Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

LAWSON

Small towns are . . . quaint, unique, with that pull—like they’re whispering, “Come and stay awhile.” They’ve got this old soul charm that makes me want to claim a little piece for myself. Maybe it’s my grandfather’s influence. He left Cedar Cove when he was twenty, chasing the bright lights of New York, and never looked back.

But he never stopped talking about it.

He’d tell us stories, the kind you carry long after hearing them. Stories about front porches and sunsets that lasted forever, about neighbors who knew your name—and your business. If things had gone differently, he’d say, he’d have bought a piece of that history. Said owning a slice of a place like that was like holding on to time itself.

He passed away when I was seventeen. I miss him every day.

Some people inherit money or property, but me? I inherited his dream. Now it’s on me to build something—something that would make him proud.

Which is why I’m here, sitting at a bar in Cedar Cove, where locals and tourists blur together, sharing laughter and stories like they’ve known each other forever. This place feels worlds away from any bar in the city. The guitarist in the corner coaxes a gentle, lazy melody from his instrument, and a pianist plays along, the notes drifting through the low hum of conversation.

I swirl the last sip of whiskey in my glass, the amber liquid catching the light, and lift it to my lips. The bartender—a blonde woman with sun-kissed skin and a quick, easy smile—glances my way just as I set the empty glass down with a quiet clink.

“Another?” she asks, already reaching for the bottle.

I nod. “Might need two more before the night’s over.”

She smirks, pouring the whiskey smoothly into my glass. My attention shifts, drawn to the far end where she’s been chatting with a woman half-tucked into the shadows.

The woman is stunning, the kind of beauty that sneaks up on you. Dark waves of hair frame a face that could stop time—elegant and soft, with high cheekbones and a sharpness to her gaze that tells me she’s not the kind to let her guard down easily. She’s perched on the edge of the barstool, one long leg crossed over the other, the heel of her boot-tapping absently against the wood. Her fingers curl around her glass, resting lightly like she’s more interested in the conversation than the drink itself.

I pick up my refilled glass, feeling the cool press of the whiskey against my palm. Something about her pulls me in, a subtle kind of magnetism. I tell myself I’m just curious, but deep down, I know that’s a lie.

Before I can second-guess myself, I push off the bar and walk over, glass in hand. The bartender glances my way as I approach, raising an eyebrow like she knows exactly what I’m doing—and maybe she does.

“Mind if I join you?” I ask, my voice easy, though my pulse kicks up a notch.

The woman’s gaze flickers up to meet mine. For a moment, she studies me, her expression unreadable. Then, a slow smile curves her lips, one corner lifting slightly before she takes a sip of her wine. “Depends. Are you here to make polite conversation, or do you actually know how to have fun?”

“I can be persuaded.”