Chapter 1 The tide whisper

The ocean had always been Lila Harper's confidant, its waves whispering secrets she couldn't tell another soul. She stood on the bluff above Saltwater Cove, California, the August air warm and briny, tugging at her auburn curls like an old friend. The Pacific stretched before her, molten gold under the setting sun, each wave a promise of something new, something wild. At twenty-two, Lila wasn't the girl who'd once raced these shores, collecting shells and dreaming of mermaids.

College had shaped her into someone sharper-a marine biology senior with a head full of coral reefs and a heart that felt too big for her chest. This summer was meant to be her refuge, a pause before her final semester, but standing here, with the horizon blurring into dusk, she felt like she was teetering on the edge of something she couldn't name.

"Lila!" The voice was warm, like honey poured over gravel, cutting through the sea's lullaby.

She turned to see Evan Caldwell crossing the grassy bluff, his dark hair mussed by the breeze, his hazel eyes catching the last light like sea glass. At thirty-four, he was an anomaly-a stepfather too young to fit the mold, too close to her own age to feel like a parent. When he'd married her mother, Claire, two years ago, Lila had braced for distance, maybe resentment. Instead, she'd found a quiet ally, someone who'd listen to her ramble about ocean currents over morning coffee or tease her for burning toast. He wore a faded linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and jeans that carried the faint chalk of his architect's sketches. There was an ease to him, a steadiness that made her feel both safe and unsteady.

"Caught you talking to the sea again," Evan said, stopping a few feet away. His smile was soft, but his eyes held a flicker of something deeper-curiosity, maybe, or recognition. "Your mom's stuck at a deal. Said she'll be late."

Lila sighed, unsurprised. Claire Harper was a force of nature, a real estate queen who could sell sand to a beach. "Let me guess-another multi-million-dollar listing?"

"Something like that." Evan chuckled, the sound low and warm, like a fire on a chilly night. "You hungry? I was thinking we could grill some shrimp. Keep it simple."

Her stomach answered before she could, a quiet rumble that made them both laugh. "Only if you don't char them to a crisp," she teased, falling into step beside him as they headed toward the house. "I still have nightmares about your last barbecue."

He clutched his heart, feigning offense. "One time, Lila Harper. One time, and you'll hold it over me forever."

Their banter was a dance, light and familiar, as they crossed the bluff to the house-a modern sprawl of cedar and glass perched like a sentinel over the sea. Claire had bought it after her divorce, a bold declaration of her new life, and Evan had made it his own with small touches: a hand-carved bookshelf, sketches pinned to the fridge. Lila's room, though, was her haven-seashells strung across the window, a tattered journal filled with dreams of saving the oceans.

In the kitchen, the air was bright with lemon and salt, the windows open to the evening's hum. Evan tossed her a bag of shrimp with a playful grin. "Peel and devein, Harper. Don't slack on me."

"Yes, sir," she shot back, grabbing a knife with mock seriousness. They moved like partners in a quiet waltz-her peeling shrimp, him chopping cilantro, the sizzle of garlic in the pan weaving through the ocean's distant roar. It was easy, this rhythm, but there was a current beneath it, a warmth that hadn't been there last summer. She stole glances at him: the way his hands worked with care, the faint scar on his thumb from a long-ago drafting mishap, the way his laugh lines deepened when she teased him. He'd told her that scar story once, over iced tea on the deck, his voice soft as he described a clumsy moment from his early days. She'd listened too closely, memorizing the cadence of his words.

"You're quiet tonight," Evan said, glancing over as he tossed shrimp into the pan. The air filled with the scent of butter and spice. "What's on your mind?"

She hesitated, her knife pausing over a shrimp's delicate shell. "Just... everything. School's almost over, and I'm supposed to have it all figured out. What if I don't?"

He leaned against the counter, his gaze steady, like he could see right through her. "You don't have to have it all figured out, Lila. You're twenty-two. The ocean doesn't map itself in a day."

She smiled, her chest loosening at his words. "You make it sound so easy. What if I'm just... floundering?"

He laughed, soft and genuine. "Floundering's a fish, not a failure. You've got this spark, Lila-like the sea when it catches the sun. You'll find your way."

Her cheeks warmed, and she ducked her head, focusing on the shrimp. His words felt like a gift, unwrapped slowly, and she tucked them away like a shell in her pocket. They ate on the deck, the sky now a velvet indigo, stars winking above the waves. The shrimp tacos were perfect-spicy, tender, with a squeeze of lime-and they traded stories, her about a lab partner who'd spilled algae samples, him about a client who wanted a house with a glass roof. The night felt alive, the air thick with salt and possibility, but there was something else, too-a quiet hum, like the tide turning.

She caught him watching her, his eyes tracing the curve of her cheek, and her heart skipped, a pebble skimming the water. "What?" she asked, her voice softer than she meant.

"Nothing," he said, but his gaze didn't waver. "Just... you look like you belong out here. Like the ocean's part of you."

Her breath caught, and she tucked a curl behind her ear, suddenly aware of the space between them-too close, too far. "It's home," she murmured. "Always has been."

He nodded, his fingers brushing the edge of his plate, and for a moment, the world was just them-the sea, the stars, the unspoken. A breeze swept over the deck, and she shivered, pulling her sweater tighter.

"Cold?" Evan asked, his voice low, like he was afraid to break the spell.

"A bit," she admitted, though the chill was only part of it. Her heart was racing, and she wasn't sure why.

He grabbed a blanket from a chair, stepping closer to drape it over her shoulders. His fingers grazed her collarbone, a fleeting touch that sent a spark through her, warm and electric. Their eyes met, and the air felt heavy, like the moment before a wave crashes. His gaze was a question, soft and searching, and hers was an answer she didn't know how to give.

"Lila," he started, his voice rough, but his phone buzzed, sharp and jarring. He glanced at it, his jaw tightening. "It's Claire. She's almost home."

The moment splintered, and Lila stood, gathering plates to hide the flush in her cheeks. "I should... get some rest," she said, her voice unsteady.

"Yeah," he said, his eyes still on her, like he was memorizing her silhouette against the stars. "Goodnight, Lila."

"Goodnight," she whispered, hurrying inside, her heart pounding like the surf. In her room, she leaned against the door, pressing a hand to her chest. He was her stepfather, her mother's husband. But the way he looked at her, the way her heart sang in his presence-it was the sweetest kind of danger, a tide pulling her toward a shore she couldn't yet see.