Cove onboarding email,” I mutter. “Orientation, forms, introductions, you know—” I gesture weakly at the screen, “just my personal nightmare.”
Lottie grins, unbothered. “Okay, first of all, breathe. You don’t start for a week. Second, close the laptop. Third, put on something cute because we’re going out.”
I blink. “Out?”
“Yes, out. A little sunlight will do us good. Fresh air, people. There’s a farmer’s market down by the water, and a café that serves croissants the size of your face.”
“I have things to do.”
“You have seven days to panic about your new boss,” she counters. “So, you have exactly zero reason to waste a perfectly good Saturday morning doing it now.”
She’s walking toward her room before I can argue, humming to herself like it’s already been decided.
“Charlotte—”
“Put on something cute,” she repeats over her shoulder. “You’ll thank me later.”
I sigh, snapping my laptop shut like that’ll also contain the crisis inside it. But the email will still be there when I get back.
Unfortunately, so will Jesse Winters.
By the time we settle on the patio outside the café, my shopping bag’s half full, and my wallet’s half empty.
We spent the morning wandering down Front Street, drifting in and out of little shops that smelled like cedar and sea salt.
Lottie had fallen in love with everything—candles, linen dresses, the bookstore cat that followed us out to the sidewalk.
I’d bought a mug I didn’t need and a jar of homemade jam because the woman behind the counter smiled warmly and called me “sweetheart” and it felt rude not to.
Now the late-morning sun spills across our table, warming the chipped blue paint and the half-eaten croissants between us.
The air smells like butter and coffee, sweet and heavy with summer.
Laughter drifts from a nearby table, mingling with the low hum of passing cars and the cry of a gull overhead.
“This croissant is perfect,” Lottie says around a mouthful of her pastry. “If I go missing, don’t look for me. I live here now.”
I smile, tearing off another flaky bite. “I bet you say that about every cute coffee shop.”
She waves a hand. “Yeah, but this time I mean it. Isn’t Deep Cove just a dream?”
Honestly, it is. There’s something about this place—the pastel shopfronts, the faint smell of salt in the air—that makes it feel like you’re stepping into a postcard.
The whole town seems to be moving at half-speed.
The sunlight, the easy pace, the sound of the ocean just beyond the street—it’s impossible not to exhale a little.
Lottie stands and wipes her hands on a napkin. “Okay, I’m running inside to use the bathroom. Don’t eat my croissant.”
“No promises,” I say, leaning back in my chair as she disappears through the glass doors.
I glance around, taking in the slow rhythm of Deep Cove on a Saturday morning. Families push strollers past flower boxes bursting with color, couples walk hand in hand with ice cream cones already melting down their fingers. For the first time in a long time, everything feels simple.
Until I see him.
Jesse Winters.
He’s on the other side of the street, walking toward the florist with a little blonde girl perched on his hip.
She’s maybe six or seven, wearing a yellow sundress and laughing at something he’s saying.
The sound of it carries, bright and pure, even over the noise of the traffic.
He looks at her like she’s his whole world.
My stomach twists.
Is he a dad?
He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring at the brewery, and if he was married, I doubt he would have been flirting with women in front of his friends. But maybe he has a daughter? A child from a previous relationship, a child he keeps out of the spotlight?
I shouldn’t care, but there’s something about him I can’t seem to shake. His easy smile, the effortless charm that should serve as a warning. The feeling that bloomed in my chest just from his smile.
He shifts the little girl higher as he lowers his head to listen to something she’s saying, and the corner of his mouth lifts in a smile that’s enough to stop traffic. I pause mid-bite, the croissant suddenly forgotten, a strange twinge catching low in my chest.
This Jesse Winters seems nothing like the version I met at Replay last night, the one who seemed to flirt for a living.
This one is softer, gentler, more focused.
The way he steadies the little girl on his hip, the way his expression melts when she laughs…
it’s such a sharp contrast to who he was last night.
Across the street, he sets her down gently before slipping his hand into hers, and they disappear into an ice-cream shop. I’m still staring when Lottie slides back into her chair, fanning her hands. “Okay, whoever invented bathroom hand dryers deserves jail time.”
I blink, tearing my gaze away from the window.
“What’s with the face?” she asks, reaching for her coffee, eyes narrowing with curiosity.
I force a smile, aiming for casual and missing completely. “Nothing.”
Her brows lift. “That’s definitely not nothing.”
I hesitate. “It’s nothing. You missed it,” I say.
“Missed what?”
I sigh. “Jesse Winters. He was just across the street with a little girl. I didn’t know he has a kid. It was just…surprising.” I look back across the street in time to see him re-emerge from the shop, holding the door open as the girl bounces out with a bubble gum-pink ice cream in her hand.
Lottie follows my line of sight, letting out a low whistle when she spots them. “Damn. He’s cuter in daylight. Also—adorable kid.”
“Stop” I warn. “You’re not allowed to find him charming. He’s off-limits, morally and professionally.”
“Relax, Mads. I’m just saying. Hot dad energy hits different.”
I shoot her a look. “You’re not helping.”
I reach for my coffee, mostly to give my hands something to do. It’s lukewarm now, but I sip anyway, pretending to focus on the menu card on the table instead of the image of Jesse that’s burned in my head.
Lottie hums softly to herself, scrolling through her phone, while my thoughts spiral in ten different directions. I know it shouldn’t get to me—he’s my boss, it’s not my business. But there’s something about the image I just can’t shake.
I shove the rest of my croissant into a napkin, my appetite now gone.
“Ready?” Lottie asks a few moments later, glancing up from her phone. “We should hit the market to pick up something for dinner before we head home.”
“Yeah,” I say, standing and brushing crumbs from my lap. “Let’s go.”
Maybe a change of scenery will stop me from obsessing over my new boss and wondering if I just saw a side of him that I wasn’t meant to see.