Say When (Cougar Crush #2)
Chapter 1
GRACE
The salty breeze whips through the open windows of my rental car as I crest the final hill into Seabreeze Cove, and the ocean stretches out before me.
Sunlight glitters across the waves, and for the first time in months, my chest loosens.
No more city noise pressing in from every side, no more ex-husband’s voice echoing in my head with his polite disappointments.
Just a quiet beach town, a small cottage with a wraparound porch, and three whole months to piece myself back together.
I pull into the gravel drive of number twelve Oceanview Lane, kill the engine, and sit there a moment, breathing it in. The cottage is exactly as the photos promised. It’s white clapboard weathered to soft gray, pale blue shutters, a riot of pink hibiscus climbing the trellis by the front steps.
Seagulls cry overhead, their wings slicing through the clear sky, and the distant roar of the surf rolls in like a heartbeat.
My suitcase thumps onto the porch as I unlock the door, and the scent of clean linens, faint sea air, and a hint of lavender greets me.
Inside, everything is simple and bright.
The white walls reflecting the afternoon light, wide-plank floors worn smooth by years of sandy feet, a kitchen with an island that looks out over the dunes where wild grasses sway in the wind.
The bedroom has French doors that open straight onto a private deck, and beyond that, nothing but endless sand meeting the turquoise sea, dotted with umbrellas and sunbathers in the distance.
I unpack methodically, hanging sundresses in the closet, stacking notebooks and my laptop on the small desk by the window.
Freelance pitches wait in my inbox. There are campaigns for boutique hotels, local spas, anything that lets me work from here instead of commuting to glass towers filled with fluorescent lights and endless meetings.
This summer is about self-care. Rediscovering the woman I was before marriage dulled her edges, before I let someone else’s expectations shrink my world.
Romance does not make my list. I’ve had enough of that, enough of settling, of pretending the spark never faded.
Now, it’s time to reclaim my fire on my own terms.
By late afternoon, the heat has softened into something golden and lazy, the sun dipping lower and painting the sky in hues of peach and rose.
I slip into a simple sundress, soft cotton the color of sea glass that skims my curves without clinging too tightly.
I tie my hair back with a scarf, feeling the strands brush my bare shoulders.
The fabric whispers against my skin as I move, a small reminder of how long it’s been since I dressed for myself, not for anyone else’s gaze.
I head down to the beach for the town’s summer kickoff bonfire, the flyer tacked to the cottage fridge promising music, food trucks, and fireworks at dusk.
A chance to people-watch, maybe sip a drink, feel part of something without having to participate too deeply.
The path from the cottage winds through low dunes, seashells crunching under my sandals, and the air grows thicker with the smell of saltwater and sunscreen.
The bonfire is already roaring when I arrive, flames licking high against the deepening sky, casting flickering shadows across clusters of people.
Laughter rolls over the sand, mingling with the crash of waves and the strum of a guitar from a small stage set up near the water’s edge.
Families cluster on colorful blankets, kids chase each other with glow sticks that trail neon streaks in the twilight, couples stroll hand in hand along the shoreline where foam laps at their ankles.
The air hums with energy. Salty, smoky, alive.
I weave through the crowd toward the drink tent, sand warm and shifting beneath my bare feet, grains slipping between my toes like silk.
A line has formed at the makeshift bar made of wooden planks balanced on barrels, strung with fairy lights that twinkle like stars. I step in behind a group of twenty-somethings arguing over flavors of hard seltzer, their voices strong and carefree.
The guy working the taps moves with easy efficiency, laughing at something one of them says, his voice carrying over the music in a low rumble.
He has broad shoulders under a faded navy T-shirt that hugs his chest just enough to hint at the muscles beneath, sun-bleached hair curling at the nape of his neck, forearms corded from hours in the water or the gym, or both.
His skin glows with a deep tan, the kind earned from endless days under the sun, and when he turns to hand over a cup, our eyes meet for the first time.
He smiles a slow, confident smile that makes my stomach flip as his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“What can I get you?” he asks, voice low enough that it feels private even in the middle of all this noise, wrapping around me like the warm evening air.
I clear my throat, willing my pulse to steady. “Something cold and not too sweet. Surprise me.”
He nods once, reaches for a bottle of local IPA and a lime, and pours with quick, sure movements that draw my gaze to his hands.
Strong, capable, with a faint scar across one knuckle.
When he slides the cup across the plank, his fingers brush mine.
Just a graze, but it sends a spark racing up my arm, warm and unexpected, lingering like the aftertaste of salt on my lips.
“First time at the bonfire?” he asks, leaning one elbow on the bar, his body shifting closer as if the line of people waiting behind me doesn’t exist.
“First time in Seabreeze Cove,” I admit, taking a sip to buy myself a second. The beer is crisp and perfect, cutting through the heat with a citrus bite. “I’m renting down the lane for the summer.”
“Welcome to town.” He leans in a fraction more, studying me with open interest, his gaze tracing my face as if he’s savoring every detail. “I’m Jake. I run the surf shop a couple of blocks over. If you ever want lessons or gear, stop in.”
“Nice to meet you, Jake. I’m Grace,” I say, meeting his eyes again, feeling that pull tighten in my chest. “I’m more of a sit-on-the-beach-with-a-book kind of person.”
His grin widens, revealing straight white teeth, and he tilts his head slightly, as if assessing me anew. “We’ve got plenty of beach, but you look like someone who could handle a board if she wanted to try. There’s something fierce about you, Grace. I can see it.”
I laugh, surprised at how easily it comes, bubbling up despite the warmth creeping into my cheeks. “Flattery from the guy pouring drinks. Does that line work often?”
“Only when I mean it.” His gaze doesn’t waver, dropping briefly to my lips before returning to my eyes, the intensity sending a shiver down my spine despite the bonfire’s heat. “And I do. You’re captivating. The way you carry yourself, it’s like you own this beach already.”
The word lands softly but deliberately, warming my skin more than the flames nearby.
I glance away, toward the fire where sparks drift upward like tiny stars, twisting in the breeze.
Captivating. No one has called me that in years, not since before my marriage turned comfortable, then stale, then over with a quiet signature on divorce papers.
Part of me wants to lean into it, to let the attention feel good, to imagine what those strong hands might feel like on my waist. The smarter part remembers that I’ve sworn off men, and he has to be at least ten years younger than me.
It’s in the way his easy confidence screams youth and freedom while I’m still untangling myself from what came before, scars and all.
Still, the air between us thickens, charged like the moment before a wave crashes. I shift my weight, sand shifting under my feet, and when I look back, his expression has softened, but the spark in his eyes remains.
“You must say that to all the summer visitors,” I tease, trying to lighten the moment, but my voice comes out breathier than intended.
He shakes his head slowly, his smile turning playful yet sincere. “Not even close. Most people blend into the crowd. You stand out. What brings you here, anyway? Escaping the city grind?”
“Something like that,” I reply, surprised at how naturally the words flow. “My divorce was finalized a few months ago, and I needed a fresh start. Freelance work lets me do it from anywhere with Wi-Fi and a view.”
His eyebrows lift slightly, sympathy flickering in his gaze without pity. “Starting over takes guts. I admire that.” He pauses, then adds with a wink, “And the view here is pretty damn good, if I do say so myself.”
I roll my eyes, but a smile tugs at my lips. “You’re relentless.”
“Only when it’s worth it.” His voice drops lower, intimate, drawing me in despite myself. “Tell me more about this freelance gig. Sounds intriguing.”
We talk, our conversation flowing easily as the line at the bar thins out.
I share snippets of marketing campaigns I’ve pitched and the thrill of building brands from scratch.
He listens intently, nodding, asking questions that show he’s really paying attention, his body language open and inviting.
Every so often, his hand brushes the bar near mine, close enough that I feel the heat from his skin, and my mind wanders to what it would be like if he closed that gap, if those fingers traced my wrist instead.
The music swells behind us, a sultry beat that makes the air feel heavier, more alive. I sip my drink, aware of everything, the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders when he reaches for another bottle, the faint stubble along his jaw catching the light.
“You paint a picture when you talk about it,” he says after I describe a recent project. “I can see why you’re good at it. Passionate. Driven.” His eyes lock on mine again, the word ‘passionate’ hanging between us like an invitation.