Chapter 12

Chapter

Twelve

The soundof my alarm shatters the morning"s peace, dragging me back to reality with a jolt. I lie there for a moment, tangled in the sheets, debating whether to dive back into the comfort of sleep or get up and face the day. The latter wins, albeit with a heavy dose of reluctance

As I"m getting ready, my phone buzzes, cutting through the quiet of the room. It"s a text from Tomas. Just seeing his name pop up is enough to churn my stomach. I"m tempted just to ignore it, pretend I never saw the message, but I know that"s not a real solution. The text is filled with empty words. He misses me. He's worried about me. He can't believe I never came back home. With a resigned sigh, I type back a short, to-the-point response: "In Mystic Hollow." It"s all he needs to know for now.

The thought of dealing with Tomas, of having to play nice until I can sort my things out, hangs over me like a dark cloud. My name isn"t on the lease, a fact that suddenly feels like a double-edged sword. It means I"ll have to face him sooner or later, negotiate my way through the mess to retrieve my belongings. But not now. Now is not the time for drawn-out conversations or dramatic decisions.

Dressed and somewhat awake, I make my way to the front office, the promise of caffeine the only thing propelling me forward. Inside, the warm, inviting aroma of coffee wraps around me like a comforting embrace. Gigi, ever the early bird, greets me with her trademark vibrant smile. "Morning, dearie. Looks like you could use a little pick-me-up." Without waiting for a response, she slides a mug across the counter toward me, the contents swirling with the telltale creaminess of Irish cream.

The first sip is a shock to the system, the potent mix jolting me awake more effectively than any alarm. I can"t help but laugh, the sound mingling with the morning air. "This is definitely more courage than coffee," I remark, the warmth of the drink seeping into my bones.

Gigi"s laughter joins mine, a melodious sound that brightens the room. "That"s how we do it here in Mystic Hollow," she says with a wink. "You"re looking for Morgan, I take it?"

I nod, suddenly conscious of the task at hand. Learning to fly seemed far less daunting under the cover of night and the influence of a few drinks.

"He"s out back," Gigi informs me, nodding toward the expanse of sand visible through the open door.

Thanking her, I clutch the mug like a lifeline and head toward the beach, the grains of sand cool beneath my feet. The vastness of the ocean stretches before me, its endless expanse a reminder of the day"s challenge.

The beach is deserted this early; the only sounds are the rhythmic lapping of waves and the distant cries of seagulls. My gaze is drawn to Morgan, who"s out on the water, a silhouette against the rising sun. He moves with an ease that speaks of long familiarity, his body in perfect harmony with the surfboard beneath him. Each wave is a dance, a display of skill and grace that"s mesmerizing to watch. I can"t help but admire the fluidity of his movements, the way he seems to become one with the sea.

There"s an undeniable attractiveness to him, a blend of his physical prowess on the waves and the laid-back confidence he exudes. It"s a potent combination, one that leaves me momentarily distracted from our plans. It makes me wonder if I"ve ever been that sure about anything in my life, not even my baking, and that"s saying something.

As he rides the final wave in, his approach is smooth and practiced, the surfboard gliding effortlessly to the shore.

I look behind me and spot a towel draped on one of the inn's white beach lounge chairs. I assume it's his and pick it up to hand him when he reaches me.

"Thanks," he says, the cotton fabric mopping up the sea from his skin. "Does this mean you're ready for your first lesson?" His tone is light, and a hint of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

I glance around the beach, suddenly aware of the wide, open space. The thought of attempting to fly here, in such an exposed setting, sends a wave of panic through me.

His laughter, though warm, does little to soothe my frayed nerves. "Not here," he says, noticing my wide-eyed look. I know a place—more private, where we can practice without an audience."

Reluctantly, I nod, finishing the mug of my liquid courage. "Lead the way," I manage to say, my voice steadier than I feel.