Page 27 of First Street (Harbor View Cozy Fantasy #1)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Ocean

Even if it wasn’t technically her house, Ocean felt like she should get a vote. Who came to look at it. What might happen next. How was her grandmother’s legacy supposed to stay alive?

And Jo? Ocean’s new friend didn’t exactly have a backup place to crash. What was going to happen to her if some random stranger took over?

Downstairs, the trespassers clomped around like they owned the place.

The real estate agent, with that gross honey-drip of a voice, was busy making promises.

Ocean had already caught enough of their conversation to know the buyer was some kind of chef, or cook, or whatever.

Rambling on about turning the house into a restaurant.

A restaurant. In this house. Her grandmother’s house.

And the real estate agent? Ugh. She literally never shut up. Every other sentence was nails-on-a-chalkboard.

“Oh, these French doors are precious!”

“Look at this light. So dreamy!”

“The size of this room is amazing. And you could totally knock down this wall.”

Knock. Down. A. Wall.

Was she insane?

Ocean wanted to scream.

She didn’t want them to like the house. She wanted them gone.

Out. Now. The whole thing was dragging on forever, and her mom had promised it would be quick.

Just a simple ‘in and out’ walk-through.

Ocean was keeping score. Twenty-five minutes and counting.

And that didn’t even include the twenty minutes they’d already wasted poking around in the barn.

She had no clue what they were even doing out there.

The barn was stuffed wall-to-wall with furniture.

Stacked, crammed, wedged into every corner.

There wasn’t even space to breathe, let alone wander around like this was some HGTV makeover show.

What were they hoping to find? Unless it was just another building to renovate.

Meaning, rip everything apart and shove her and Mom out for good.

And then—betrayal wrapped in a cheerful tone—her mom’s voice floated up the stairs.

“Of course you can look upstairs. My daughter is in her room.”

Ocean’s jaw dropped. Seriously? That was way too agreeable. Way too nice. Classic Mom, giving away her privacy like it was a free sample at Costco.

Fine. Two could play that game.

Ocean stomped away from the top of the stairs and into the bedroom, her sneakers landing like mini earthquakes. Her room—well, technically Jo’s room too—looked way too neat, thanks to Jo’s obsessive, type-A vibes.

Nope. That wouldn’t do. This place needed to look…lived in.

She dumped the open suitcase onto the floor, unleashing an avalanche of denim and hoodies. Then she yanked the closet door open and ripped half the dresses off the hangers, tossing them onto the bed and the floor in a beautiful storm of chaos.

Too bad she didn’t have something better, like food, to ‘accidentally’ spill in their path. Ketchup stains? Now, that had power.

As footsteps creaked up the stairs, Ocean planted herself on the edge of the bed, arms folded, frown carved deep. Perfect. Let them walk in and soak up this disaster. If they came looking for ‘cozy coastal chic’, they were about to get the full-on teenage meltdown version.

The voices drifted closer as they checked out her mom’s room first.

“The walls can be knocked out here too, if you choose to go this way.”

“No, I like the ambiance of the small rooms. Cozy. Guests get a private dining feel. They’re not only paying for the food, but for the atmosphere.”

If the real estate agent’s voice was torture, the chef’s was next-level. Like instant nausea. Ocean actually had to fight back the urge to gag.

“You said there were three bedrooms up here?”

“Yes, and a massive attic. Very charming, though you’d need to add a stairwell. Even so, you’ll love it. Add a second-floor deck off the back, and you’ll have a view of the water to the east.”

That was it. Ocean couldn’t take one more word. She shot to her feet, snatched the pillow off the bed, and buried her face in it. Then came the scream, muffled.

When she finally lifted her head, the real estate agent was in the doorway. Preppy. Thirty-something. Pastels from head to toe, like she’d stepped out of a catalog. Her crystal-white smile gleamed. Ocean’s frown deepened.

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

Ocean grunted.

The chef—thin, middle-aged, with salt-and-pepper hair and a scruffy shadow beard—peeked into the room. His eyes met Ocean’s, but neither of them bothered with a hello. Just silent judgment hanging in the air.

“Teenagers,” the realtor stage-whispered to her client, like Ocean wasn’t six feet away.

Seriously? Rude.

“Can I see the attic?” the chef asked.

“Yes, yes. Let me just pull down the steps,” the woman chirped.

A second later, the hallway filled with the creak and groan of the wooden door opening, followed by the clunky scrape of the fold-out ladder dropping into place.

Ocean stood up to shut the bedroom door and reclaim her space. The two of them in the hall caught her eye. The realtor was halfway up the pull-down steps when she came tumbling back down in a flurry of pastels and flying high heels.

“I don’t know how I missed it,” she said, way too chipper for someone who’d almost face-planted.

She tried again. Down she came again. This time her chin smacked the edge of a step with a dull thud.

Ocean froze, then leaned her shoulder into the doorframe. Okay. This was definitely worth watching.

The real estate agent staggered backwards, holding her hand to her chin.

“I’ll go first,” the chef said.

He climbed the stairs, the realtor creeping up after him, pausing at each step like the wood was out to get her.

There was the sound of a kerfuffle overhead, and Ocean looked up. The attic light was flicking on and off like some bad horror movie.

“Everything okay up there?” Skye called from downstairs.

Ocean went to the top of the stairs and leaned over the railing. “You promised me they’d be in and out. They’re basically camping up there in the attic.”

Her mom just gave her that pleading look. The one that said, please don’t make this worse .

A man’s yelp ripped out of the attic, followed by the realtor’s panicked cry.

“Help! I can’t open the door!”

Skye raced up the stairs and scrambled up the folding steps. Ocean followed. She didn’t want to miss the drama.

When she reached the attic, Ocean had to bite back a laugh.

The chef was trapped inside the cage, gripping the bars like a circus monkey. The agent was flailing at the latch, pastel sleeves flapping while she squeaked uselessly.

“What is he doing in there?” Skye demanded.

Ocean leaned against the chimney, arms folded, hiding her grin. She didn’t need a ghost detection app to know who was behind this trick. Jo. Classic. Ten out of ten entertainment.

“He stumbled and fell in. Just get him out!” the agent almost shrieked.

Skye yanked at the latch, but it wouldn’t budge. Ocean hung back, enjoying the whole spectacle, front row.

“Get him out!”

“I’m trying!”

Finally, after some desperate shoving and pulling, the door popped open. The chef scrambled out, brushing dust off his clothes. That’s when the attic light blinked out.

“The lights up here are so finicky,” Skye muttered.

“No matter,” the chef said. “I’ll be gutting and rewiring the whole place anyway.”

A loud bang made everyone spin toward the sound. One window at the far end had slammed open.

“Wind?” the agent offered weakly.

Then the opposite window banged open. Heads whipped that way. The first one slammed shut. Boxes rattled across the floor like an earthquake. The light snapped back on. The cage door slammed shut again.

“What the...? What the devil?” the chef stammered.

The realtor, pale as white bread, started to force out a whisper when a box tipped over behind them with a thud. They all jumped a foot.

The cage door swung open and slammed shut again.

“That’s it. No way,” the chef nearly shouted, diving for the stairs with the woman close behind.

“Do you want me to show you the way out?” Ocean called sweetly.

“We know the way,” the woman squealed, already halfway down.

Once the sound of frantic footsteps faded down the stairs, Ocean turned and found her mother glaring.

“Why are you smiling?” she asked.