Return to Lighthouse Cove

The salt air hit Sarah's lungs like a memory she'd been holding her breath against for ten years. She stood on the weathered dock, suitcase at her feet, watching the afternoon sun paint Lighthouse Cove in shades of amber and rose. The town hadn't changed—the same cluster of colorful houses climbing the hillside, the same fishing boats bobbing in the harbor, the same lighthouse standing sentinel at the point.

Everything exactly as she'd left it. Except she wasn't the same.

At thirty-two, Sarah had built a life in Boston that looked perfect on paper. Marketing director. Corner office. A tastefully decorated apartment in the North End. She'd dated appropriately successful men, attended the right networking events, and carefully constructed a version of herself that bore no resemblance to the girl who'd grown up in this sleepy coastal town.

But Gran's death had pulled her back like the tide, inevitable and undeniable.

"Sarah Mitchell? Is that really you?"

She turned, shading her eyes against the sun. For a moment, she didn't recognize the man walking toward her. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a faded flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned, muscular forearms. Dark hair slightly too long, touched with salt and wind. Then he smiled—that slow, devastating smile—and her heart stopped.

Jake Cordero.

"Oh my God," she breathed.

He stopped a few feet away, hands shoved in his pockets, and she could see the uncertainty flickering across his face. Good. He should be uncertain. He should be terrified, actually, after what he'd done.

"I heard about Mabel," he said quietly. "I'm so sorry, Sarah. She was... she was special."

"Thank you." Sarah's voice came out steadier than she expected. Ten years. She'd had ten years to prepare for this moment, to build armor around the part of her that Jake had shattered. "What are you doing here?"

"I live here." He shifted his weight, a gesture so familiar it hurt. "Came back about five years ago. Took over my dad's boat, run fishing charters now."

Of course he did. Of course Jake had come home to Lighthouse Cove while she'd been busy trying to forget this place existed.

"You came back," she said, and hated how it sounded—like an accusation, like a question, like a wound that had never healed.

His eyes met hers, deep brown and filled with something she couldn't read. "I came back. You didn't."

"I had my reasons."

"Yeah." His jaw tightened. "Me too."

They stood in the awkward silence, the years stretching between them like the ocean—vast and full of things left unsaid. Sarah picked up her suitcase, needing to move, to break whatever spell the salt air and his proximity were weaving around her.