Page 1 of The Beach Shack (Laguna Beach #1)
CHAPTER ONE
Morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of her Russian Hill apartment, illuminating the space that looked more like a carefully curated showroom than a lived-in home.
Meg preferred it that way—clean lines, neutral tones, everything in its place.
The only splash of color came from a small painting above her desk of the cliffs of Laguna Beach, the orange-pink sky reflecting on the waves below.
The painting had been a gift from her grandmother five years ago. “So you remember where you come from,” Margo had written in her perfect calligraphy on the card. Meg’s thumb brushed over the frame as she passed, a habitual gesture she never quite registered making.
She’d hung it the same week Michael had packed his things and left.
“It’s like living with a ghost,” he’d said during their final argument.
“You’re either working or thinking about work.
” Meg had been too busy finalizing the Henderson account to properly grieve the three-year relationship, filing it away under “personal disappointments” and moving forward.
Forty minutes later, perfectly pressed and polished in a tailored charcoal suit, Meg stirred her coffee at the kitchen counter and reviewed her mental checklist. The San Clemente Resort campaign was the biggest pitch of her career—a complete rebranding of a tired seaside hotel into a luxury destination.
Her team had done exceptional work. Now she just needed to deliver.
There was a certain irony in marketing Southern California coastal experiences when she’d gone to such lengths to escape her own beach town roots. The last real vacation she’d taken had been to New York City.
Her phone chirped with a text from her assistant.
Car downstairs in 15. Folders on your desk. Brad wants to walk through final slides before client arrives.
Meg typed back.
Already reviewed slides. Tell Brad I’ll be there by 7.
She slipped her phone into her bag and was reaching for her coffee when a calendar notification popped up on her tablet. A yellow box with a simple note: Margo’s birthday .
“Oh, crap,” Meg murmured. Her grandmother turned eighty tomorrow.
She’d have to remember later, after the presentation, though “later” had a way of becoming two days later or next week in Meg’s carefully scheduled life. Last year’s birthday call had been two days late, and the guilt still lingered.
She made a note in her color-coded planning app— Call Margo, send flowers, PRIORITY —and placed her empty mug in the dishwasher.
The ride to her downtown office was quick, the streets still quiet.
Meg used the time to review statistics one last time: “Southern California luxury travelers prioritize authentic experiences over amenities by 64%... 72% cite ‘connection to local culture’ as a deciding factor... The target demographic spends an average of...”
Authentic experiences. Local culture. These were the buzzwords she’d built the campaign around, though Meg couldn’t remember the last time she’d had an authentic experience herself.
Vacations were rare, and when she took them, they were meticulously planned extensions of her work life—visits to clients, industry conferences, networking events thinly disguised as getaways.
Her college friend Diane had stopped inviting her to girls’ trips years ago. “You’ll just work through it anyway,” she’d said when Meg asked about their annual weekend. The worst part was, Diane had been right.
Her office was exactly as she’d left it the night before. Three folders sat in the center of her desk, labeled in her assistant Jen’s neat handwriting: “Presentation Materials,” “Contract Terms,” and “V.P. Committee.”
The last folder made her pause. Inside were the documents Brad had shared last week with the evaluation timeline. If today’s presentation landed the San Clemente account, Meg would be the youngest woman ever promoted to V.P. at Mercer & Reid.
“There she is. Our resident genius.”
Meg looked up to find Brad Mercer—current owner and son of the founder—leaning against her doorframe, coffee cup in hand, already exuding the easy confidence that came with being born into the role Meg had worked years to approach.
“Morning, Brad. Just going through everything one last time.”
“Always prepared.” Brad nodded approvingly. “That’s why we’re all betting on you for this one. The San Clemente people are traditional, but they know they need to evolve. Your angle on authentic local experiences is exactly right.”
“Thanks.” Meg straightened the already perfectly aligned folders. “Did you get my email about the revised social media strategy?”
“At midnight? Yes, and it’s impressive, but do you ever sleep?” He smiled, but his eyes held something closer to concern.
Meg returned the smile without addressing the question. Sleep was just another resource to be optimized, currently averaging five hours and twenty-seven minutes according to her fitness tracker.
“The client’s arriving at nine,” Brad continued. “Why don’t you join me for breakfast in the conference room at eight? We can do a final walkthrough.”
“I’ll be there.”
After Brad left, Meg turned to her computer, intending to review the presentation slides one more time, but instead typed “Laguna florist” into the search bar. Even in trivial moments, she maintained the distance from her hometown that she’d established when she left for college.
She found a shop that opened at 8 a.m. and set a reminder to call them during her lunch break to send something to Margo.
The morning proceeded with military precision. Breakfast meeting with Brad. Final adjustments to the presentation. The executive team gathering in the glass-walled conference room overlooking San Francisco Bay.
At 8:54, Meg stood in the restroom, checking her appearance one final time.
She looked exactly as she should—polished, professional, confident.
Yet for a fraction of a second, she barely recognized the woman in the mirror.
When had she last been back to Laguna? Anna’s college graduation? That was years ago now.
And Sam—wherever their mother was these days. Last they heard, Bali? Or Buenos Aires? Better not to go there.
Tyler. Her younger brother, who’d stayed while she left.
She should call him too, ask how the planning for Margo’s birthday celebration was going. Later. After the presentation.
Meg’s phone rang just as she was returning to the conference room. She glanced at the screen, ready to silence it, and froze.
Tyler Walsh.
Tyler rarely called during work hours. He texted occasionally—holiday wishes, funny memes, random surf photos—but never called, and certainly never at 9 a.m. on a weekday when he knew she’d be working.
Something cold settled in Meg’s stomach.
Brad appeared at the end of the hallway, gesturing toward the conference room. “They’re here, Meg. Ready to knock their socks off?”
The phone continued ringing in her hand. Tyler’s name flashing on the screen.
“One second,” she called to Brad, then answered the call, turning away. “Tyler? Is everything okay?”
Her brother’s voice came through, tight with stress. “Meg, I’m sorry to call like this. It’s Margo. And the Beach Shack. I need your help. ”
The client meeting forgotten, Meg pressed the phone closer to her ear, that cold feeling spreading through her chest. “What’s happened? Is Margo all right?”
“She’s okay physically, but I’ve got this emergency—I have to leave town for a while. Uncle Rick won’t help, and I don’t know who else to ask.”
“What about Anna?” Meg asked, though she already knew the answer.
“She’s three weeks into that fellowship in Florence. The one she’s been trying to get for years.” Tyler sighed. “I can’t ask her to throw that away when she’s finally getting recognized.”
The familiar twinge hit. Anna and Tyler were the reliable ones.
“Margo needs someone who can organize the staffing schedule, deal with suppliers, all that stuff you’re so good at,” Tyler added. “Not Anna’s artistic touch right now. It’s just until I get back.”
Meg took a deep breath and glanced at the conference room.
“The Shack’s been… rough lately, Meg.”
Behind her, Brad called her name again. The V.P. committee was waiting. Her future was waiting.
“And Meg... Margo’s been having some episodes. Fatigue, maybe dizzy spells. A customer had to wake her up at the grill last week. She says she’s fine, but she’s not fine. She needs someone looking out for her.”
Meg’s chest tightened. Margo falling asleep at the grill?
Her grandmother, who could flip twelve sandwiches simultaneously while managing three conversations, who had never missed a day of work in fifty years?
The image of her slumped over the griddle, vulnerable and alone, made something twist in Meg’s stomach.
She could hear Brad’s voice growing more insistent behind her, could picture the San Clemente executives checking their watches in the conference room.
Everything she’d worked for was literally waiting down the hall.
But Margo—eighty years old and too proud to admit she needed help—was a three-hour drive away, running a business that was apparently falling apart.
“She says she’s fine, but she’s not fine. She needs someone looking out for her.”
“Tyler, I—” Meg started, but couldn’t finish the sentence. What could she say? That she had a presentation in ten minutes that could make her career? That she hadn’t been home in years? That she didn’t know the first thing about running a restaurant?
But Tyler’s voice cracked as he said, “I wouldn’t ask if there was anyone else, Meg. I really wouldn’t.”
Meg didn’t know what to say.
“I can’t explain everything now, but it’s... someone needs me there. Someone I can’t say no to.”