And he refused to feel guilty about it.
Not when there were dozens of employees counting on them for their livelihood. Not when the Costas name was on the verge of becoming a punch line in the architectural world. Not when Xander had his own future to consider.
Still, guilt climbed up his spine and attempted to claw apart the few minutes of peace he’d taken to recharge. He’d acted as long-distance deal-maker and silent partner in the family firm for long enough. He wasn’t going to stand by and let his brother and father ignore the financial earthquake that had shaken the company to its core. People they cared about were relying on them to find stable ground.
They needed to get back to what had made the firm successful in the first place—originality and reliability. To do otherwise would be tantamount to surrender.
And Xander Costas never surrendered. Not to anything. Not to anyone.
Much like the boy and his dog on the beach, both of whom seemed determined to empty their part of the ocean one splash at a time.
“I’m not the one not allowed to go in the water!” the boy called back, but he slogged his way out of the surf and shook himself almost as hard as his canine companion. Thick-rimmed glasses soared off his face and landed in the sand beside his friend, who was squealing away from the salty shower.
Okay, Xander admitted. Maybe being able to swim in the ocean in mid-December wasn’t such a bad thing. In the hour or so since he’d driven down the main road of Butterfly Harbor he’d seen plenty of people—more than he’d expected—wandering about. Local businesses lined Monarch Lane, which ran parallel to the ocean. The street was decked out in holiday finery, from wreath-topped streetlamps to candy cane-accented garlands that stretched across the entry to town. He’d spotted a diner, which appeared to do a brisk business and a bookstore he’d somehow resisted the pull to explore. The hardware store could prove interesting and seemed to stock every kind of Christmas bulb one could think of. Local businesses like that sometimes carried the most unusual items and offered unexpected inspiration. He was determined to keep his mind open. The local grocery store boasted an extensive deli, while the ice-cream shop on the corner seemed to appeal to those out and about. Peppermint ice cream? Lavender honey? Might be worth a try.
What he’d read online about the tourist town located only a hop, skip and jump away from the more popular Monterey had been brief and incomplete. It would take him a while to acclimate, to really get a feel for the town. Only then could he solidify their plans for the new butterfly sanctuary. Then, and only then, could he finally get back to rebuilding his own life.
He shielded his eyes and inclined his chin toward the historic Flutterby Inn, which graced the edge of the cliffs above him. The bright yellow structure with stark white trim harkened back to classic Victorian style. Predictable, but solid. Welcoming. His home for the next couple of days while the town mayor and council approved his proposal for the butterfly sanctuary on which they hoped to break ground next spring.
When the wind picked up and a number of beachgoers turned away from the water, Xander took that as a hint he’d spent enough time mulling. He cast another quick glance up at the cliffs.
His heart stopped.
Even from this distance, the woman he saw was tall, with long arms, and was draped in color, from her sun-fire red hair to the blues and purples of the dress swirling about her legs. He stood there, transfixed, as she held out her hands, palms up. Tiny flecks of color exploded from her fingers and flittered around her so fast he swore he saw a golden circle of light appear.
Xander watched the light fade and shift into tiny sparks that drifted down the side of the rocks, spinning, racing, darting around each other as they approached...him.
He couldn’t move; didn’t remember how. And then he realized they weren’t lights at all. The sun’s rays had caught the colors of the butterflies’ wings. Butterflies that flittered their way closer, so close he could see the patterns of black spots among the light orange of the town’s namesake Monarch Festival.
The winged creatures darted around him, whipping in a circle, before they arced up and returned to the cliff face and disappeared into the rocks.