Page 70 of Chasing Sunsets

I let out an anxious chuckle, staring up at the house as it comes into view. It’s not huge, but it’s lovely—a coastal-style home with weathered gray shingles and a lot of porch. It’s the kind of house that looks lived in, full of history and love.

Anson parks the car, and before I can second-guess myself, he opens my door and offers his hand. I take it, my fingers slipping against his callous palm, and I swear his touch seems to calm me.

“If you can handle Amiya and the girls, Mom and Dad will be easy,” he whispers as he leads me toward the house.

Before we make it to the steps to the porch, the front door swings open, and a woman steps out with a bright, welcoming smile.

“Oh, you must be Tabby!” she exclaims, already reaching for me.

I barely have time to brace myself before I’m wrapped in a warm, vanilla-scented hug, and it startles me, but I don’t hate it.

“Tabby, this is my mother, Margot Leggett,” Anson says. “She obviously doesn’t know what personal space is.”

Margot pulls back, holding me at arm’s length as she looks me over. She’s beautiful in a way that only some women are—graceful, effortlessly welcoming, the kind of person who makes you feel at home.

“Come on in,” she says, looping her arm through mine like we’re old friends and completely ignoring her son’s comment. “Porter’s got the grill going. We’ve been dying to meet the girl who’s caught our son’s attention.”

I blink, glancing at Anson, who shoots his mom a look.

“Mom,” he mutters.

Margot just grins, completely unfazed, and leads me inside.

The house smells incredible—something rich and smoky drifting in from the back. The decor is exactly what I’d expect from a coastal home—warm woods, soft colors, and big, inviting furniture.

And then there’s Porter.

He’s standing at the grill on the back deck, tongs in one hand, beer in the other. The second he sees me, his face splits into a grin that’s so much like Anson’s that it’s almost uncanny.

“You must be the mysterious woman living at the campground,” he says, offering me his free hand. “Porter Leggett. Welcome.”

I shake it, his grip strong and warm.

“Tabby,” I say, then add, “And I guess that’s me.”

Porter chuckles, nodding approvingly. “An artist, huh?”

I flick a glance at Anson.

“Yep. She’s talented,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets.

I feel Margot’s eyes on me, a little too perceptive.

I clear my throat. “I, um … I paint. Mostly ocean scenes. Just something I do.”

“It’s more than that,” Anson says. “She also makes wind chimes, tends gardens, and writes poetry. She’s even working on a children’s book.”

“Uh, that’s only a pipe dream at this point,” I clarify.

“A pipe dream with a title and illustrations,” he says.

Margot hums.

“Sounds like you’ll fit in here just fine,” Porter says, flipping a steak. “My better half over there is an artist herself.”

“Anson told me. You’re a goldsmith, and you design and create your own jewelry pieces,” I say to Margot.

“She does. Very talented too. People come from all over the state to have her make them something sparkly,” Porter says proudly. “You eat meat, right?”

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