SEAL’d in Fate (Tidehaven Seal Romance #15)

Chapter 1

Kassidy

The gravel crunches beneath my rental car's tires like a countdown. Every pop and crack says you're running out of time, you're running out of ideas, you're running out of—

"Stop it," I mutter, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "You are a professional. You have written six books. You can write a seventh."

The coastal estate materializes through a corridor of live oaks draped in Spanish moss, and okay, fine—it's stunning.

Whitewashed columns. A wraparound porch that belongs on a magazine cover.

The Atlantic glittering beyond a manicured lawn that slopes toward the dunes.

Hargrove House, the website called it. A sanctuary for the creative soul.

My creative soul hasn't shown up in three months, but sure. Let's try a sanctuary.

The parking area is already dotted with cars—a Tesla, a vintage Volvo wagon, a cherry-red Jeep with a bumper sticker that reads I'd Rather Be Reading.

My people, theoretically. Except right now, being around other writers feels like showing up to a marathon with a broken leg and pretending you just like the energy.

I cut the engine and sit for a moment, staring at my laptop bag on the passenger seat.

Somewhere inside it is a manuscript with forty-two thousand words of pure, unmitigated garbage.

My editor thinks I'm "almost there." My agent used the phrase "close to a breakthrough" three times on our last call, which is agentspeak for please don't miss another deadline.

My phone buzzes. Speaking of.

Mariana: How's the retreat? Feeling inspired yet?

I type back:

Me: Just arrived. The house looks like a Nicholas Sparks movie. So either I'll write a masterpiece or drown poetically. Will report back.

Her reply is instant:

Mariana: That's the spirit. Now go be brilliant.

Right. Brilliant. That's the plan.

Getting out of the car feels like stepping into a wall of salt and humidity. Late September on the South Carolina coast means the air has weight, and my hair—carefully straightened this morning—is already staging a revolt. By dinner, I'll have a full halo of frizz. Excellent first impression.

I haul my suitcase from the trunk, then stack my laptop bag and tote on top like a Jenga tower of anxiety. The wheels of the suitcase immediately jam in the gravel.

"Of course," I say to no one. "Because that's my life now."

The front porch is maybe fifty yards away. Fifty yards of uneven ground between me and whatever's left of my career. I yank the suitcase, and the tote slides. Catch the tote, and the laptop bag shifts. It's a one-woman comedy routine, and not the funny kind.

"Need a hand?"

The voice comes from my left—low, unhurried, like the person attached to it has never rushed a single day in his life. I turn and find a man leaning against the corner of the house, arms crossed, watching me wrestle luggage like it's entertainment.

He's tall. That's the first thing I notice.

Tall enough that I—five-six on a generous day—feel like a different species standing near him.

Dark hair cropped close, jaw cut sharp enough to be annoying, and shoulders that stretch his plain gray T-shirt in ways that should require a permit.

Sunglasses pushed up on his head. Radio clipped to his belt.

Estate staff. Has to be.

"Actually, yes," I say, shoving a curl out of my face. "If you could grab the suitcase, I can manage the rest. The wheels are stuck."

He pushes off the wall and crosses the distance in about three strides, because apparently his legs are roughly the length of my entire body. He lifts the suitcase like it weighs nothing—which it doesn't, to him, clearly—and stands there holding it with one hand.

"Where to?" he asks.

"Inside, I assume? I'm checking in for the writer's retreat. Kassidy Monroe."

Something flickers across his face. The corner of his mouth twitches, just barely. "Writer's retreat. Copy that."

"Copy that?" I repeat. "What are you, military?"

"Something like that."

He turns and walks toward the house, carrying my bag like a briefcase. I scramble after him, tote sliding off my shoulder, laptop bag banging against my hip. Very dignified.

Inside, the foyer is all gleaming hardwood and fresh flowers and the faint, unmistakable scent of old money trying to seem casual. A woman with a clipboard spots me immediately.

"Kassidy Monroe? Welcome! I'm Renee, the retreat coordinator." She gestures toward the back of the house. "I'll get you checked in and show you to your room. We have a welcome mixer at five on the veranda."

"Wonderful." I reach for my suitcase, but the tall man is already setting it down beside me. His hand brushes the handle near mine—barely, just the ghost of contact—and I jerk back like I've been shocked.

"All set?" he asks. There's that twitch again. Not quite a smile, but the scaffolding for one.

"Yes. Thank you. I appreciate the bellhop service."

Now the twitch becomes an actual smile, small but real, and it does something inconvenient to my stomach. "Anytime."

He gives a short nod to Renee—who looks like she's trying very hard not to laugh—and disappears down the hallway.

"Who was that?" I ask, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around desperate.

"That's Tucker Brennan," Renee says, leading me toward the staircase. "He's with Salt and Steel Security Group. They're handling the security detail for the retreat."

Security detail. Not estate staff. Security.

"Why does a writer's retreat need a security detail?"

Renee lowers her voice. "Diana Hartwell is attending. She's been getting some concerning messages from a reader. Her publisher insisted on protection."

Diana Hartwell. The Diana Hartwell. Twelve bestsellers, two film adaptations, a TED Talk about the power of storytelling that has fourteen million views. She's the headliner for this retreat, the reason the fee was triple what I'd normally pay, the reason my agent said go, it'll be worth it.

And she has a stalker. Fantastic.

"So Mr. Brennan is her bodyguard?" I ask.

"Part of the team, yes. There are a few of them on the property. You probably won't even notice."

I will absolutely notice. Specifically, I will notice the one I just ordered to carry my luggage like a pack mule.

The mortification hits as Renee shows me to my room—a beautiful corner suite with ocean views and a writing desk positioned perfectly to catch the morning light.

The writing desk faces the ocean, and the light is so perfect it practically begs for a manuscript.

But all I can think is: I told a professional security operative to grab my bags.

I flop onto the bed and press a pillow over my face.

"Get it together, Monroe. You're here to write a book. Not to think about—" I remove the pillow. "Nope. Not thinking about him at all."

By five o'clock, I've unpacked, reorganized my writing supplies twice, and changed outfits three times before settling on a sundress that says I'm a serious professional who also happens to have shoulders.

The veranda overlooks the ocean, and the golden hour light turns everything soft and cinematic.

If I can't find inspiration here, I'm beyond saving.

The other retreat attendees trickle in. There's a poet from Vermont with round glasses and a gentle voice.

A thriller writer from Atlanta who keeps scanning exits like she's researching in real time.

A memoirist who introduces herself by saying, "I'm writing about my divorce, so if I cry at dinner, just pass the wine. "

And then there's Diana Hartwell herself, sweeping onto the veranda in a linen jumpsuit, every detail so casually perfect it probably took three hours and a team to achieve.

She's magnetic—silver hair cut into a sleek bob, dark eyes that seem to catalog everything, a laugh that fills the space without trying.

"Writers!" she announces, lifting a glass of champagne. "We are here to bleed on the page. Let's start with a toast."

Everyone raises their glasses. Mine trembles slightly.

"To honesty," Diana says. "To writing the thing that terrifies you. And to drinking enough wine that you actually do it."

Laughter, clinking glasses, the warm flush of belonging to a tribe. For about thirty seconds, I feel like maybe this retreat was a good idea. Maybe the block will break. Maybe the words will come.

Then I spot Tucker Brennan moving along the perimeter of the property, and my brain short-circuits.

He's changed into something more tactical—dark pants, fitted shirt, the radio on his hip crackling intermittently.

He moves like someone who's spent years learning how not to be noticed, which, ironically, makes him impossible not to notice.

Every few paces, he pauses, scans, moves on. Professional. Controlled.

And completely, unfairly attractive.

A burst of static from somewhere—his radio, or maybe a nearby one—makes me flinch. Then a tinny voice, male, amused: "Tuck, you copy? Perimeter's clear but the sunset is incredible. Recommend you pause and appreciate. Over."

Tucker lifts the radio without breaking stride. "Copy. Appreciating. Out."

The woman beside me—the thriller writer—leans in. "You're staring."

"I am not staring. I was looking at the... sunset."

"The sunset is behind you."

I take a very large sip of champagne.

Diana materializes beside us with the social precision of a woman who's worked a thousand rooms. "And you are?"

"Kassidy Monroe. I write contemporary romance."

"Monroe." Her eyes sharpen. "The Starting Over series? I read the first one. Delightful voice. How's the new book?"

The honest answer is: The new book is a crime scene of half-finished chapters and self-doubt, and my protagonist is as emotionally unavailable as I am. What comes out is: "Coming along. Slowly."

Diana studies me the way a surgeon studies an X-ray. "Writer's block?"

"More like writer's... coma."

She laughs—warm, genuine. "Come to my session tomorrow. I'm doing a workshop on writing authentic emotion. Might shake something loose."

"I'd love that."

"Good." She pats my arm. "And stop worrying. The best books are written by people who are terrified they can't write them."

She glides away to charm the memoirist, and I'm left standing on the veranda with an empty champagne flute and the nagging sense that everyone here can see right through me.

The mixer winds down as the sky turns indigo. I slip away from the last stragglers and walk toward the beach, shoes dangling from one hand, wine glass in the other. The sand is cool between my toes, and the crash of the waves drowns out the noise in my head—temporarily.

I find a flat rock near the dunes and sit, pulling out my phone to open the Notes app. Sometimes, if I just start talking through a scene out loud, the words unstick.

"Okay," I say quietly, staring at the water. "She's standing on the porch. It's raining. He's leaving, and she knows she should let him go, but her hand is on the door frame and she can't—" I pause. "No. That's too passive. She won't let him go. She steps into the rain and—"

"Does she go after him?"

I nearly fall off the rock. Tucker Brennan is standing about ten feet away, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable in the fading light.

"Were you eavesdropping?" I demand, heart hammering.

"I was walking the perimeter. You were narrating pretty loudly."

"I was not narrating. I was... working through a scene. It's a writing technique."

"Talking to yourself on a beach?"

"It's a respected writing technique."

He takes a step closer, and the last of the daylight catches his face. He's not laughing at me, I realize. He's genuinely curious.

"So does she?" he asks. "Go after him?"

I look down at my phone, at the blinking cursor and the empty screen. "I don't know yet. She's stuck."

"Stuck how?"

"She's scared. That if she goes after him, she's admitting she needs something. And she's spent the whole book proving she doesn't need anyone."

Tucker is quiet for a moment. The waves fill the silence.

"Sometimes the bravest thing isn't proving you don't need anyone," he says. "Sometimes it's admitting you do."

I stare at him. This man—this security guard, this former whatever-branch-of-military—just delivered a better emotional thesis than anything I've written in three months.

"You should put that on a T-shirt," I say, because sarcasm is my primary coping mechanism.

He almost smiles. "Just an observation."

The silence stretches a beat too long, the ocean filling the space between us, and something loosens in my chest. Not the block—not yet—but the stranglehold of needing everything to be perfect before I can put words on a page.

"I should head back," I say, picking up my dropped shoes.

"Need an escort? It's getting dark."

"I think I can survive fifty yards of beach."

"Copy that." There's that word again. Copy that. Like everything is a mission.

I start walking, then turn back. "Tucker?"

He's already watching me. "Yeah?"

"Thanks for carrying my bags earlier. And sorry I thought you were the bellhop."

The smile he gives me is slow and real and does that inconvenient thing to my stomach again. "Don't worry about it. I've been called worse."

I walk back to the house with sand between my toes and a sentence forming in my head—the first real sentence in months. Something about a woman who meets a man she can't categorize, and how that terrifies her more than anything.

The hot security guy thinks I'm a demanding diva who talks to herself on beaches. Perfect start to my inspiration retreat. At least it can't get worse.