Page 1 of Love Takes A Tumble (Midlife Meet Cute #3)

Chapter One

The morning air hung thick with salt and possibility as Audrey Whitaker made her way down to the beach.

Dawn had barely broken, casting the world in watercolor hues of pink and lavender that seemed to soften the edges of her thoughts.

She'd always been an early riser. A habit formed through decades of opening the library before the rest of the world had properly woken.

But here on Palmar Island, morning felt different. Sacred, somehow.

She stepped onto the cool sand, her toes curling into its silky texture.

Two weeks she'd been at the Pelican Inn, and each morning began with a solitary walk as the sun climbed higher, notebook tucked under her arm, pen ready to capture whatever wisps of inspiration the ocean might offer.

It had become her ritual, her quiet defiance against the voice that still echoed in her head. Her mother's voice.

This writing business is just a hobby, Audrey. Not something to build a life around.

The tide was pulling back, revealing a stretch of wet sand perfect for walking.

Audrey adjusted her light cardigan against the morning breeze and began to stroll, her eyes tracking the delicate patterns left by the retreating waves.

Forty-nine years old and only now learning to put herself first. The thought still felt foreign, almost rebellious.

She opened her notebook, flipping past pages filled with her neat handwriting.

Character sketches, dialogue fragments, scenes that refused to connect despite her best efforts.

The novel was coming—slowly, stubbornly—but it was coming.

After three decades of helping others find their stories in the hushed corners of her library, she was finally writing her own.

If only she could silence the doubt that followed her like a shadow.

A sandpiper darted past, its thin legs a blur as it chased the receding water.

Audrey smiled, reminded of herself. Always chasing something that seemed to be constantly moving just beyond reach.

Perfect metaphor material. She quickly jotted it down, her handwriting less precise than usual as she tried to capture the thought before it evaporated like morning mist.

"Three months," she whispered to herself, the sound instantly carried away by the ocean breeze. "That's all you need."

Three months at the Pelican Inn to finish her manuscript.

Three months to prove to herself—and perhaps, in some lingering, childish way, to her mother's memory—that she wasn't wasting her time.

That the stories she'd carried inside her all these years deserved to exist outside the confines of her mind.

The innkeepers, Elise and Jacob, had been unexpectedly kind when she'd explained her purpose in booking a long-term stay.

Not that she'd told them everything. She hadn’t mentioned the years spent caring for her increasingly bitter mother back home in Ohio.

Or the dreams deferred for so long they'd nearly suffocated.

Not when she was facing the terrifying freedom that came with inheritance money and no one left to disapprove of how she spent it.

No, she'd simply said she was writing a book. And somehow, in their eyes, that had made her a real writer.

Audrey paused, realizing she'd walked farther than usual, past the curve where the beach bent toward the old lighthouse.

The sun had climbed higher, burning away the morning's gentle palette and replacing it with the stark clarity of full daylight.

She should head back soon, get some actual writing done rather than just thinking about writing.

That had always been her problem. Thinking rather than doing. Planning rather than living.

Her fingers brushed against the silver strands now liberally threaded through her chestnut hair.

Not that there was much living left to do at her age.

She'd had her chance, hadn't she? Made her choices.

Or rather, let circumstance choose for her.

Now it was about making the most of what remained.

Finding purpose in words, if not in connections.

A flash of something caught her eye. A piece of driftwood lay half-buried in the sand, its shape twisted into something almost sculptural by years of ocean currents.

Perfect for the mantlepiece in her room, a little souvenir of morning walks and new beginnings.

She bent to examine it, her thoughts already drifting back to her protagonist's dilemma in chapter twelve, the words forming and reforming in her mind as she reached for the weathered wood.

She never noticed how her foot caught in the hollow beneath the driftwood, never registered the shift in her balance until it was too late.

The world tilted abruptly, the sky and sea changing places in a disorienting blur.

Her notebook went flying as her arms windmilled uselessly, and then came the jolt of impact.

Her ankle twisting beneath her with a sickening wrench as she tumbled into the sand.

The pain was immediate and breathtaking. Audrey gasped, momentarily stunned by both the fall and the sharp throb radiating up from her ankle. Embarrassment followed swiftly, though there was no one around to witness her graceless tumble.

She sat up slowly, sand clinging to her cardigan and hair, and gingerly touched her ankle. It was already beginning to swell, a bad sign. With a grimace, she attempted to stand and promptly sank back down as pain shot through her leg.

"Well," she muttered to no one, "this is certainly not how I planned to spend my morning."

The beach stretched empty in both directions, the tide creeping back in toward her feet. Her notebook lay a few feet away, pages fluttering in the breeze like the wings of some wounded bird. And the Pelican Inn was at least a quarter mile back, suddenly seeming impossibly distant.

For the first time since arriving on Palmar Island, Audrey felt acutely, uncomfortably alone.

Audrey bit her lip against a wave of frustration.

Of all the foolish, clumsy things to do.

She'd prided herself on always being careful.

She was the responsible one, the planner, the woman who never needed anyone's help.

And now here she was, stranded on a beach with a rapidly swelling ankle, all because she'd been too lost in her own thoughts to watch where she was stepping.

She'd have to find a way to make it back.

The thought was mortifying, but she refused to sit helplessly waiting for rescue.

Gathering her determination, she began to maneuver herself into a position where she might be able to stand, using the very piece of driftwood that had betrayed her as a makeshift support.

"That looks like a bad idea."

The deep voice startled her so badly she nearly toppled over again.

Audrey's head jerked up to find a man standing a few feet away, watching her with an expression caught between concern and something that looked irritatingly like amusement.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair that the morning breeze had tousled into attractive disarray.

The kind of man who looked entirely at home against the backdrop of sea and sky.

And he was witnessing her at what was possibly her least dignified moment in years.

"I'm fine," she said automatically, the words clipped and defensive. "Just taking a moment to... rest."

His eyebrows rose, the creases at the corners of his eyes deepening. "On the wet sand? With your ankle turning purple?"

"It is not turning—" She glanced down and winced. It was, in fact, starting to bruise rather spectacularly. "It's nothing serious."

The man took a step closer, and Audrey noticed he carried a travel mug in one hand. An early riser too, perhaps. "You're staying at the Pelican Inn," he said, not a question but a statement.

"Yes." She didn't ask how he knew. The inn was small, guests few enough that they'd all noted each other's presence at breakfast or in the garden.

She had a vague recollection of seeing him on the porch two evenings ago, nursing a drink as the sun set.

She hadn't paid much attention. Socializing wasn't why she'd come to Palmar Island.

He set his mug in the sand and crouched beside her, his movements practiced and efficient. "I'm Harrison Tate. Most people call me Harry." His eyes were a deep blue, she realized, like the ocean just before a storm. "Let me take a look at that ankle."

"That's really not nec—"

But his hands were already gently probing the injury, his touch surprisingly careful for someone with such weathered, capable hands. Audrey found herself momentarily at a loss for words, caught between indignation at his presumption and an odd sense of relief at not being alone anymore.

"Not broken," he said after a moment. "But a nasty sprain. You need ice, elevation, and probably someone to check it's not worse than it looks."

"Thank you for the diagnosis, Doctor...?" The sarcasm slipped out before she could stop it.

A corner of his mouth quirked up. "Firefighter, actually. Retired. But I've seen enough sprains to know you're not walking back on that."

Of course he was a firefighter. The confident competence, the automatic assumption that she needed rescuing… It all made sense now. "Well, I appreciate your concern, but I can manage."

Harrison—Harry—sat back on his heels, regarding her steadily. "You planning to hobble a quarter mile back to the inn?"

Her cheeks burned. "If necessary."

"Sounds like a great way to get sand in an open wound and end up with an infection on top of that sprain."

"I don't have any open—"

"Yet." He stood, brushing sand from his knees. "Look, I'm heading back to the inn anyway. Let me help you."

Audrey pressed her lips together, weighing her limited options.

Her ankle throbbed with increasing intensity, a reminder that stubborn independence might not be the wisest course right now.

But accepting help from a stranger—especially one who looked at her with that mix of concern and amusement—felt like conceding something important.

"I'm Audrey," she said finally, the closest she could come to acceptance. "Audrey Whitaker."

"Nice to meet you, Audrey Whitaker," he replied, and without further discussion, he bent and slid one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back. "This is going to be easier than you hopping the whole way."

"Wait, you can't just—" But the protest died in her throat as he lifted her effortlessly, cradling her against his chest as if she weighed nothing at all.

The sudden proximity was overwhelming. The solid warmth of him, the faint scent of coffee and something woodsy, the steady beat of his heart against her shoulder.

Her own heart gave a strange little flutter that she immediately attributed to surprise and nothing more.

"Your notebook," he said, nodding toward where it lay in the sand.

"Oh." She'd almost forgotten it in the commotion. "Could you...?"

Harrison bent carefully, maintaining his hold on her while somehow managing to scoop up the notebook with his free hand. He passed it to her with a small smile that softened the rugged planes of his face. "Can't leave the important things behind."

He reached down once more, retrieving his coffee mug from where he'd set it in the sand, managing to hold it with the same hand that supported her knees. "And I'm not leaving my coffee either. Morning necessity."

She clutched the notebook to her chest, suddenly self-conscious. "It's just notes."

"Didn't look like 'just' anything to me." He adjusted his grip on her and began walking toward the inn, his stride steady and unhurried. "You a writer?"

"Trying to be," she admitted, the words coming easier with her face turned slightly away from his. "I used to be a librarian."

"Used to be?" His voice rumbled close to her ear.

"I retired early. To write." The explanation felt inadequate, missing all the years of putting everyone else's needs before her own, of helping readers find the perfect book while her own story remained untold. "It's a new chapter. Literally."

Harrison's chest moved with what might have been a chuckle. "I know something about new chapters."

The understanding in his tone made her glance up, catching his gaze for a moment before quickly looking away. There was a weight behind his eyes that suggested he knew exactly what it was like to reinvent yourself when the life you'd planned suddenly veered into unfamiliar territory.

The Pelican Inn gradually came into view.

White clapboard gleaming in the morning sun, its wraparound porch and gabled roof a welcoming sight.

Audrey tried to ignore how acutely aware she was of being carried, of the strange intimacy of having a stranger's arms around her.

It had been a very long time since anyone had touched her with such casual confidence.

"Almost there," Harrison said, though whether he was reassuring her or himself wasn't clear. "Think you can manage the stairs, or should I carry you all the way in?"

The thought of being carried through the inn's main entrance like some sort of distressed damsel made Audrey stiffen. "The stairs will be fine. I'll just need something to lean on."

"You've got me," he said simply, and something in his matter-of-fact tone made that strange flutter return to her chest.

This was ridiculous. She was nearly fifty years old, far too sensible to be affected by strong arms and kind eyes.

She'd come to Palmar Island to write, not to be swept off her feet—literally or figuratively.

Besides, men like Harrison Tate, with their hero complexes and easy charm, were decidedly not her type. If she even had a type anymore.