Chapter Three

Brick Babel needed a miracle.

Too bad he didn't believe in them anymore.

He stared moodily at the empty waiting room and swished the stale coffee around in his mug like fine wine. No one was here on a bright, sunny summer afternoon. Sure, it was Wednesday, but Maleficent's Wild Tours! had been fully booked. Maleficent had given him a triumphant grin as she drove by, pretending to wave but really sticking up her middle finger to him.

Like her namesake, she really did have some witch-like blood. Brick had literally caught her laying some weird twigs tied in a bunch on his doorstep. When he tried to ditch it, the awful scent had drifted up, and he'd smelled like a skunk for a week.

That hadn't helped the bottom line of his business either.

Tamping down a groan, he checked the clock and trudged to the back. He had no signups for the three o'clock afternoon tour, but he still had a Hail Mary for the six. Dumping the mug in the sink, he considered his limited options.

The business was going under.

It was time to get real and begin making a plan. When Grandpa Ziggy willed Brick his beloved tour company in the Outer Banks, Brick had been taken aback. Sure, he remembered the wonderful times he and his mom had while vacationing in Corolla . Remembered riding next to his grandpa in the open-air Jeep, bumping over sand dunes in pursuit of the ghostlike presence of a wild mustang. There was so much about his grandfather that he held dear: the scent of his cherrywood pipe, his gnarled, strong hands when he gripped Brick's shoulders and talked about legacy, family, and preserving the wild. And most of all, the way Brick felt around him. Not only loved but also seen. He'd been able to talk to Grandpa Ziggy about everything without feeling stupid. He'd been Brick's only male mentor and father figure after his dad left them for greener pastures at his birth.

But Brick had not expected to inherit a crumbling, bankrupt tour company in a far-away beach town. He'd had bigger fish to fry and a city to conquer. But then his grandfather died, and the lawyer announced the good news.

Seemed he was the only one left that his grandfather could give it to.

Too bad he also got stuck with the mountain of debt currently killing him. He'd struggled to keep afloat for a year now. Soon, he'd be pushed to declare bankruptcy unless he found a bunch of new tourists, a new vehicle, an additional tour guide, and a few grand to stop the building from crumbling around him.

Brick was screwed.

He'd managed to betray his grandfather's trust. That stung more than being broke and eventually homeless.

You gonna whine like a toddler or fix the problem? You got free will. Are you choosing self-pity or working your ass off to find a way?

Grandpa Ziggy's voice rang in his ears. Usually, it inspired him. But he was all out of piss and vinegar today. He'd been working endless days and nights this past year to create a financially viable business out of nothing.

Maybe I wouldn't want to cry like a baby if you'd done anything decent here to make a profit, he shot back. You stuck me with the problem and offered no solution .

The gruff laughter took him by surprise. Ran out of time. Gonna blame me for that, too ?

Brick turned around to make sure no ghosts were actually responding to his inner thoughts, but other than the creaky pipes and loud chatter from the nearby souvenir shop, he was alone.

Doubt assaulted him. Easy to blame his grandfather, but Brick was the one who hadn't been able to save it. Had he actually imagined the town's residents would surround him with love and support, helping him rebuild Ziggy's Tours just because he'd come for a few sporadic visits during his childhood? Had he believed he was living in one of those Hallmark movies?

He had no history. No trust. And no experience with island tours or wild horses .

And, of course, after Anastasia, his reputation preceded him.

Not in a good way.

He pushed the thought away, refusing to go there. He needed to focus on the future of his grandfather's legacy and find a way to save it. His home was already mortgaged to the hilt, but with his business skills, Brick had been confident he'd secure funding. He composed spreadsheets, financials, and an ambitious marketing plan, each item broken down with cost analysis. He secured contractors for decent prices and figured he'd squeeze out enough collateral to push through.

But the banks hadn't even been polite. It was almost like a hell-to-the-no answer when he tried for business loans. And this past spring, the parking lot had cost him a ton to pave since his only fellow tenant was the beach store, consisting of a young trio who really liked to smoke weed and host parties for their friends amid the T-shirt racks.

The bell rang merrily, and his heart leapt with hope.

Instead, as if his thoughts had conjured him, Marco strode in with his usual laid-back pace and big grin. The young man wore a bright yellow tank with a sea turtle, ragged shorts, and flip-flops. His mustache reminded Brick of a seventies porn flick. Sunglasses hung from a cord around his neck. His brown skin glowed with health, and for one awful, flickering moment, Brick was jealous.

Not of Marco's appearance but the lack of stress or care in the man's expression.

"Hey, man," Marco greeted, sandals flapping against the floor. "How's it going?"

"Good. You?"

"Fantastic. Did you see the crowd that came in this morning? Sold out of my clearance sweatshirts. Did they book any tours?"

"No, they were on their way home, so I missed out."

Marco shook his head, shaggy brown hair slapping against his cheeks. "Sucks. Hey, can I borrow a plunger? Got a flood in the back."

"Sure. Need any help?"

"Nah, I'll call my buddy if I need it snaked. When's your next tour?"

Brick tried not to wince. "Probably six. Was a slow afternoon."

"Sure. If you got time, come on over and hang. Got some extra sandwiches from Del's. Burger and Patsy are there. You can partake of some of our stash if you'd like." Marco winked. "Ziggy used to join us on Wednesdays. Said hump days were made for a reset if you know what I mean."

Holy crap. His grandfather had smoked with this oddball crew ?

"Appreciate it, but I've got to catch up on some paperwork."

The lie almost blistered his tongue, but Marco just nodded. "All good, man. Invite is always open."

Brick retrieved the plunger and handed it over. Marco lifted a hand. "Thanks, I'll return it."

"Keep it. I have a spare."

"Awesome, man!"

He sauntered away, swinging the plunger. Brick shook his head. He wondered how Marco managed to make rent or any type of profit, but maybe it was a hidden drug ring. Since weed was pretty much legal, did that even bring in a decent profit anymore? But Marco didn't strike Brick as a dealer. More of an indulger. He said he'd bought in with a few friends two years ago after coming to the Outer Banks on vacation. They'd decided they wanted out of the rat race, pooled their money, and rented the space.

What twenty-two-year-old was tired of the rat race?

Brick had once dreamed of everything Marco ran from. But his life had been one missed opportunity after another until he finally accepted that he wasn't meant for what he'd imagined. Each time he had a chance for something big, life cockblocked him. Better to suck it up and do his best to succeed with the tools he'd been given.

Brick rubbed his head and tried to refocus. He needed to get the six o'clock trip booked and had three hours to do it. He had increased his ad spend to hit the incoming summer crowd and scattered coupons in all the local businesses.

Settling in front of the computer, he brought up Facebook and Instagram, doing a quick post on a special for the sunset tour. At the last minute, he threw in a complimentary champagne toast. The hell with it. He'd go to the liquor store, grab a cheap bottle of Prosecco and some plastic glasses, and do a pretend toast to the sunset.

Hours later, the bottle of sparkling wine and glasses lay unused on the counter.

Brick packed up, flipped the sign to Closed , and went out to get drunk.

The next morning, Aspen sat at the makeshift desk she'd created with one of her sister's folding tables. She'd spent the last hour getting her workspace perfect so there were no excuses, even though she knew that when the writing was going well, it could be done successfully in a moving car. But when the writing was going badly, not even a mansion on the beach could inspire.

The bright-yellow tablecloth stitched with colorful butterflies would keep her energy up. She'd picked some fragrant blooms and stuck them in a baby-blue jar on the corner of her desk. The beach chair had been outfitted with a lumbar pillow, and she'd brought her favorite water bottle that said Art Harder, Motherfucker —a nice fan piece from Chuck Wendig's merch store. Her laptop was open with her notes for the next book.

If only she could write something.

Huffing out a breath, Aspen tapped her fingers mercilessly against the butterfly surface. While she waited for a big inspiration, she figured she'd play with some brainstorming ideas based on her new location. Her idea was solid: a television/movie star comes to a small beach town to film and falls in love with the grumpy B she'd bled on the page. With her second and third books, it had been all craft and careful thought. She'd lost the guts.

Aspen needed to experience a blistering love affair that broke her into pieces.

Then, she'd write another book of the month.

With her focus suddenly clear, she brainstormed ways to make it happen as she walked the beach.