Chance McClaren took a deep breath of cool, ocean-scented air and willed his body to relax. Closing his eyes, he let the sound of the waves rushing against the rocky shoreline wash over him. Faint sunlight barely broke through the November haze, but he focused on the warmth against his skin. Gradually, his muscles started to relax. Neck, shoulders, arms. Not his right leg, but that tightness was due to more than tension.
He could do this. He could smile, he could play along. He could pretend...for as long as it took for his body to heal. For as long as it took to get the hell out of Clearville.
Opening his eyes, he hazarded a glance over his shoulder and scowled. The old lady was still there. Hovering over him. Staring down at him. Watching him.
Turning at the waist until the joints in his back popped, Chance muttered, “You’re losin’ it, man.”
He rubbed at the back of his neck, the skin there feeling bare without the weight of the familiar camera strap. As a photojournalist, Chance had the gift of capturing a moment for everyone to see. Of making still images come alive for people half a world away.
But bringing life to a photo was one thing. Imagining that his family’s Victorian hotel, the old lady behind him, was living, breathing, watching him... That was something else.
“Please come, Chance,” his younger sister, Rory, had pleaded. “You haven’t been to Hillcrest House in years. Being here will be good for you.”
His sister had always loved the old gal. Chance’s lips twitched in a smile. The hotel and their Aunt Evelyn, who ran the place and would slay him with a killer glare for even thinking of her as old.
Rory and their cousin, Evie, had moved to Clearville months earlier to take over while their aunt went through cancer treatments. Aunt Evelyn was splitting time between staying with his parents and staying with Evie’s parents as she recovered from surgeries and chemotherapy.
Even if they hadn’t had their hands full, Chance couldn’t have stayed at his parents’ house for another minute. He loved them, he did. But the worry and the lingering sorrow in their gazes, even now that they knew he was safe—knew he was alive—weighed down on him. Suffocated him.
They’d never understood his desire to see the world, to live his life with his backpack and camera gear the only baggage allowed. He was free to come and go as he pleased, to live his life the way he wanted, and his work made a difference! He had contacts around the globe. He could go into places other journalists couldn’t go and tell the stories that might otherwise remain unheard.
His parents had always had a straighter, safer path in mind for him. One that included following in his father’s footsteps and taking over the small photography studio Matthew McClaren owned, buying a house and settling down with a wife and kids.
Chance had jumped the curb and taken his life off-road when he left home at eighteen and had never come close to veering anywhere near that white-picket-fence neighborhood again. He wasn’t the settling kind, and while his parents might not understand that, Chance always believed they respected what he’d accomplished, respected the heights he’d achieved in his career...
Or at least he had until that whispered conversation he’d overheard, the one that made it clear he couldn’t stay under his parents’ roof any longer than necessary.
We’re your family, Chance. We love you.
His mother’s words, the confusion on her face when he walked out—first as a hotheaded kid and then again, just a few weeks ago—cut deep. But he’d known if he didn’t leave, he would only end up saying something he would regret.
His parents hadn’t wanted him to be alone while he was recovering, and he’d thought staying with Rory and Evie might be enough to ease their concern while still giving him space to breathe.
Now he wasn’t so sure.
“Oh, Chance, this will be so perfect!” his sister had gushed the moment he set foot inside the family hotel. “Our current photographer is moving away soon.”
He’d forgotten about the whole all-inclusive wedding destination business that had been his aunt’s brainchild about a year ago. He didn’t know how considering, as the hotel’s wedding coordinator, the ceremonies were all Rory talked about. Especially now that she’d found a groom-to-be of her own.
“You can fill in while you’re here!”
Wedding photographer? Yeah, that was right up there with fashion photographer as a worst nightmare. “Not exactly my thing, Rory.”
He felt like he’d kicked a puppy as he watched the excitement in his little sister’s eyes dim. Jamison Porter, Rory’s fiancé, had studied him carefully during that first meeting and suggested, “Why don’t you let your brother get settled before offering him a job, sweetheart?”
At that, Rory had recovered quickly, wrapping her arms around him in a far more cautious version of her usual exuberant hug. “Of course! What was I thinking? We have the cottage house set up for you.”
The caretaker’s cottage was a small wood and stone structure on the grounds, but well away from the hotel itself. Chance welcomed the privacy even if staying there felt like living in a very girlie dollhouse thanks to Rory’s decorating skills.
But he’d take the dollhouse over his childhood bedroom. And it was only for a month—maybe two. His leg was getting stronger every day, and Chance refused to think he wouldn’t make it back to 100 percent.
And after a few days of consideration, he’d even agreed to fill in as wedding photographer—which he still couldn’t quite believe. But he needed something to keep his mind active, to keep moving.
He’d traveled to some of the most desperate, poverty-stricken, war-torn areas in the world and yet nothing—nothing—was quite as scary as walking into a room filled with marriage-minded women riding high on romance.
Shuddering, he shifted his weight to his right side, testing his leg without the help of the crutches he’d only recently left behind. Sharp shards of pain sliced through muscle and bone. He’d pushed himself too hard, the packed sand more of a challenge than he’d expected. He had a long walk back to the hotel in front of him.
He pulled in a breath before taking that first step, beads of sweat popping up along his hairline and instantly cooling in the ocean breeze. The stormy blue-gray water was nearly the same color as the stormy blue-gray sky. Nearly the same color as a pair of stormy blue-gray eyes that had haunted him for months.
Alexa Mayhew had been draped in gold the night they met. Beneath a sparkling crystal chandelier, she’d glittered with the grace and elegance of a goddess. She was tall and slender, with a poise and prestige that allowed her to move in elite circles where most mortals wouldn’t be welcomed. And yet he’d sensed a restlessness inside her the moment their gazes met across the ballroom, a need to throw aside the fake smiles and polite facade and grab hold of something real...
Or