Page 2 of Serenity at Seagrove
The space was bright and open, just as she'd imagined. Large windows framed a view of the beach and ocean beyond. The walls were painted a soft cream color, a neutral backdrop that allowed the natural light and the coastal scenery to take center stage.
To the left was a cozy seating area featuring a pale blue sectional and a few accent chairs arranged around a coffee table made of reclaimed driftwood. A bookshelf sat snugly in one corner, stocked with titles that Luna had carefully chosen for her guests—books about mindfulness, healing, and finding balance. The floors were wide planks of light oak that gleamed underneath her feet.
To the right was an open kitchen with white cabinets and quartz countertops with a backsplash of soft green tiles that brought in the ocean beyond. They looked like pieces of sea glass gleaming in the sunlight. A large farmhouse sink sat underneath the window that overlooked the dunes. Luna imagined herself standing there preparing meals for guests or washing dishes while watching the waves roll in. The island in the center of the kitchen featured seating for three—a place where guests could gather for tea or quiet conversation.
She walked deeper into the house, her sandals silent against the oak floors. The three guest rooms lined the hall to the left, each with its own ensuite bathroom. Luna peeked in the first room, smiling at her chosen touches. It was painted a pale aqua, the color of the sea on a sunny day. A queen-sized bed with a white linen duvet and a woven throw blanket sat beneath the window that framed the dunes. A small desk and chair and a vase of fresh flowers completed the space.
The other two rooms followed a similar design, each with its own subtle theme inspired by the beach. One was a coral-accented room, while the other featured sandy tones with pops of navy blue. Each room felt like a haven—a place where someone could find rest and renewal—which was precisely what Luna had intended. She would be able to house three guests at a time, and she hoped to be full as much as possible so that people could help each other while she was helping all of them.
A set of double doors opened to the yoga deck at the end of the hall. The view here took her breath away. It stretched toward the dunes with enough space for small classes to practice while listening to the soothing sound of the waves. There was a pergola to provide shade, and fairy lights were strung along the beams. She couldn't wait to see it at nighttime.
Her personal quarters were tucked in the back of the house and offered her a private retreat. She loved to help people, but at the end of the day, she needed her own time and space. The small but functional living space included a bedroom, a compact kitchen, and a cozy sitting area that opened onto her own private deck. It was more than she'd ever allowed herself to dream of—a home and a sanctuary all in one.
She stepped out onto her deck and leaned against the railing, her eyes scanning the horizon where the sky met the sea. A flock of seagulls flew overhead, their cries mixing with the sound of the surf. The breeze pulled at her long dark hair, and Luna felt a sense of rightness settle over her for the first time in a long time.
This was where she was meant to be.
"Welcome home," she whispered to herself, her voice carried away by the wind. Serenity at Seagrove wasn't just a dream anymore—it was hers.
* * *
Archer Hawk drove his beat-up black truck down the winding road leading to his friend Dawson's inn, a low hum emanating from his engine against the backdrop of the crashing waves. The sight of Seagrove's familiar streets stirred something inside him—not quite nostalgia, but maybe the ghost of it. The town had hardly changed in the years since he'd left. The same pastel storefronts lined the main street and stretched around the square, their awnings fluttering in the Lowcountry breeze. The same clusters of locals lingered on porches or beneath shade trees, talking like time wasn't chasing them down.
Even though he'd been there for much of his life, Archer suddenly felt like a stranger. As he passed the old diner on the corner, a memory surfaced. He and Dawson, scrawny teenage boys at the time, had spent so many summer afternoons here, splitting greasy hamburgers and plotting their next grand adventure or talking about the prettiest girl at school. Dawson had always been the dreamer, talking about the business he'd someday build. At the same time, Archer had been more focused—laser-focused, actually—on getting out of Seagrove and making something of himself. Back then, it all had seemed so simple.
The basketball court by the park came into view, and another flash of his past tugged at him. He could almost hear the echo of the ball against the asphalt. Dawson's trash talk as Archer inevitably dominated every single game. They'd been competitive with each other, but inseparable—two kids with different visions of the future, but an unbreakable bond.
The sight of the inn up ahead brought him back to the present. It had cheerful blue shutters and neatly trimmed hedges that looked just like he remembered. Dawson had always been meticulous, just like his grandmother, whether it was his work as a contractor or running the inn. The home had been in their family for generations, and it sat right on the beach with a beautiful view. Archer had to admit, begrudgingly, that his childhood friend had built something special here, and as much as he had tried to avoid this visit, it wasn't like he had anywhere else to go.
He parked his truck and climbed out, stretching his legs and wincing as his shoulder protested any movement. The injury had been months ago, but the dull ache always served as a constant reminder of what he'd lost. Golfing had been his life—no, it had been his identity—and without it, who was he? Before he could spiral too far into self-pity, which was where he regularly hung out, the inn’s front door swung open. Dawson stepped out, his grin as wide as a summer day. He looked much the same, with his dirty blonde hair sprinkled with bits of gold, and always a little too long for Archer's liking.
"Well, look what the tide dragged in," Dawson called, striding down the porch steps. Dawson had a particular walk, more of a swagger. He’d walked that way as long as Archer had known him, and the girls adored him in school because of it.
Archer managed a half-smile, shoving his hands into his jean pockets. "Figured you need somebody to keep you humble, so here I am. You're still way too good-looking, by the way. It’s kind of sickening.”
Dawson laughed and pulled him into a quick firm hug that Archer tolerated with a grunt. "You've been missed, man. Come on in. This town hasn't been the same without you."
"Oh, don't go getting too sentimental on me," Archer said, as he followed Dawson up the steps.
Inside, the inn smelled like fresh flowers and lemon polish. It reminded him of Dawson's grandmother. She was such a wonderful woman and always provided Sunday dinner when Archer visited their house. He remembered when Lucy would cook her famous pot roast and when Dawson’s granny would make her famous chicken pot pie. His mouth watered thinking about it. The wide foyer opened into a sitting area where a couple of guests sat chatting over glasses of iced sweet tea.
Dawson's wife, Julie, appeared in the hallway, her arms full of towels. "Archer," she said, her face lighting up. "It's so good to finally meet you. Dawson has told me so much about you."
Archer tipped his head in her direction. "Hey, Julie. Looks like you've been keeping Dawson out of trouble."
"Well, that's a full-time job," she said, winking as she disappeared toward the laundry room.
Dawson motioned Archer toward the check-in counter, where a set of keys waited. “Your room’s upstairs, the same one you used to crash in during summer. I figured you'd like something familiar."
Archer hesitated, looking around. The inn was warm and inviting, the kind of place that should make someone feel at ease, but he couldn't shake the tension that always stayed coiled in his chest like a rattlesnake ready to strike. His shoulders hadn’t descended from his ears since his injury.
"Thanks, I appreciate it," he said.
Dawson studied him for a moment. "You doing okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," Archer said, taking the keys and heading to the stairs before Dawson could press any further.Fine. That word had become his shield, a way to deflect everybody's concern and keep people at arm's length.
The room was exactly how he remembered it, down to the worn patch on the braided rug near the window. He set his bag on the bed and moved toward that window, pushing it open to let in the ocean breeze. He'd been back in Seagrove for about twenty minutes, but he already felt the weight of everyone's expectations pressing on him. Hometown hero, the guy who'd gone out and made it big. People loved a success story, but what about when that story fell apart?
