Halcyon Bay was the kind of town people fled to when they were tired of pretending, they had it all figured out. It smelled of salt and citrus and second chances. It will never be a place she would have picked for a real estate project.
Arielle Westwood hated it on sight. She has wasted her time and effort by coming to this forsaken place.
Her SUV wound down the narrow coastal road, the Pacific unfurling to one side like a painting come to life. She could practically feel the sand clawing at her Louboutin heels from here.
"Charming," she muttered to herself as the car rolled to a stop in front of the project site. While thinking of firing whoever pitched this project to her. They definitely no nothing about their boss. This was far from ideal place for a project.
She stepped out, immediately regretting her footwear. Gravel crunched beneath her stilettos, catching the heel, making her shift her balance. The wind lifted the hem of her silk pencil skirt as if mocking her for bringing the city to the shore.
She pulled her sunglasses down and surveyed the scene. She had already made up her mind to can the project.
The land sprawled in elegant disarray—wild grasses swaying in rhythm with the ocean breeze, olive trees standing like sentinels along the cliff's edge. A battered work truck sat nearby, its bed loaded with tools and potted seedlings. This was not the kind of place that bowed to power. No glass towers. No velvet-gloved assistants. No place to hide.
Then he walked into view.
Noah Quinn.
He was the kind of man who made women forget what they were saying. Or thinking. Or doing.
Sun-kissed, tall, and broad-shouldered, he wore a faded button-up rolled to the elbows, jeans smudged with dirt, and boots that had clearly seen years of real work. His gait was unhurried, self-assured. His smile—lazy, easy—wrapped around her like smoke.
He held out a to-go cup. "Coffee?"
She arched a brow, unsure whether to be irritated or impressed. "You just assume I drink caffeine handed to me by strangers?"
He didn't flinch. "I assumed you wouldn't be thrilled, so I picked bold roast. Figured you'd rather spit out something strong than sip something weak."
Against her better judgment, she took the cup. It was hot. Steaming. Unexpectedly perfect.
"You're not what I pictured," he added, eyes scanning her. Not in a way that objectified—just took her in.
"And you're exactly what I expected," she replied, sipping. "Casually disheveled. Overly confident."
His grin widened. "I'll take that as a compliment."
She didn't return it. But something flickered behind her eyes. Interest? Annoyance? A dangerous blend of both.
He turned, motioning toward the path. "Shall we?"
She followed him, resisting the urge to watch the way his shoulders moved beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. The tour began like any other site review—square footage, eco-certifications, zoning updates. But the way Noah spoke about the project was different. There was no pitch, no polish. Just passion.
"This cliffside," he said, gesturing toward a ridge where the land curved dramatically toward the ocean, "we're not building here. It's unstable. But look—sun hits it all day. We're planting native wildflowers. The whole slope will bloom in spring. Won't add a dime to the bottom line, but it'll take people's breath away."
She glanced sideways at him. "You really care about this."
"Of course I do. Don't you?"
She hesitated. "I care about what works. What lasts."
He paused, then turned to face her directly. "And what about what matters?"
Arielle didn't answer. She hated that the question lingered. This man is annoying and irritating always arguing with her.
They walked through the orchard, sunlight dappled through leaves above them. He spoke of treehouses converted into meditation decks. Of local artisans hired to build outdoor baths that blended into the stone. She caught herself nodding, even… feeling.
Which was dangerous.
Noah crouched beside a sapling, running his fingers through the soil. "You can tell everything about a place by how the soil smells. You know that?"
She folded her arms. "You mean earthy?"
He looked up at her with a soft smile. "No. Rich, bitter, alive, or broken. Just like people."
The words hit her unexpectedly hard.
She dropped her gaze. "I don't usually get life lessons from contractors."
"I'm not a contractor," he said, standing. "I'm the architect. I left New York six years ago. Burned out. Lost too much. Started over. This is my first project in three years."
She stiffened. "You left the industry?"
"Yeah," he said simply. "I used to design skyscrapers. Won awards. Gave lectures. Then one day I realized I didn't even like what I'd built. It just looked good on paper."
"And this?" she asked, gesturing around. "You think this saves you?"
"No," he said softly. "But it reminds me who I was before I got lost."
The honesty in his voice made her throat go tight.
Before she could respond, her phone buzzed in her blazer pocket. Reflexively, she reached for it, but he held up a hand.
"Let me guess—ten emails, three missed calls, and a spreadsheet from some poor assistant begging for approval?"
She tilted her head. "Accurate."
He grinned. "How about ten more minutes off the grid? Just you, me, and the trees."
That was her idea of hell on earth. She should've said no to this annoying man whom seems to be reading her well.
Instead, she put her phone on silence and slide into her pocket. A first for her as her mobile phone has become an extension of her. Its never off and its always with her 24/7.
As they walked deeper into the garden path, Arielle realized she didn't feel like Westwood Luxe anymore.
She just felt like a woman.
A woman who had been holding her breath for a long time.
And for a moment—one stolen moment in a town she never meant to return to—she exhaled.