Summer with a Second Chance: The Love Beach Collection, page 1
Summer with a Second Chance
Ellen Brooks
Book Cover by Zee Irwin Romance
Editing by Brynn Paulin
Copyright © 2024 by Ellen Brooks
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact ellen@ellenbrooks.info.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Contents
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1. Kate
2. Aiden
3. Kate | Ten Minutes Earlier
4. Aiden
5. Kate
6. Kate
7. Aiden
8. Kate
9. Aiden
10. Kate
11. Aiden
12. Kate
13. Aiden | Two Minutes Earlier
14. Kate
Epilogue | Aiden | Two and a Half Years Later
Also By Ellen Brooks
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Chapter one
Kate
My lucky bamboo is dead. I’ve been trying to save it for weeks, but the thick stalks are squishy and lifeless. The brittle yellow leaves crumble between my fingers and scatter across the drab gray carpet in my cubicle. Considering it’s the fourth species of indoor plant I’ve tried and failed to keep alive in the last six months, it’s past time to admit defeat.
Testing the water’s pH and adjusting the acidity levels didn’t help. It must be these harsh fluorescent lights. Too bad I’m the new kid on the block with a desk smack in the middle of an open office wasteland, miles from the closest window and years, if not decades, away from a window office.
I dump the contents of the vase in the trash bin in the break room and stare at the empty glass container. Maybe, I should toss it, too, but I don’t. I hold on to it, gripping tight, because throwing it in the can would mean acknowledging I won’t try again. And giving up goes against every fiber of my being.
“Kate,” my boss says, shuffling in and heading straight to the coffeepot with his I take weather cirrus mug. “Just the girl I’m looking for.”
“Good morning,” I reply, snapping to attention and summoning every last ounce of willpower to resist pointing out to the man old enough to be my grandfather that I’m a twenty-six-year-old college-educated scientist and would prefer not to be referred to as a girl.
Because I’ve been there and tried that. Even went to human resources, which was a dead end in this government agency with enough red tape to stretch to the moon and back.
“What can I do for you?” I add, straightening my pencil skirt with a tight smile because working here, at the National Storm Tracking Institute, is a dream come true.
“I’m sending you to the field.”
I nearly drop the vase as adrenaline shoots through my veins. “The field, sir?”
“That’s what you want, right? To be out there in the trenches?” He waves a hand, dismissing the reason I worked my ass off for four years in college and another two in grad school. “Gathering this data is your chance.”
“It is what I want,” I’m quick to assure him, lifting my chin and refusing to let this man rain on my parade.
“Good, because a tropical depression was reclassified to a tropical storm overnight and, thanks to a low-pressure system moving in from the north, the models are predicting hurricane-force winds. I need someone on the ground.”
“To deploy remote sensing instruments, detail surface observations, and release radiosondes?” I’m nearly bouncing on my toes right here on the linoleum floor of the break room but try to temper the enthusiasm in my voice as I pull from my textbook knowledge of the activities I’ve never been trusted to assist with, let alone perform solo.
He cocks an eyebrow as he returns the pot to its stained burner. “It’s three hundred miles offshore and forecast to make landfall in seventy-two hours. And, of course, the Charleston office—who should be taking care of this, by the way—are short staffed and unavailable. Maybe, they’ll actually fill those two open positions with some competent folks one of these days.”
There are open positions at the Charleston office? For field work? My curiosity is piqued, but I file away that information in favor of the more pressing concern.
“What about Susan?” My competent senior colleague would be my first go to if I were my boss looking to send someone.
He rolls his eyes. “Her husband just had surgery.”
“And Bill?”
“His son is getting married this weekend. Don’t these people know hurricane season starts June first?”
These people?
“Maybe, Bill’s son and his fiancée got a good deal because of the season,” I offer, familiar with the many bargain-seeking brides who used to book the Love Beach Country Club in June and pray weather wouldn’t impact their special day.
“Yes, well,” he grumbles, the steaming coffee fogging his glasses. “You’ll need to load the equipment into the van and hit the road this morning to make it there before any shelter-in-place or evacuation orders are established. It’s a ten-hour drive to where we’re anticipating impact.”
Ten hours? Based on the average speed of a vehicle from my current coordinates, that would put me close to Love Beach.
Close to Aiden Landry.
Too close for comfort to the boy who broke my heart.
I swallow hard, but surely, it can’t be. “Where did you say this storm is anticipated to hit?”
But my boss is rattling on, oblivious to the emotions whirling like a tornado in my chest.
“Hitting the road today isn’t a problem, though, right?” he mutters, heading out the door and fully expecting me to follow. “It’s not like you have any family or pets to worry about.”
It’s a statement of fact and shouldn’t cut like a razor—especially coming from this three-time divorcee—but my gaze drops to the empty vase I’m clutching tighter than a stress ball because somehow, the assumption does.
I take a deep breath, barely refraining from throwing the empty vessel at his back, and rush to follow him. “No, sir. Not a problem.”
“Good.”
“But where did you say this storm is expected?” I ask again, raising my voice. “Where on the coast?”
“Somewhere in South Carolina,” he mumbles over his shoulder.
My steps falter as an impending sense of dread fills me like a beakerful of an unstable solution. He turns into the central hub of NSTI. It’s an enormous room with two dozen work stations set up along three rows, all facing a wall full of monitors. Live radar, current satellite images, and models with various projections based on a hundred or more factors flash across the immense wall.
“And don’t put yourself in danger up there. Be safe,” he cautions, but the warning barely registers.
I’m staring wide-eyed at the largest screen smack dab in the center of the wall. Over and over, the colorful model replays the projected trajectory of the storm for the next seventy-two hours. The sight is a one-two punch directly to my gut. A hit that steals my breath and makes me dizzy.
Because the dot on the map identifying the town where landfall is predicted?
Love Beach.
And the named Tropical Storm?
Aiden.
Before I can stop it, the vase slips from my fingers and shatters across the floor into a million pieces.
Chapter two
Aiden
The Cove Bar and Grill smells like hot sauce and beer and is as loud as a Friday night in August, even though the season’s barely getting started. A country song blares from the speakers, drowning out the sound of the ballgame on the big screen where the Sunrays are up 0-1 in the bottom of the sixth. I shake off the rain droplets from my rush through the parking lot and run a hand through my hair. With the storm on the way, it’s a good thing the series is away. No doubt, any home game would have been rained out.
My younger brother, Jesse, who’s the birthday boy tonight, and a handful of our friends are impossible to miss guzzling beer and shooting darts in the corner where they’ve cobbled together a few tall tables.
I’m glad to see my older brother, Blake, amongst the revelers. He gets out less than I do these days, thanks to his single dad status, but it’s a special occasion, and when he spots me and raises a glass, heads swivel in my direction.
A chorus of cheers and slow claps celebrate my arrival, but rather than head their way, I stop by the bar. Donna, with the same observant gray eyes she’s had since the day my dad moved us boys to Love Beach when I was sixteen, glances up from pulling a draft. A warm smile spreads across her face.
“Well, well, well, look who the storm blew in.”
I rub the back of my neck, deserving every ounce of the hard time she wants to serve my way. I should stop by more often to check on her, but every time I do, the memor
“I was wondering if you’d be making your annual appearance,” she adds, nodding toward the corner.
“I’m just stopping by for Jesse. Then I’ll be on my way. I need a good night’s sleep tonight, if I can get one.”
She releases the tap. “It’s good to see you, Aiden. Really good.”
“You, too,” I reply, meaning the words with every bone in my body.
“All alone?” She peers past me, though she knows the answer. It’s been the same one every year for eight years now.
“Yup.”
She nods and presses her lips together then tips her head toward the throng making more noise than any other table. “They’ve been here at least an hour, if not more, waiting for you.”
“I was checking over the equipment and raising the double reds up the flagpole for the morning.”
Her eyes skip to the wall of windows where the rain is running in rivulets down the glass. Then her gaze trails back to me. “Think it’ll be that bad?”
I heave a sigh. “Hard to say, but the warning’s been upgraded to a Tropical Storm, and Love Beach is the projected landfall, so somebody somewhere is reading the data and thinks we’re in for it.”
Donna delivers the pint down the bar to a local I acknowledge with a lift of my chin. Then she makes her way back toward me, with a look I know means trouble.
“Maybe, Kate is that somebody somewhere.”
Her tone is casual, but Kate’s aunt knows exactly what she’s doing, and I know why. But I don’t share the fact that the same thought crossed my mind hours ago when the weather alert buzzed my phone.
I glance off toward the windows, swallowing hard. “Maybe.”
“News reported the storm’s been named Aiden,” she adds, twisting the knife in my gut that’s already cut me wide open.
I can’t help but fall into her trap, but can’t help the way I clench the truck keys in my hand until their jagged impressions are etched into the flesh of my palm. “Even if Kate’s following the storm, she sure as hell didn’t name it.”
The gruff defense in my tone is a dead giveaway. A sign that Donna, who’s more like a mother than the woman who gave birth to me ever was, has gotten under my skin. But rather than gloat, the glimmer in her eyes fades, and she busies herself wiping the already sparkling polished-oak bar with a wet towel.
Silence falls, and I wish I could eat my words, but before I can, Donna stills and murmurs so quietly I almost don’t catch it. “You never know.”
My throat constricts, but following her train of thought isn’t useful. It’s been almost eight years since Kate left, and it’s well past time I let her go. If only, I could move on from the girl who captured my heart when she was seventeen and still, to this day, owns it.
“How about a round for the table?” I say instead, eyeing the near empty pitchers on the high tables.
“And a water for you?”
She knows me well.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Donna reaches for a pitcher and sets it under the tap. A smooth stream of golden beer with a thin layer of foam on top fills the worn plastic. I grab my wallet from the back pocket of my jeans, but she shakes her head. “This one’s on me.”
She cuts off my protest with an arch of her eyebrow. “I know it was you who fixed up that latch on my gate in January. And the one who had something to do with the flat tire on my car in the parking lot getting patched and filled last month.”
I lift a shoulder. I keep an eye on her. It’s the least I can do.
I’m sliding my wallet back into my pocket when the door swings open and a gusty breeze blows through. But the wind isn’t what sends a chill racing down my spine. It’s the wide-eyed look that fills Donna’s face. And the way her jaw drops as if she’s seen a ghost before she snaps it back into place and her eyes fly to mine.
She swallows and tries to pull herself together, but her voice is taut when she says, “How about a whiskey instead of that water?”
Chapter three
Kate | Ten Minutes Earlier
Gravel crunches under the NSTI van tires as I pull into a parking spot at the far edge of the lot and cut the engine. I let my forehead drop to rest on the steering wheel as my eyes fall shut. I take a deep breath, grateful to have made it to The Cove safe and sound. This giant of a vehicle, more than twice the size of my ancient Toyota, has taken every ounce of concentration to maneuver on the road today. And especially the last hour or so, thanks to the precipitation.
But I’m here now. The destination I set the GPS to before I even turned the key in the ignition this morning in Miami. Because The Cove is where Aunt Donna is, and if there’s one person who deserves to know I’m in town before she hears it through the grapevine, it’s the woman who helped raise me after my momma died.
But there are more cars in the lot than I thought there’d be. Especially for a Tuesday in June with a tropical storm on the way. I’d consider waiting for the crowd to thin out before I head in, but I have to pee. Surely, I can slip in, say hello, explain why I’m here, use the restroom, and then duck out.
And even though the chances of someone I know being inside are a statistical probability in a town the size of Love Beach, the likelihood my ex is at The Cove tonight is miniscule. Practically zilch. So, with a sigh, I square my shoulders and climb out, stretching my legs and rolling my neck, glad I changed out of my office attire and into a pair of jean shorts and a T-shirt along with my sneakers before I hit the road.
I duck into the busy restaurant, pulling the door closed against the wind. A shiver runs through me from the blast of air conditioning. I wish I’d grabbed my sweatshirt from my duffel bag. Goosebumps spread up my arms, and I rub them with both hands as I take in the scene.
The Cove is different than I remember, but I suppose that’s to be expected after staying away as long as I have. It still smells like hot sauce and beer, and the big screens are still too bright, their glow illuminating the dim sports bar.
A server I don’t recognize, carrying a tray loaded with plates of steaming food, passes and, with a harried smile, invites me to seat myself. But rather than search for an empty table, I spin toward the bar. Sure enough, Aunt Donna is there, her gaze fixed on me as if she’s seen a ghost.
I smile and raise a hand in greeting as I take a step in her direction, but the shock in her wide eyes and the way they flit back to a tall man with broad shoulders standing with his back to me makes my steps falter.
My chest squeezes with a dreadful premonition. But I’m unsure why. The man at the bar isn’t Aiden. The hair is shades lighter and cut too short. And this guy is taller than Aiden by a good few inches. Plus, this stranger is built like a freight train, with a black T-shirt and jeans hugging muscles the guy I loved didn’t have.
But before I process why Aunt Donna might be anything other than confused, or maybe excited to see me, the man turns. My heart, which was already racing a million beats per minute, jumps straight to my jugular and squeezes. Tight.
Because rich brown eyes I once knew better than my own pin me with a look that shoots straight to my soul. One that erases time and distance and the heartbreak between us, then spreads like wildfire, sending every nerve ending in my body tingling.
Until, in a flash, the look is gone, replaced by a controlled expression as Aiden’s face transforms and a muscle in his jaw works. And the AC is no longer the cause of the ice in my veins.
But before I can process my shock, Aunt Donna swings around the edge of the bar and sweeps me up into a hug so tight it sends every thought and the hundreds of questions in my brain flying. I haven’t had arms wrapped around me this tight in years. Eight at least.
And the pure love radiating through the embrace feels like forgiveness for leaving and never visiting. And also, like the welcome back I didn’t dare hope for. I choke up, tears pricking at the back of my eyes as I squeeze them shut and melt against her.
“Kate,” she murmurs against my hair, her hand rubbing my back. “It’s so good to see you, darlin’.”
