She shuffled through her iPad for appropriate painting music. The problem was, she couldn’t define her mood. Since being back in Blue Moon Bay, her world had been an emotional roller-coaster ride—the death of her grandma, deciding to renovate the inn, and her growing attraction to Wes had her turned completely upside down, as though the ride had stopped mid-rotation on a loop.

Would she fall to her death? Or survive the cyclone of indecision and uncertainty?

And despite her best attempts at resisting, she was being drawn back to that journal. She was desperate for more answers about who this Jack guy was and just how much he’d meant to her grandmother, but she was also terrified to read any further. How many journal entries were written to him? Had her grandfather known about this man from her grandmother’s past?

She tried to remember as many details as she could, but all she knew was that her grandfather had returned from serving in the war and the two had fallen in love while her grandmother was working in a factory in San Francisco. During wartime, women had stepped up to fill in jobs that the men had vacated. They’d gotten married quickly, her grandmother had returned to running the B&B, and that was it.

But that wasn’t it. Not even close.

One true love…

Was her grandmother right? Was there just one person out there destined for someone else? Sarah had never felt the same pull of attraction for anyone the way she always had for Wes…but he’d been happy with someone else. If soul mates were a thing, how was that possible?

She sighed. She was being ridiculous. Letting the nostalgia of being at the inn and the secrets she’d discovered in the journal get to her.

She’d definitely be opening it again, but fear of what else she might discover that she wasn’t ready to learn gave her pause. For now.

Hitting shuffle on the iPad, she tucked it into the pocket of her faded, ripped jeans. Her favorite pair that she’d been clinging to far past their life span. They were like her comfort blanket—the ones she turned to when she just needed to relax. She tied her hair back into a high ponytail and got to work.

Opening the seafoam-colored paint, she stirred it until the consistency was just right and poured it into the rolling tray. She’d painted her bedroom in her family home countless times as a teenager, new inspiration demanding new vibrant colors as frequently as her changing hormonal mood swings.

So she had a little experience with a rolling brush.

She dipped it into the paint and started on the far wall, covering the patches of white where Wes’s crew had repaired dents and holes.