Page 4 of Meet Me at Sunset Cove

“He likes to make them intentionally vague. Says it helps people ‘find the town.’”

Oh, Daisy had found it all right.

“We should get going,” the woman said, nodding toward the street hidden between two false-front buildings. “I’m Mia, by the way.”

“Daisy.” She held out a hand and Mia shook it.

“I’m excited to show you around, Daisy,” Mia said, leading the way up the cobblestone street. Daisy took a hesitant sip of the still-scalding coffee as the fall breeze nipped at her neck. “What brings you to Jonathon Island? Other than your house search, of course.”

Daisy’s coffee caught in her throat.

That was a big question.

She went with the simple answer. “I’m a designer. I’m on the hunt for a renovation project.”

The cobblestone street soon gave way to a residential neighborhood. A row of cozy houses sat nestled between a mixture of maple and pine trees. Many of the yards here were overgrown, the picket fences wrapped with invasive vines, boxwoods stretching toward the sky in front of empty bay windows. But Daisy could see it. The potential was there in every property they passed. The potential for these houses to become homes again with the right kind of love and care they’d obviously once had.

“That sounds like a really fun job,” Mia said, stopped in front of a faded-blue craftsman-style house, the covered porch overtaken by foliage that climbed toward the second story.

It looked the way a perfectly rainy day felt.

It reminded Daisy of the first house she had ever remodeled. Warmth grew in her chest at the memory.

“Well, we have a few cute little options to take a look at. Do you have a budget in mind?” Mia asked.

Daisy shot her a tentative look. “Um…well, I heard about the dollar house program…”

“Oh.” Mia blinked, her eyes widening. “I’m so sorry for the confusion. The dollar house program is over. There aren’t any more storefronts left.”

Daisy tilted her head, her brows drawing together. “Storefronts?”

Mia matched her confused expression. “Yeah, you know. To open your business…That’s the dollar house program. It was for business owners who wanted to open shops on the island. They all had to apply and get approval by the town council. But all the spots have been filled. I’m so sorry. We do still have houses for sale though.” She gestured toward the craftsman hopefully.

Daisy’s heart sank, the plan slipping. “I don’t have a very big budget…”

The wind picked up, shaking the trees. Through a gap in the tree line, Daisy spotted the same Victorian-style turret she’d seen from the ferry the day before.

Mia followed her gaze. “Let me make a call, I might just have something.”

* * *

The fifteenth time’s the charm—or so Hunter Barrett kept telling himself as he stared at his father’s red ink massacre of yet another perfectly good blueprint. The red marks on his latest blueprint were becoming almost comical at this point. Three weeks, fifteen revisions, and his father had rejected each one for increasingly microscopic issues—a quarter-inch variation in the support beam placement, a slightly too-wide window trim, and yesterday’s complaint about the “aesthetically concerning” spacing between floor joists that literally no one would ever see. But version fifteen? Hunter had spent half the night adjusting measurements that were already well within code, knowing his father would scrutinize every detail like he was renovating the White House instead of a midwestern suburb, ranch-style house.

He carefully rolled up the document and slid it into his backpack. The old man couldn’t possibly reject this one.

Hunter Barrett groaned as he stepped over his brother’s gym bag in the hallway of their small, two-bedroom apartment. “Come on, Waylen,” he grumbled as he slid the bag out of the traffic zone.

“Talking to yourself again?” Waylen asked from the kitchen table, where he sat with his dirty-socked feet kicked up on the handcrafted oak, one arm slung over the back of his chair, eating an Eggo waffle with his bare hands.

Hunter slapped his brother’s feet to the floor as he crossed to the fridge. “I’d talk toyouif I thought you’d listen.” He grumbled into the dark refrigerator. “And I thought you were going to fix the light in here?”

Waylen balked. “Why me?”

Over his shoulder, Hunter cast him a look of disbelief. “How about becauseyou’rethe one with time on your hands?”

Waylen scoffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you could afford to take a minute to fix a lightbulb between shifts of donut eating down at the police station. Or is there a recent crime streak I haven’t heard about?”

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