The airport smelled like too many places at once—coffee, perfume, old leather seats, and a tinge of jet fuel that clung to your clothes longer than it should. You stood near the baggage claim with your duffel bag slung over your shoulder, your fingers tightening around the strap every time a new family reunited nearby with hugs and excited squeals.

And then you spotted him.

“There’s my girl!” your father’s voice boomed across the terminal like we’d just seen each other last week and not… well, practically never.

He strode toward you with arms wide open, and for a second, you forgot how tall he was. Tall, sun-kissed skin, with those All-American good looks that probably turned heads back in the 90s. His smile was too easy—too familiar for someone who hadn’t bothered to show up to your dance recitals, birthdays, or even video calls.

You let him hug you. Polite. A single pat on the back. You even smiled—tight-lipped, because you’d been raised to be civil. But inside, it burned.

That’s my little girl.

Really? Since when?

“I can’t believe how grown up you are,” he said, stepping back and looking at you like you were some painting he hadn’t seen in years. Which was kind of accurate.

“Mum said you’d say that,” you muttered under your breath.

“What’s that, sweetheart?” he asked, still beaming.

“Nothing,” you said, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Just… long flight.”

He didn’t hear the weight in your voice—or he chose not to. Either way, he was already grabbing your bag, like everything was just fine.

“This is gonna be the best summer of your life,” he said, leading you toward the parking garage. “You’re gonna love the house. And wait ’til you meet Kayla—she’s been dying to meet you.”

Kayla. The stepmother. The woman who made this whole trip possible with a little too much enthusiasm and zero actual knowledge of who you were. Great.

Kayla was waiting by the car, leaning against the passenger door of a shiny white Jeep like she belonged in a lifestyle commercial. Wavy blonde hair, massive sunglasses, and a bright, sincere smile.

“You must be her!” she said, pulling you in for a hug before you could respond. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Not from me, you thought.

“Hi,” you said politely, your British accent more pronounced now that you were surrounded by the lilt of California voices. “Nice to meet you.”

“Jet lagged?” she asked.

“A bit.”

“Well, we’ve got smoothies, ocean air, and no responsibilities waiting for you,” she said, with a wink. “We’re about ten minutes from the beach house. You’ll have your own room, obviously. Wait ’til you see it.”

You nodded, smiling faintly, as you slid into the backseat.

The drive through the coastal town was like something out of a film—palm trees swaying, kids on skateboards, sun bouncing off the ocean, everything dipped in that golden, late-afternoon light. They talked in the front seat, mostly small talk and stories you weren’t part of, so you just watched out the window, wondering how this place could feel so warm and so foreign at the same time.

When you pulled up to the house, you had to admit—it was beautiful. White wood, surfboards stacked by the porch, wide windows that practically begged you to stare out at the waves all day. This wasn’t some sad attempt at bonding in a dull suburb. This was… legit.

That night, after you’d unpacked and pretended to enjoy dinner, you wandered out onto the beach by yourself, flip-flops sinking into the sand. The sun was dipping low, painting the water in shades of orange and pink.

“Hey!” someone called.

You turned to see a boy jogging toward you, barefoot, surfboard under one arm. Tall. Blonde. And obviously local.

He stopped a few steps away and grinned, brushing salt-crusted hair out of his eyes.

“You’re the new girl, right? From London or something?”

You blinked. “How do you—?”

“Small town. Big gossip,” he said with a shrug. “I’m Jett.”

Of course he was.