Escape to Brookwell Island and meet the women of The Beach Readers Silent Book Club. They come for the quiet reading and hunky heroes, but they stay for the sage advice on coping with life’s unexpected plot twists. Whether it’s a crush-worthy boss, an old flame, or a wealthy new resident, these secret chapters are filled with the kind of heart and happy endings you can enjoy in a single afternoon.
The Beach Readers Silent Book Club meets regularly on Brookwell Island…
About the book:
She’s hunting for the truth. He’s hiding from the world.
And one mischievous Maltese is about to blow his cover.
Editor Holly Brooks runs the Brookwell Bugle with one mission: radical transparency. After her father’s crimes nearly destroyed their island community, she’s determined to keep everyone honest—especially the reclusive billionaire who just bought the most famous estate in town.
Tech mogul Sebastian Sterling came to Brookwell for privacy. What he got was Digby—his sister’s escape-artist Maltese—and unwanted attention from the island’s nosiest journalist.
When Holly rescues Digby from a marshy ditch, she strikes a deal with the island’s most mysterious resident: she’ll help him navigate small-town life and he’ll give her an exclusive interview that could make her career.
But as their arrangement heats up, a secret land deal threatens everything. Holly’s built her reputation on exposing the truth. Sebastian’s built his life on keeping it hidden.
When the story breaks, will Holly choose her community… or the man who’s captured her heart?
Curl up with this small-town romance about undeniable attraction, nosy neighbors, and learning that sometimes love means trusting someone with your secrets.
Sneak Peek!
Chapter 1
March in the South Carolina Lowcountry could be unpredictable. Rain. Heat. A sudden chill or a blustery wind was commonplace. Get a few miles inland, away from coastal breezes, and there might even be a hint of the humidity that would intensify with summer. Overhead, tall pines, heavy with pollen, swayed until everything was covered in a distinct neon-yellow.
Holly Brooks preferred the tangy salty-sea air and lower humidity of Brookwell Island, but when her mom called, she drove inland to visit. Though Holly had been raised on the island and planned to spend the rest of her life in this amazing small town, her parents’ marriage had fallen apart while she’d been in college.
Embarrassed beyond measure, her mother had filed for divorce, sold the house, and hit the restart button on her life. Holly didn’t blame her. Small-town life could be intense, especially when things went wrong and painful secrets suddenly became the topic of every conversation.
Which was why she dedicated herself to getting the story right—whatever it might be. As the editor-in-chief, lead reporter, and occasional delivery driver for the local Brookwell Bugle, she believed full transparency was essential to doing the job right for the community. But she insisted on applying as much compassion as possible in the process.
She rolled down the window on her old-faithful powder-blue pickup as she drove across the bridge. One breath of that marsh air and she was home. Amazing how a few miles could make such a difference. Cruising along Central Avenue, she waved at the folks she recognized, turning down Bay Street toward her two-bedroom bungalow. Parking under the carport, she was more than ready to get back to her home office and check for messages.
The only time Holly and her work phone were parted was when she went to see her mom, out of respect for what she’d gone through. The break wasn’t usually a big deal—Brookwell was a small market—but she’d been waiting for news about a freelance piece she’d submitted to a bigger outlet. Her salary with the Bugle was fair, but having steady freelance income made life much more comfortable.
She’d missed five calls, and had three messages waiting in voice mail. As she changed from the dress she’d worn to brunch with her mom into her favorite faded jeans and a Brookwell Bugle polo shirt, she hit the speaker button and let the messages play.
The acceptance of her freelance pitch earned a fist pump, Parker’s Fish Camp wanted her to run another help-wanted ad for servers, but it was the message from her Bugle co-editor Vince Goodridge that stopped her cold.
She hit replay on the voicemail app. Over the sound of highway traffic, she listened to Vince’s message again.
Hey, Holl! The new owner of the Marion estate on the point has moved in. Sebastian Sterling. Some tech genius or investor type. Anyway, I had an in-person interview with him today, but I’m stuck out here with a flat tire. My notes are in the Bugle folder. If you can’t cover it, let me know and I’ll call him to reschedule.
Timing wasn’t the issue. The Marion estate was less than thirty minutes away if she took her bicycle and the day was too beautiful to take the truck. But hearing the Sterling name gave her pause. Everyone wanted more details on the island’s newest resident. Gathering her camera and voice recorder, she sent Vince a text message that she would take the interview.
At least she wouldn’t be going in completely blind. Like her, Vince knew the value of background research. They worked well together to highlight and focus on the vibrant life of Brookwell Island, showcasing the community and all it had to offer for locals and tourists alike.
Last year, their coverage of the annual music festival had been picked up by three regional outlets. They’d celebrated together at the Pelican Pub with a bottle of champagne. Reviewing Vince’s notes on Sterling and the questions that topped his list, she had the feeling her partner was aiming for this article to go viral. She would certainly do her best to get the intel he was after so that when the interview was published, it had the best chance of success.
Holly pulled her hair up into a high ponytail and slipped into her battered deck shoes for the trip. Pedaling her sea-foam green beach cruiser up the gentle incline toward the north end of the island, she felt a bead of sweat trickle down the nape of her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her shirt. She shifted gears, the chain on her bike giving a rhythmic click-clack before the ride got easier.
A couple weeks ago, she had conducted interviews with a few longstanding legacy-seat members of the music festival committee. The annual summer festival was the biggest tourism draw for Brookwell and committee seats were more hotly contested than official local elections. Some folks were sure the legacy seat holders got in the way of progress, but after her interviews Holly didn’t agree.
Her friend Grace Teague, owner of the Beach Belle clothing shop on Central Avenue was a perfect example. As long as the Teague family owned the boutique, they would have one seat on the coveted committee. Grace took her role on the committee seriously and, in Holly’s opinion, did an excellent job of balancing the local interests with the adjustments that allowed essential growth of the event.
Ages ago, the Marion family had a festival committee seat as well as a perpetual position on the town council. She’d have to look up whether that valuable committee seat carried over to the new owner.
Of course, that was her focus, not Vince’s and she was heading to the Marion estate to conduct the interview on his behalf.
Though she supposed it was now the Sterling estate, it would take time for the town to latch on to the name change. Possibly forever. In a town like Brookwell, history and tradition often overruled something as basic as new ownership.
Whatever they called it, the estate was a sprawling piece of prime, waterfront land that had been left to sit dormant for over fifteen years. Mrs. Woodrow Marion, widow of the late Senator Marion, had been the last resident.
Until now.
Holly had sat through her share of town council meetings as the fate of the Marion estate was debated. Although they had no claim on the property, no one wanted to see it fall into disrepair. Fortunately, the senator had made arrangements for basic upkeep, but it seemed his descendants had no fondness for small town life.
She could hardly wait to get inside and see the place. She’d been too young to attend the lavish parties the estate was famous for. But she’d spent plenty of time in the digital archives in Charleston and Brookwell fascinated by the photos of the estate and its many famous guests.
Sebastian Sterling was officially famous, but apparently not a guest. He was a tech titan who had built an empire on encryption and then vanished from the Silicon Valley scene.
She wondered how he’d convinced the Marion heirs to sell. “Every story has a secret,” Holly murmured as she pedaled. While she wasn’t in the habit of airing everyone’s dirty laundry, the mantra had served her well since she’d taken over the Bugle. She believed transparency—within reason—helped the community thrive. Secrets had a tendency to fester and divide folks.
She couldn’t wait to learn what had brought Mr. Sterling to town, to effectively introduce a famous new resident to the community.
Her reporter’s brain toyed with potential headlines for the column. Mystery Mogul at Marion. Or maybe Recluse Takes R&R on Brookwell. The alliteration was too cutesy. “Only a starting point,” she said to herself. Vince would have the final say before they published anything.
She could see the perimeter of the estate now, where an iron fence and tall shrubs protected the estate’s manicured lawns from the wilder, salt-scrubbed edges of the northern marsh. The closed gate was a masterpiece of iron crafted by the incomparable blacksmith, Phillip Simmons. She didn’t need an archive to know that fact since Simmons was considered a local artistic hero and a state treasure.
She pulled over to the side of the road to snap a few photos of the fading No Trespassing signs tacked to the palmetto trees on either side of the gate. Would Sterling take those down soon or simply put up brighter warnings to stay away?
Finished, she secured her camera in its bag and pushed down on the pedal. Her bike chain snapped and, with a sickening jolt, the pedals went limp. She caught herself just in time to keep from sliding into the soft marshy grass on the shoulder.
“Are you kidding me?” Holly hissed. “Not cool, Betsy. Not today.”
Hopping off, she walked the bike to the gate and propped it against a palmetto tree. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, her Nikon camera thumping against her ribs. As she reached down to inspect the grease-covered mess of the chain, a thin, pathetic whimper caught her attention.
Holly froze. She followed the pitiful sound toward a bank of azaleas that framed the landscaping in front of the fencing. Creeping closer, she spotted a small, shivering cloud of fur huddled under the shrub.
“Well, hello there,” she said, using the soothing tone that calmed skittish sources and stray kittens.
Her interview momentarily forgotten, she knelt in the dirt, ignoring the prospect of grass stains. The little fluff ball was a Maltese, or something close, although right now it bore a closer resemblance to a discarded mop head. What she assumed was a white coat when clean was matted with burrs and grayed by marsh mud. Large, dark eyes looked up at her with a mixture of terror and hope.
“You are a long way from a groomer, little guy.” Holly reached out her hand, letting the dog decide what to make of her. She didn’t recognize him at all, which worried her. After a moment, she felt the dog lean into her palm, still trembling.
He shifted, but couldn’t get closer. On a yip, he sat down and she realized his collar was stuck. Slowly, making reassuring noises, she eased under the shrub until she had him free. He scrambled right into her lap and she tucked him close, trying to warm him up.
The collar, high-end, buttery soft leather, had a nameplate smudged with mud. She wiped away the grime and the silver gleamed in the dappled sunlight. “Digby?”
He perked his ears as he stared at her.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Though she checked for tags or a phone number, it was just the name.
“Don’t worry, Digby. The Bugle is on the case.” She stood, gathering the small dog into her arms. He was surprisingly light, his heart racing against her chest. “I’m sure Mr. Sterling will give you some water until I can sort this out.”
The most likely explanation was that Digby belonged to Sterling. She just didn’t see a dog this small traveling too far from home.
With a deep groan, the gate panels slowly parted. The scraping sound of the iron against the rollers was jarring in the pleasantly quiet afternoon. Holly held the dog tightly as the gate opened to the long drive lined with ancient oaks.
And standing in the center of the drive, was the story itself.
She’d seen a few photos of him, taken years ago apparently. Right now, Sebastian Sterling looked nothing like a man worth more than the entire Brookwell municipal budget. He wore a faded Metallica concert tour t-shirt, the sleeves cut off to reveal arms that were roped with lean muscle. His joggers were splattered with stains, and his dark hair was a chaotic nest that suggested he’d been running his fingers through it in frustration for hours.
But it was his face that stopped Holly’s breath. Even through the stubble of a “leave-me-alone” beard, his features were strikingly sharp. He had the kind of bone structure that photographers dreamt of: intense, brooding, and currently set in a mask of pure irritation.
“Digby?” He shook his head. “Traitor.” His voice was a low, gravelly rasp, the kind of sound that sent an involuntary shiver straight down Holly’s spine.
She was living one of those enviable moments from a romance novel that she and her book club friends enjoyed. But in real life, she was feeling more edgy than excited.
“I believe you’re looking for this,” Holly flashed her most disarming smile, the one that usually made people forget she was holding a digital recorder.
He didn’t smile back.
She practically felt his gaze like a touch as he studied her. She knew the instant he saw her camera because his shoulders went stiff and his eyes narrowed. “Who are you?” he demanded. Blunt, defensive. “And why are you holding my dog?”
***
Ready to turn the page? Holly’s Secret Chapter will be available, exclusively on Amazon, February 26, 2026!
