The Pacific Coast Highway stretched before Ashley Vaughn
32
daughter of deceased mother
Margot Vaughn, who died when Ashley was 19
and estranged father
Robert Vaughn
. She's now a successful architect specializing in sustainable coastal design
, with dark auburn hair, grey-green eyes, 5'7" height, she grew up in Crescent Bay; left the town at 22 like a ribbon of faded grey, winding between the restless ocean and the towering pines. She'd driven this route countless times in her youth—windows down, music blaring, the salt air tangling her hair into impossible knots she'd spend hours brushing out later. Now, at thirty-two, she kept the windows up and the radio off, preferring silence to nostalgia.
Her knuckles whitened against the steering wheel as the sign appeared: Crescent Bay - 5 Miles.
Ten years. She'd managed to avoid this place for an entire decade, building a life in San Francisco that bore no resemblance to the small coastal town that had raised her. Her apartment overlooked the bay from twenty stories up—all clean lines, floor-to-ceiling windows, and carefully curated minimalism. She'd made senior architect at Morrison & Associates by twenty-nine. She'd published articles in Architectural Digest. She'd dated Oliver Grant, whose family owned half of Nob Hill.
She'd been successful. She'd been safe.
And now she was driving back to the one place she'd sworn never to return.
The highway curved, and suddenly Crescent Bay sprawled before her—the lighthouse standing sentinel on its rocky point, the harbor dotted with boats, the Victorian storefronts painted in their cheerful pastels. From this distance, it looked exactly like the watercolors sold to tourists, picture-perfect and impossibly quaint.
Ashley's chest tightened.
She'd turned down the Crescent Bay Community Center project three times. When Tom Patterson first called, she'd politely declined. When he called again with a higher budget, she'd been more firm. When the town council sent a formal letter detailing how they'd specifically requested her because of her sustainable coastal design expertise, she'd prepared another refusal.
Then her father had his stroke.
Not a severe one, the doctors said. Robert Vaughn would recover most of his mobility with therapy. But he was sixty-eight, living alone in the family house, too stubborn to accept help and too proud to leave Crescent Bay. Her father's doctor had called her personally: "He's refusing physical therapy. Won't consider assisted living. Maybe if you visited..."
So here she was, with a six-month contract to design a community center and no good excuse to refuse. The universe had a cruel sense of humor.
The GPS directed her off the highway and onto Harbor Street. Nothing had changed. The Sandpiper Gallery still occupied the corner building, its windows full of driftwood sculptures and seascape paintings. The Painted Teacup sat three doors down, Iris's pride and joy, with its cheerful yellow awning and window boxes overflowing with late-season petunias.
Iris.
At least she'd have one ally here. They'd kept in touch sporadically over the years—birthday messages, the occasional video call that always left Ashley feeling hollowed out with homesickness she refused to acknowledge. Iris had married Derek Chen, her high school sweetheart, just as everyone knew she would. They had a son now, Lucas, five years old and apparently obsessed with sea creatures.
Ashley wondered if Iris had told Derek why she'd really left. Probably not. Iris was one of the few people who knew, and she'd kept the secret for a decade. That kind of loyalty was rare.
The GPS announced her arrival at Harborview Bed & Breakfast, and Ashley pulled into the gravel parking area. The Victorian mansion had been converted into a B&B sometime in the nineties, painted a soft blue-grey with white trim and surrounded by hydrangea bushes. Maggie Sullivan had run it for as long as Ashley could remember, a widow who'd turned her empty nest into a welcoming space for travelers.
Ashley killed the engine and sat for a moment, staring at the familiar building. She'd attended a wedding reception here once, years ago. She'd been nineteen, and Eric had been her date, and they'd danced on the lawn under string lights while the ocean whispered against the shore.
Stop it.
She grabbed her phone from the cupholder, determined to think about anything else. Three missed calls from Oliver, two texts from her assistant about the Berkeley project deadline, one email from her father's physical therapist about his schedule.
Nothing from anyone in Crescent Bay except Iris: Let me know when you get in! Can't wait to see you. ❤️
Ashley typed back: Just arrived. Settling in tonight, see you tomorrow?
The response came instantly: Tomorrow??? You're here NOW and you think I'm waiting until tomorrow? I'm closing early. Be there in 20 minutes.
Despite everything, Ashley smiled. Some things never changed.
She hauled her suitcase from the trunk—she'd shipped the rest of her things ahead—and made her way up the porch steps. The door opened before she could knock.
"Ashley Vaughn." Maggie Sullivan stood in the doorway, silver hair pinned in its signature twist, wearing an apron dusted with flour. She was exactly as Ashley remembered, maybe a few more lines around her eyes, but the same warm smile. "As I live and breathe. I was starting to think you were a myth."
"Hello, Maggie." Ashley accepted the older woman's embrace, breathing in the familiar scent of vanilla and cinnamon. "It's been a while."
"A while." Maggie pulled back, studying Ashley's face with disconcerting intensity. "Ten years is more than a while, sweetheart. That's a deliberate absence."
Trust Maggie to cut straight to the heart of things. Ashley had forgotten how the woman seemed to see through every pretense.
"I've been busy," Ashley said, knowing how weak it sounded.
"Mm-hmm." Maggie stepped aside, gesturing her in. "Successful, from what I hear. Your father's very proud, though he'd never say it to your face."
Ashley doubted that. Robert Vaughn had made his opinion clear when she'd left: Running away never solved anything.
The B&B's interior was cozy and cluttered in the best way—overstuffed furniture, bookshelves crammed with novels and local history, photographs covering every available wall space. The scent of fresh-baked bread wafted from somewhere deeper in the house.
"You're my only guest this week," Maggie said, leading her toward the staircase. "Off-season is quiet, which I suspect you'll appreciate. I've put you in the Lighthouse Room—best view in the house, and it has its own bathroom."
The Lighthouse Room. Of course. The universe was definitely mocking her.
"That's perfect, thank you."
They climbed to the second floor, and Maggie unlocked a door at the end of the hall. The room was spacious and bright, with a four-poster bed covered in a white quilt, a reading nook by the window, and—as promised—a stunning view of Crescent Point Lighthouse, standing stark white against the darkening sky.
Ashley's breath caught. She couldn't see this view without thinking of him.
"I'll let you settle in," Maggie said, setting the key on the dresser. "Breakfast is from seven to nine, but I'm flexible if you need something different. There's tea and coffee in the parlor anytime. And Ashley?" She paused at the door. "Welcome home."
The door clicked shut, and Ashley sank onto the bed, staring at the lighthouse.
Eric lived there. He'd moved into the keeper's cottage five years ago, according to Iris's carefully casual mention during one of their calls. He maintained the lighthouse—still operational, one of the few on the coast—and ran his carpentry business from the workshop he'd built nearby.
She wondered if he knew she was coming.
She wondered if he cared.
Her phone buzzed: Iris again. On my way! Hope you're ready for a hug that might crack your ribs.
Ashley changed out of her driving clothes into jeans and a sweater, then stood at the window, watching the lighthouse beam sweep across the darkening water. Rhythmic. Constant. Reliable.
Everything she hadn't been.
A knock at the front door echoed through the house, followed by Iris's voice: "Maggie! Is she here?"
Ashley's heart lifted despite her anxiety. She hurried downstairs to find Iris Chen standing in the foyer, looking exactly like herself—petite and energetic, with chin-length black hair and eyes that crinkled when she smiled, which was often.
"You're really here," Iris breathed, then launched herself at Ashley.
The hug was every bit as rib-cracking as promised. Ashley held on tight, feeling ten years of distance collapse in an instant.
"I missed you," Ashley whispered.
"Then you shouldn't have stayed away so long, you stubborn idiot." Iris pulled back, swiping at her eyes. "Let me look at you. You're too thin. San Francisco isn't feeding you properly."
"I eat plenty."
"Kale smoothies don't count as food." Iris grabbed her hand. "Come on. Maggie said we could use the parlor. I brought wine."
They settled into the comfortable chairs by the fireplace, where Maggie had thoughtfully laid a fire that crackled and popped. Iris produced a bottle of red and two glasses from her enormous bag.
"To reunions," Iris said, pouring generously.
"To reunions," Ashley echoed, clinking glasses.
They drank, and for a moment, it felt like no time had passed at all. Then Iris set down her glass and fixed Ashley with that look—the one that meant they were done with small talk.
"So. Six months."
"Six months," Ashley confirmed.
"And you're really going to design the community center."
"That's the plan."
"Which means working with the town council, attending community meetings, being visible." Iris paused. "Being here."
"I'm aware of what it means, Iris."
"Are you aware that he's on the project?" Iris asked quietly.
Ashley's stomach dropped. "What?"
"Eric. He's the lead carpenter. Tom Patterson specifically requested him because nobody knows local materials and coastal building better. I thought you knew."
The wine turned sour in Ashley's mouth. "I didn't."
"Oh, sweetie." Iris reached over and squeezed her hand. "This is going to be complicated, isn't it?"
Complicated. That was one word for it. Disastrous was another. Ashley had built elaborate mental scenarios for how she might handle running into Eric—brief encounters at the grocery store, distant waves across the harbor, carefully civil nods at town events. She'd imagined keeping her distance, maintaining professional boundaries, protecting the fragile scar tissue that had finally grown over that old wound.
She hadn't imagined working with him for six months.
"Does he know I'm the architect?" Ashley asked.
"I don't know. Derek might have mentioned it, but Eric doesn't talk about you. Ever." Iris's expression softened. "He's going to find out tomorrow at the project kickoff meeting. Nine AM at town hall."
Tomorrow. Less than twelve hours to prepare for seeing the man she'd loved and left, who probably—rightfully—hated her.
"I can't do this," Ashley said, the words escaping before she could stop them.
"Yes, you can. You're the bravest person I know."
"I ran away, Iris. That's not brave."
"You survived. You built a life. And now you're here, even though it terrifies you. That's brave." Iris topped off both their glasses. "Besides, you don't have a choice. You signed a contract. Your father needs you. And maybe..." She hesitated. "Maybe it's time."
"Time for what?"
"To stop running. To deal with what happened. To forgive yourself."
Ashley stared into the fire, watching the flames dance. "What if he won't even speak to me?"
"Then that's his choice, and you'll have to respect it. But Ashley, you left without saying goodbye. You never explained. He deserves to know why, even if it doesn't change anything."
"I can't tell him the truth."
"Why not?"
"Because it would hurt him more than my leaving already did."
Iris was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was gentle but firm. "That's not your decision to make. He's a grown man. He can handle the truth."
Could he? Ashley wasn't sure she could handle telling it.
They talked until the wine bottle was empty and the fire burned low, catching up on a decade of separate lives. Iris told her about Lucas, about the café, about Derek's fishing business and the new boat they'd bought last year. She talked about the town—who'd married, who'd divorced, who'd had babies, who'd moved away. She carefully didn't mention Eric beyond confirming he was single, lived at the lighthouse, and kept mostly to himself.
When Iris finally left, after extracting a promise that Ashley would come by the café in the morning, the house fell silent except for the ticking of a grandfather clock somewhere in the hallway.
Ashley climbed the stairs, exhausted but too wired to sleep. She stood at her window again, watching the lighthouse beam sweep its eternal circle.
Somewhere in that cottage, Eric was probably asleep. Or working in his shop—he'd always been a night owl, finding inspiration in the quiet hours. Was he the same person she'd known? Had ten years changed him as much as they'd changed her?
Would he even recognize her?
She'd left as a girl of twenty-two, raw from grief and terrified of her own feelings. She'd returned as a woman who'd built walls so high and thick that sometimes she couldn't remember what it felt like to let someone in.
Tomorrow, she'd see him. Tomorrow, she'd have to face the consequences of her choices.
Tomorrow, she'd have to figure out how to work alongside the man whose heart she'd broken, pretending her own wasn't shattering all over again.
Ashley pulled the curtains closed, blocking out the lighthouse, and crawled into bed. But sleep was a long time coming, and when it finally arrived, her dreams were full of blue eyes and rough carpenter's hands and a voice saying her name like it was both a prayer and an accusation.
