The Perfect Fit (Sticks & Stones Beach Rom Com #4)

1. Chapter 1

Jared

The sand is still cool beneath my feet as I haul the bait bucket across the dunes, the morning tide lapping lazy and low. Salt air fills my lungs, and a gull cries overhead like it’s announcing the start of another perfect day in paradise.

Which, honestly, it pretty much is.

Sunrise tours are my favorite part of the job.

The tourists don’t always think so. Some stagger out here still half-asleep, clutching gas station coffee cups like IV drips, or show up in pajama pants and flip-flops because they booked their kayak tour while drunk the night before.

But once they’re on the water, with the sun spilling molten gold across the horizon, even the grumpiest skeptic shuts up and stares.

There’s nothing else like it. Nothing else that makes me think, yeah, this was worth staying in Friendly for. Why would anyone ever want to leave?

I’ve just finished lining up the kayaks when movement on the boardwalk catches my eye.

Someone’s heading this way, not shuffling like a reluctant tourist, but walking with purpose.

Barefoot, dark hair loose in the morning breeze, sundress swishing around her knees like she stepped out of a commercial for tropical getaways.

And for one split second, my chest seizes.

Mandy.

My high school sweetheart. First love… first heartbreak.

She’s older, sure, but I’d know that face anywhere. And she’s even more gorgeous now than she was as a teenager.

Then she smiles, and the world tilts. Because it isn’t Mandy at all.

The bait bucket slips from my fingers and crashes to the sand, shrimp exploding across the beach like the saddest, smelliest parade confetti.

“Oh, no, no, no,” I mutter, diving for the lid before the gulls can stage a coup. Too late. A squadron of feathered bandits dive-bombs the scene, shrieking with glee.

The woman turns at the commotion, and when her gaze lands on me, my stomach drops straight through the dock boards.

“Mila?”

Mandy’s little sister.

Only she isn’t little anymore. Not even close.

“Nice to see you too, Jared,” she says, amusement curving her mouth as she crouches down and—without hesitation—starts scooping live shrimp back into the bucket like it’s no big deal.

I gape. “Most people are squeamish about touching bait with their bare hands.”

“I work with sea turtles,” she says, brushing sand off her palms. “Marine funk is part of the job description. If you can’t handle it, you’re in the wrong field.”

That makes me grin despite the gulls still circling like opportunistic sky-sharks. She always said she’d grow up to be a scientist. “So, you really did it. You’re a turtle biologist.”

“I have a PhD in Marine Biology, and turtles are my specialty,” she says, her eyes warm.

“I’m here on a research grant. My first one as lead.

Which means I need reliable kayak access to Driftwood Isle every other morning during nesting season.

” She taps the clipboard tucked under her arm.

“And I was told you’re the guy who can make that happen. So, let’s talk rental fees.”

I blink at her. “You want to rent a kayak for every other morning?”

“At sunrise,” she adds. “That’s when I need to check for tracks and new nests. The window is short. Miss it, and you miss the data. I have the funding for a rental and—”

“Mila,” I cut in, still reeling. “You’re telling me you want to paddle two miles out to a tiny, uninhabited barrier island alone. Before dawn. Every other day. For approximately three months.”

Her chin tilts in that Aronson way I remember all too well. “Yes. I’m not a beginner.”

“I didn’t say you were.” I rake a hand through my hair. “But those currents aren’t forgiving. Even experienced paddlers get caught off guard out there. And if something went wrong…”

What I don’t say is I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.

She studies me with those steady green eyes, like she can read every thought I’m not saying. “So, you won’t rent to me?”

I should say no. It would be the smart move. I run kayak tours for vacationers who want a good story and maybe a selfie with a pelican. I don’t need to get tangled up in an Aronson sister again.

But my mouth betrays me. “I will, but I’ll be going with you as your tour guide. I’ll provide my tour services for free.”

Her whole face lights up, and the effect is like watching the sun rise all over again.

“Thank you, Jared. You don’t know what this means.

If I can prove the island supports a viable nesting population, it’ll mean expanded protections, more funding, more—” She cuts herself off, cheeks pinking. “Sorry. I get carried away.”

“Don’t apologize,” I say, meaning it. “It’s important work. And sunrise? That’s before most of my clients are awake anyway.”

She hugs the clipboard closer, like it’s both armor and treasure. “We’ll need to go over logistics—schedule, equipment, safety protocols—”

“Coffee?” I offer quickly, needing a buffer before I drown in those hopeful eyes. “There’s a place in town. We can talk shop there without dodging shrimp thieves.”

Her lips twitch as she glances at the swarm of squawking gulls. “Coffee sounds good. We can have a professional consultation.”

“Right,” I echo, even though nothing about this feels professional.

Because Mila’s all grown up… and I can’t seem to think straight with her eyes on me.

This summer just got a whole lot more complicated.