Page 17 of Tides of Change
Ethan and I fell into an effortless conversation about the town and its quirks—the hitchhiking ghost, the town’s renowned, reclusive artist Austin Beaumont, the summer’s town-wide scavenger hunt. Occasionally, I exchanged greetings with someone I knew—the perks of being a local deputy—but Ethan remained reserved, his face shadowed by the low brim of his cap and sunglasses.
When we reached our house, I opened the door for Noah, who stumbled inside.
Ethan lingered on the path, his hands in his pockets. “Thanks for the walk.”
“Did you work out your sticky plot point?”
He smiled and his lips quirked to one side. “No. I got distracted. But I had a good time.”
He pivoted to go, and I knew I should let him, but the thought of not seeing him for days, maybe weeks, left a hole in my chest. Before I could stop myself, I blurted, “Noah’s staying at my parents’ next Saturday night. Want to visit that brewery I was telling you about?”
Ethan turned back around and cocked his head, his expression hidden behind his sunglasses.
Had I overreached?
“I’d like that,” he said warmly.
The thrill that coursed through me was as unexpected as it was intense. Friends could grab a beer. It was only a date if he wanted it to be. Otherwise, it would just be two people getting to know each other.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
CHAPTER NINE
Ethan
By early afternoon on Monday, I typed the last sentence of the chapter. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, and a tremor of satisfaction rippled through me. The weight of the unresolved plot point that had haunted me for days had lifted after my walk with Garrett and Noah, and the words had flowed effortlessly. I leaned back in my chair and savored the rare moment when creativity felt easy.
A smile tugged at my lips. It wasn’t just the writing, though. If I were honest with myself, I’d been smiling a lot since the walk the previous day. Their laughter, their acceptance, their warmth—it lingered in my mind like the scent of salt air on the breeze. It surprised me how quickly they’d begun to feel like more than casual acquaintances. Like a connection I hadn’t dared to hope for when I came to Seacliff Cove.
But the memory was bittersweet. As much as I enjoyed Garrett’s company, a quiet unease curled in the back of my mind. My—alleged—stalker. I’d taken every precaution to keep my presence here discreet. I was using my real name—one only a handful of people, those who knew me before the books were published, would recognize. I’d left my apartment in Brooklynwithout a word, not even telling my personal assistant where I was going. My friends, family, and editor all believed the same lie: that I was tucked away on a writing retreat in the Catskills, finishing my latest novel. But now, with the shadow of a stalker possibly tracking me even here, in Seacliff Cove, the illusion of safety began to crack. If someone had found me despite all my shields, what did that mean for the people around me? For the man and his innocent son, whom I was starting to care about? Could I really justify letting myself have moments of happiness—knowing something dangerous might be waiting just beyond the edges?
Perhaps I shouldn’t have accepted Garrett’s invitation to the brewpub, but he drew me to him. When we were together, I was keenly aware of his attractiveness, his protectiveness, and his sense of humor. Our conversations were engaging and comfortable.
I backed up my writing to the cloud. My work deserved a reward—a pumpkin spice latte sounded perfect. I stood, stretched the tension from my shoulders, and grinned at the memory of meeting Garrett over the coffee mix-up.
I stepped out into the cool morning air, set the alarm, and locked the door. The scent of sea salt filled my head. For a moment, everything felt still—ordinary, even. The kind of coastal calm I was trying to convince myself I belonged to.
But then I saw it.
A single photograph, fluttering lightly in the breeze where it was tucked beneath the windshield wiper of my car. I froze.
I crossed the driveway slowly, each step tightening my chest. My fingers felt numb as I reached for the photo, already knowing it wasn’t something harmless—because nothing left for me like this ever was.
My stomach dropped.
It was a candid shot of me and Garrett walking along the beach yesterday—just the two of us. His hand brushing against mine. My face tilted toward him mid-laugh. The moment was soft, private. And someone had captured it like they were watching from a distance.
The world tilted around me.
My pulse thundered in my ears as I searched my surroundings. The security camera above my door faced the porch—not the driveway. Whoever left this knew that. They knew where the blind spot was.
I gripped the photo tighter, the glossy edges crumpling in my fist. This wasn’t just a threat. It was a taunt. A challenge. And worst of all—it meant whoever was behind it wasn’t just watching me.
They were watchingus.
A primal instinct, sharp and unrelenting, gripped me. I scanned the street, every shadow and corner suddenly suspicious. The back of my neck tingled, and the fear of being watched prickled my skin. The neighborhood was quiet and still, though, not even the nonstop hum of lawnmowers that I noticed as soon as I left the city. Eerie.
I retreated into the safety of my house and bolted the door behind me. My pulse thundered in my ears.
