Chasing the Sun (Star Harbor Book 1), page 4
Kit sighed and leaned against the deck railing. “You know how it goes with Hayes. He texted, saying he got a flat tire on the way over. He’ll be here soon.”
I shook my head. Poor Hayes. He literally had the worst luck of anyone I had ever met. We didn’t actually believe he’d been cursed by the Lady, but sometimes it was hard to ignore that his luck was absolute shit.
“I’m going to go rescue Brody before the feral children stage a coup.” Kit grinned and bounded down the stairs.
Sitting alone at a table on the side of the yard was old man Stafford. My heart rolled for him and the dilapidated farm that once held so many of my childhood memories. With a smile, I walked toward him.
The metal of the chair was cold against my palm. “This seat taken?”
He looked up, his blue eyes smiling. “Not for a pretty girl like you.”
I curtsied and plunked down into the chair, my legs stretched in front of me and crossed at the ankles. “So what do you know, old man?”
He chuckled, a deep and friendly sound. “I know it’s been too long since I’ve seen you around here, Miss Elodie Darling.”
I scrunched my nose. “I know. Work had me so busy.”
He shook his head. “No work is more important than family and friends.” He tapped the side of his nose. “That I do know.”
His words landed somewhere deep in the part of me I didn’t like to poke at too much. Because once upon a time, I had known that, but then I got too busy proving I was important, too busy proving I could keep up.
And now? Now I was back home, unemployed, drinking a juice box at a Vegas-themed birthday party for a kindergartner.
Deep down I knew Stan was right, and I wasn’t sure when work had eclipsed how much I loved being home, but it had happened all the same. In that moment everything felt aimless, like I didn’t know what I was going to do. It was much easier to shift my attention to the kind old man who was sipping pink lemonade out of a plastic martini glass.
“I drove past the farm today.” I leaned forward, planting my chin on my hands with an exaggerated pout.
Mr. Stafford’s eyes grew wistful, the spark dimming as he took another sip. “It’s a sad thing when time passes and life changes on you.”
I sat back in my chair. “I remember coming to the farm as a kid. It was the heart of Star Harbor—the pumpkin patch, the haunted forest walk. Mrs. Stafford’s cider doughnuts were legendary.”
At the mention of his late wife, Mr. Stafford perked up and smiled. “They were tasty.”
“The best,” I agreed. I closed my eyes and could almost feel the cinnamon-sugary outside on my tongue as I bit down on the pillowy fried doughnut.
Stan sighed. “Over the years, people stopped coming. Flashier tourist destinations popped up in nearby towns and drew people away. Now it seems the only time someone comes around is when they’re trying to get a glimpse of the Lady walking the dunes.”
My brain was spinning. How could anyone just let the coolest place in town fall apart and be forgotten?
Frankly, it kind of pissed me off. Stan looked so sad. There had to be something I could do for him.
And then the perfect idea hit me.
“You know what you need?” I sat up straighter, my brain firing on all cylinders. “A full-blown, family-friendly experience. Hayrides, haunted barns, spiked cider for the parents. People love taking selfies with scarecrows and buying homemade jams. The key is creating a social media–worthy vibe. If you make it fun, people will come back.”
My attention returned to Mr. Stafford. The sparkle was back in his eyes, but he shook his head. “Hard to maintain a profit when you’re only taking in money for one season.”
I scoffed, undeterred. “One season? Who said that? You’ve got three other seasons to explore—people need Christmas trees. They already love apples. What about flowers and weddings? Oh!” I clasped my hands together. “A wedding! The top of that dune cliff would make for the most amazing photos.”
The lines deepened on his face. “You really think people would come to something like that? Even after all these years?”
I grinned, knowing I had hooked him. The heady rush of closing a deal zipped through me. “Absolutely. People are obsessed with fall nostalgia these days. Plus, families are looking to get off devices and make real memories. You don’t have to make it perfect—just make it fun. I would be happy to help you brainstorm.”
“My Karen would have loved this.” Mr. Stafford slapped the table. “You’ve got the vision, Miss Elodie, I’ll give you that! There was a time I had considered selling the place, but what you’re saying . . . well, that sounds like Karen’s dream come true. I think we should do it.”
I grinned but quickly recovered as his words fully registered. “Uh . . . we?” I let out a nervous laugh. “I mean, I was just spitballing, Mr. Stafford. Brainstorming. Thinking theoretically.”
He nodded. “Yes, of course we. I can’t do anything without a visionary like yourself. I’m just an old man.” He gestured toward himself. “I can’t pull this off without some help. If you’ve got ideas, I’ve got the space—and plenty of money to make it happen.”
He winked and I was utterly charmed. “Um . . .” I tried to think on my feet. I needed a way out of this, to gently let the sweet old man down, but I came up blank.
“I mean . . . I am kind of in between projects at the moment,” I hedged, suddenly feeling like I had stepped onto a conveyor belt moving at full speed. “But I’m only staying with Selene for a few days. Just a quick pit stop before figuring out my next big move.”
Caught between guilt—I had made it sound amazing—and my childhood fondness for the farm, I was stuck.
“Don’t you worry.” He patted my hand.
Oh, I was very much worried. I had come home for a temporary emotional reset, not to accidentally sign up for a full-scale farm restoration. But somehow Mr. Stafford had me by the metaphorical balls.
And worse? A tiny, traitorous part of me was . . . intrigued.
I imagined the farm, picturing it the way it used to be—families wandering the pumpkin patch, the smell of fresh cider doughnuts, bonfires crackling in the cool autumn air. The idea shouldn’t have been so tempting.
But, damn it, it was.
“I’ve got the perfect place for you,” he continued smoothly, like a man who had absolutely just hustled me. “And I’ll pay you handsomely. What do you say?” His eyebrows did a little bounce, and he was fully aware he had me backed into a corner.
A spark of excitement zipped through me, fast and electric. The idea shouldn’t have felt this tempting, but there was no denying it—it did.
I wasn’t staying, obviously. This wasn’t my life. But maybe, just maybe, helping out for a little while would be good for me too.
Besides, what harm was a fun little distraction until something more serious came along?
Laughter bubbled up in my chest, bright and unstoppable, as I stuck out my hand. “You, Mr. Stafford, are a dangerous man. But hell—why not? Let’s save a farm.”
FOUR
CALLUM
Losing sucked.
Losing after a god-awful ninth inning where my best teammate let a ground ball roll straight past him? That was downright infuriating.
The guys and I played every Wednesday night for the Remington County men’s twelve-inch, slow pitch softball league. Sure, we were the second-oldest team in the league, and our postgame ritual almost always included icing sore muscles and creaking knees, but we loved it.
Losing was a serious hit to our collective pride.
“I swear, Hayes,” I muttered as I yanked off my baseball cap and dragged a hand through my damp hair before putting it on backward. “Did you not see the ball? Were your eyes closed?”
Hayes Darling, former town golden boy and reigning champion of bad luck, slumped against the dugout bench with a groan. “You think I wanted that to happen? I got caught in the sun.” He held up his glove. “Besides, the stitching tore out of this fucking thing.”
He threw his busted mitt into the dirt and pushed it farther away with his shoe.
Brody Shepherd scoffed, unwrapping the tape around his wrists. “Sure, buddy. The sun—the same sun that’s been here all season?”
Hayes shot him a glare. “You wanna say that again, Shep?”
Brody just grinned at his best friend, always happy to poke the bear. “I’m just saying, if you need me to buy you some sunglasses, just say so.”
“Boys, boys,” Wes drawled, his voice full of mock wisdom as he leaned on his bat. “It was an early season game. Nobody’s getting a championship ring here.”
I shot him a glare. “Yeah, and yet I don’t see you giving up your MVP beer at the Lantern when we do win.”
Wes grinned. “Never.”
Brody snorted. “Oh, don’t act all high and mighty, Wes. You were two seconds away from chucking your glove into the dugout like a toddler when you struck out.”
“A toddler with dignity,” Wes corrected with a scowl.
The best part of our season included celebratory beers at the local dive after the game. Unfortunately for us, tonight they had become consolation beers, but I didn’t mind. I needed a break.
“Anyway, I think we need another player,” Brody said, tossing his mitt into his bag.
He wasn’t wrong. Our team consisted of us four plus a few others, but because of work commitments, most of them were designated subs.
“I could always ask Austin,” Brody offered.
A collective grumble of agreement rippled through the group. Having Brody’s half brother on the team would certainly be an advantage. Austin was young, eager, and athletic.
Maybe he could run his ass into the ground without getting winded.
“Did Austin find an apartment?” I asked, unlacing my cleats and stuffing them into my gym bag.
“He’s still looking,” Brody said, shrugging. “He’s couch surfing until he finds his own place, but I know he’s itching to do something besides work at the marina. He was a decent baseball player in high school.”
Hayes snorted, rubbing his shoulder and moving the arm in a slow circle. “Yeah, so was I. Look how that turned out.”
“Anyway,” Brody dragged out the word. “Beers at the Lantern?”
A round of grunts and nods signaled our agreement. Losing might’ve sucked, but postgame beers were always a win.
The Lady’s Lantern wasn’t just a bar; it was a Star Harbor institution.
As we stepped inside, the carved wooden lantern sign flickered, casting a warm glow over the entrance. Inside, it smelled like old wood, whiskey, and history. The walls were plastered with relics of the town’s obsession with the Lady of the Dunes—framed newspaper clippings of supposed sightings, grainy black-and-white photographs of a ghostly figure by the water, and, in one corner, a glass case housing what was allegedly a piece of her original wedding veil.
Tourists ate that shit up.
Even the drink menu played into the legend. The Lady’s Lament—a fancy gin cocktail that Brody once described as “tasting like a perfume bottle.” The Sailor’s Doom—a whiskey drink strong enough to knock out a grown man.
Ask me how I know.
As we slid into a booth, Wes stretched an arm along the back of his seat, looking around the packed bar. “Look at this shit.” He gestured with his bottle to a group huddled around the veil taking selfies. “Never ceases to amaze me.” His attention landed on me, eyebrows bouncing. “When’s the Drifted Spirit finally going to live up to its namesake?”
My eyes flicked to Hayes as he slipped out of the booth to grab another round. Talking about the Lady always seemed to get under his skin.
I took a sip of my beer, the cold liquid cutting through the summer heat still clinging to my skin. “Never. The whole thing is ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous or profitable?” Wes asked, tapping the Lady’s Love Lock Fence pamphlet left on the table.
Brody smirked. “You have to admit, the Ghost Run 5K was fun. A bunch of idiots in glow-in-the-dark outfits running from an imaginary dead woman?” His hands spread wide. “Come on. That shit’s funny.”
I ignored them, swirling my beer. Sure, the legend made money, but I never once actually believed there was a ghost haunting the streets of Star Harbor.
Conversation shifted to work and women as Hayes reclaimed his spot in the booth. Eventually, the sting of the game faded. I paid my tab and headed home.
The inn was quiet when I pulled up. The soft glow of the windows was stark against the cloudy, starless sky. A few guests were sitting out back, enjoying a small fire as I headed toward the side entrance. I raised my hand to be friendly, but exhaled a sigh of relief as soon as I slipped into the kitchen. It still smelled of the afternoon chocolate chip cookies I made and Helen baked every afternoon. The thousands of positive reviews proved that my idea of afternoon cookies was well received.
Besides, what monster doesn’t like cookies?
Fresh irritation rolled over me as I looked at my phone for the third time. Levi was supposed to have checked in with me when he got back from hanging out with his friends.
Of course, he hadn’t.
Levi was officially done with school for the summer, which meant I had three full months to keep a teenage boy out of trouble.
I wasn’t sure how the hell I was supposed to do that.
Inside, I peeked into his room and smirked. He was sprawled across his bed, one foot hanging off the side, headphones over his ears, the bluish glow of his phone illuminating his face.
At least he was here this time. That was my bar now—he made it home in one piece.
I exhaled. He had been slipping lately—staying out late, skipping school. The kind of behavior that had warning bells blaring in my head.
The last thing I needed was Levi becoming me at his age. Joining the Army was the only thing that straightened me out, and all I had to show for it was an armful of scars and an unsettling sense of regret.
The wooden doorframe was hard beneath my knuckles. His eyes flicked up, and he pulled one side of the headphones off his ear.
“Hey, Dad.” The corner of his mouth tipped up.
My chest squeezed. Sometimes there were still tiny moments when the little kid with crooked teeth and a big smile peeked through his surly teenage attitude.
Part of me wanted to remind him that he’d messed up and not let me know he’d gotten home. But lately it felt like all I was doing was riding his ass and pointing out the ways he was falling short. Trouble was, he needed to be accountable for his actions.
I couldn’t win.
Mary had a way with Levi that I just . . . didn’t. His therapist assured me I wasn’t completely fucking him up, but there were days I wasn’t so sure.
His eyebrows lifted as I waged an internal war.
“You need something?” he asked.
I scoffed. “No. Just glad you’re home. Love you.”
“You too.” The words were barely out before his headphones were back in place and his attention was focused on his phone. I stood in the doorway for half a second longer than I should have, like I was waiting for something.
An opening.
Exhausted and defeated, I walked down the hall to the primary suite. Levi and I lived downstairs, away from the main guest rooms of the inn. There was only one empty bedroom across the hall from Levi, but it was never a room to be rented and was typically only used by friends after a night out.
I never let a stranger that close to where we slept.
Slipping out of my dusty clothes, I tossed everything into the laundry hamper. My fingertips brushed over the bumps and ridges my scars had left behind. They ran from my wrist to my neck as a harsh reminder of the life I had chosen.
A quick, scalding shower was exactly what I needed to wash the day away. My nightly mental gymnastics came back in full force as I ran through everything I needed to prep for the next day. The inn ran like clockwork, but only because I was always on top of it.
After the shower, I carried the clothes basket to the large laundry room off the kitchen. Three washers and dryers stacked on top of one another lined one wall. An oversize washbasin for bleaching and soaking linens was along the other. During the renovation, Mary had decided to keep the oversize windows on the far wall that overlooked Star Harbor Farm.
I gazed into the darkness. Across the yard, something flickered in the distance. A glow. Too steady to be flashlights. Too low to be the moon. And coming from a place that should’ve been empty.
The abandoned cottage was glowing from inside.
My shoulders tensed as my eyes closed and I sighed.
Great.
Either the raccoons had learned how to work a light switch or some idiot was ghost hunting. Again.
After starting my laundry, I grabbed the wooden bat I kept by the side entrance and headed across the yard into the darkness. A breeze coming off Lake Michigan carried the scent of summer. If the clouds would only move out, it would have made for a beautiful, star-filled summer sky.
I stared at the dilapidated cottage. The flimsy curtains were drawn tight, but there didn’t seem to be any movement inside. The worn-out porch creaked under my boots as I circumvented the hole I had created earlier in the week.
I knocked.
Nothing.
But I knew better than to trust silence. Silence was just the pause before all hell broke loose.
Another knock, harder this time. “Hey,” I called. “You’re trespassing.”
Still nothing.
I sighed and tried the doorknob. Unlocked.
Fantastic.
I pushed it open, bat at the ready—and something shrieked, a horrible inhuman sound.
Then something collided with my chest.
Soft, warm, and tangled around me in a way that should not feel as good as it did. Bare, feminine legs locked around my thighs, the faint scent of vanilla and something else—something deeper—drifted between us. It was the kind of scent that got under a man’s skin.
Dangerous.
