Just For The Weekend

So, the whole breakup thing blew up on social media—because, of course, it did. Brooke Taylor didn’t just date anyone. She was with Tyler Madsen: reality TV heartthrob, tech guru, and self-declared feminist. The guy had a way with words that could charm the pants off anyone, apparently even every woman in Manhattan. Her name trended on Twitter for two solid days—#PoorBrooke. Like she needed their sympathy. Forget that. That’s how she ended up on a bumpy little plane to South Carolina, with just a weekend bag, a bottle of overpriced rosé, and a simple plan: sleep, sand, and definitely no men. Just some peace and quiet. Just for the weekend. The plane finally hit the runway with a thud and Brooke squeezed the armrest, thinking, “If I get food poisoning from a crab cake, I swear I’ll haunt Tyler.” The airport was tiny and sleepy—not like JFK at all. There was one rental car desk, a barista in flip-flops, and heat that clung to her like syrup. She was already loving it. A winding coastal road later, she spotted the inn: The Driftwood House, hidden like a secret between two dunes. It looked gorgeous—weathered gray siding, a wraparound porch, and warm fairy lights twinkling in the dusk. The sort of place you’d see in a movie where a woman gets away and finds herself. But Brooke wasn’t there for soul-searching. She just wanted to feel nothing. She climbed the steps and rang the brass bell at the front desk. No one came. She rang again. Still nothing. The only sounds were the gentle whispers of the ocean and cicadas buzzing in the background. Just as she was about to leave, she bumped right into a solid, warm body. “Oh! Sorry,” she said, stepping back a bit. “No problem,” he replied, in a low Southern voice, a little raspy. “You must be Brooke.” She blinked. The guy in front of her was tall and tanned, with messy dark hair and a five-o’clock shadow that looked like it belonged in a magazine. His gray T-shirt hugged his shoulders, and his faded jeans seemed straight out of a Levi’s ad. “You’re… the owner?” she managed to say, trying not to stare. “Jake Carson,” he introduced himself, shaking her hand. “Owner, handyman, and sometimes the cook if Mary calls in sick. Welcome to Driftwood.” Brooke hesitated, then shook his hand. His grip was warm and rough, lingering a moment too long. “I booked the Serenity Suite,” she said, pulling her hand back. “Right. Top floor. Great ocean view. Comes with free wine and a very nosy neighbor cat named Salty.” “I’m allergic.” “To cats?” “To charm.” Jake flashed a grin. “Noted.” He handed her an old brass key. “No elevators here, I’m afraid.” “Good,” she said. “I need the exercise.” He tilted his head, raising an eyebrow. “City girl?” “Guilty.” “Escape or adventure?” Brooke met his gaze. “Neither. Recovery.” Jake nodded like he got it. Maybe he really did. The Serenity Suite was exactly as it sounded. Shiplap walls, a king-sized bed with white sheets, and a soaking tub next to a window framing the sea like a piece of art. She tossed her bag down, kicked off her heels, and opened the French doors to the balcony. A breeze danced through her hair. The gulls were calling, and the sun was setting, casting rose-gold over the waves. Pouring herself a glass of wine, she sank into an Adirondack chair and let her eyes close. For the first time in months, she felt free—no one watching her, following her, or judging her. No assistant hounding her about her schedule, no publicist telling her to keep things low-key, and no Tyler saying, “Keep it cute, babe.” She was finally alone. So, of course, the knock on her door thirty minutes later felt like some kind of cosmic joke. Brooke frowned and opened the door. There was Jake, standing there with a tray: grilled shrimp, cornbread, sweet tea in a mason jar, and a slice of lemon pie. “I didn’t order anything,” she said. “Compliments of the house.” “I’m good, thanks.” He didn’t move. “You’re not. I saw you on the porch sipping wine like it’s medicine.” She crossed her arms. “Do you watch all your guests?” He shrugged. “Only the ones who look like they’re pretending to be fine.” That hit harder than she thought it would. “I don’t need pity,” she said firmly. “Didn’t offer it,” he said, extending the tray. “Just pie.” Against her better judgment, she took it. He smiled. “See? Not so hard.” “You can go now.” He turned to leave but paused. “If you change your mind about the bonfire tonight, it’s out on the beach at eight. No pressure.” “I won’t.” “Sure you won’t.” Then he was gone. The shrimp was perfect. The cornbread was buttery. And that pie? Absolutely sinful. Damn him. Brooke cleaned her plate and stared out at the ocean. She hadn’t come here for company. She was here to be alone. To detox. She changed into a linen sundress, threw her hair up into a messy bun, and grabbed a cardigan. Just for a minute. Just to watch the fire. That’s all. The bonfire glowed like a lighthouse at the end of the path. A small group of about ten locals were sitting in chairs, sipping beers and laughing. There was some acoustic guitar playing, and the smell of driftwood and s’mores filled the air. Jake noticed her first. He stood, offered her a drink, and quietly pulled out a chair for her in the circle. No questions. No awkward introductions. Just space. Brooke sat. The warmth wrapped around her. A little girl handed her a stick for roasting marshmallows. An older woman with silver braids gave her a wink. A Labrador curled up at her feet. Jake caught her eye across the flames. He wasn’t smiling. Just watching. Like he could see right through her. And for the first time in weeks, she didn’t look away.