The Blueprints of Crescent Cove
The salt air of Crescent Cove was supposed to smell like new beginnings, but to Clara Vance, it smelled like cheap paint and rotting cedar.
She stood on the wrap-around porch of the Whispering Pines Resort, her hand shaded against the harsh July sun.
The Victorian-era hotel sat on a rocky bluff overlooking the Atlantic, its once-grand teal siding now chipped and weathered to a ghostly gray.
For Clara, a historical preservationist who lived to breathe life back into forgotten places, this was her holy grail.
If she could successfully renovate this landmark, the coveted junior partnership at Vance & Associates—her family’s prestigious design firm—would finally be hers.
“I can almost hear the ghosts of the jazz age,” she murmured to herself, stepping carefully over a warped floorboard.
“More like the ghosts of dry rot,” a smooth, maddeningly familiar voice drawled from behind her.
Clara froze. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Slowly, she turned around.
Standing at the bottom of the porch steps, sunglasses pushed up into a thick mass of dark, windswept hair, was Julian Thorne.
He wore a tailored linen shirt, expensive leather loafers, and a smirk that Clara had spent the last three years wanting to slap off his face.
Julian was the golden boy of the firm’s modern-minimalist division. Where Clara saw history worth saving, Julian saw clutter worth demolishing.
“Julian,” Clara said, her voice dropping a cold octave. “What are you doing in Maine? Don’t you have a glass-and-steel monstrosity to erect in Manhattan?”
“Management redirected my flights, darling,” Julian said, stepping up onto the porch.
He didn’t even have the decency to step carefully on the weak floorboards; they seemed to behave for him.
He tapped his leather-bound portfolio against his thigh. “The board decided Crescent Cove needs more than just a historical band-aid.
They want a complete, modern reimagining. And they sent me to do it.”
“Excuse me?” Clara’s fingers clenched around the strap of her duffel bag.
“Whispering Pines has been in my family’s project pipeline for months. This is my assignment. My partnership track.”
“Correction,” Julian said, leaning against the chipped railing and looking down at her with infuriating calm.
“It’s our assignment. It seems the board wants to see how we handle... collaborative tension.”
Before Clara could explode, her phone buzzed in her pocket. It was an email from the senior partners.
She unlocked the screen, her eyes scanning the text. Her stomach plummeted.
To Clara and Julian,
The Whispering Pines project is a dual assignment. You will reside on-site for the duration of the summer.
By September, you will present a unified design to the Crescent Cove Town Council.
The designer whose vision dominates the successful pitch will be awarded the junior partnership.
Good luck.
Clara stared at the screen, horrified.
“A dual assignment? We have to live here? Together?”
Julian walked past her, his shoulder brushing hers just enough to send an annoying jolt of electricity through her.
He pushed open the heavy oak double doors of the resort.
The lobby was a cavern of dust motes, draped white sheets over old furniture, and a grand, sweeping staircase that looked like it had seen better days.
“It gets worse,” Julian called out from the dusty dimness.
“I just spoke with the caretaker down at the marina.
There’s only one habitable cottage on the property with working plumbing and electricity. The rest of the resort is completely stripped.”
Clara marched after him, her boots clicking sharply on the hardwood.
“Then you can find a motel in town.”
Julian turned back, his smirk returning. “And let you have a head start? Not a chance, Vance.
I’m staying right here. Besides, I think my modern sensibilities will look great in our shared living room.”
“We are not sharing a cottage, Thorne.”
“We are,” Julian countered, stepping closer. Close enough that Clara could smell his cologne—something clean and smoky, like cedarwood and rain.
“Unless you want to forfeit before the summer even starts.”
Clara looked into his hazel eyes, seeing the quiet challenge gleaming within them.
She had worked too hard, sacrificed too many weekends, and cared too deeply about this historic beauty to let Julian Thorne turn it into a sterile, white-walled box.
“Fine,” Clara whispered
Stepping into his space, refusing to back down. “We share the cottage.
But I’m drawing a line down the middle of the floor. And if your minimalist junk crosses it, I’m throwing it into the Atlantic.”
Julian laughed, a low, rich sound that vibrated in Clara’s chest. “I’d like to see you try.”
