Release Tour for Summer Surprise (Summers in Seaside) by Mel Walker

Title: The Summer Surprise

Series: Summers in Seaside

Author: Mel Walker

Genre: Contemporary/Summer Romance

Tropes: Small Town; Grumpy/Sunshine

Release Date: August 14, 2025

SHE'S SUNSHINE IN SHORTS. HE'S STORM CLOUDS IN A UNIFORM.

Olivia:

Everyone in Seaside knows me as the bubbly waitress who's always ready with a joke and a listening ear. With another music festival in the town's rearview, the tourists are leaving and I should be returning to my normal routine—the one where I pretend the ache in my heart doesn't exist. But this summer brings an unexpected surprise that turns my world upside down—one I can't face alone. The only person who can help? The town's deliciously brooding deputy sheriff who's been avoiding me like I'm a parking ticket he doesn't want to write. Too bad my heart races every time he walks into my bar.

Mark:

I wear my badge and follow the rules. It's simpler that way. Safer. Four months in Seaside should have been enough time to establish boundaries. Follow procedure. Keep to myself. It's worked with everyone except Olivia Barnett. She shines too bright, laughs too freely, and makes me want to break every rule I've ever made. I came to this coastal town for a fresh start, not to risk everything for a woman whose past is tangled with mine in ways she doesn't even realize. But when she needs me, saying no might be the one law I can't enforce.

When the past collides with the present, love becomes the only truth that matters.

Summer Surprise is a small-town romance with heart, humor, and secrets that won't stay buried, and is part of the Summers in Seaside summer romance series. It can be read as a standalone.

Chapter One

Olivia

Loud rock music blasts from the corner of the bar, the local band, Breakwaters, well into their second set. I hold a tray filled with cocktails and beer, navigating between the packed tables, careful not to bump into the overly stimulated crowd. Not bad for a Thursday night.

The clink of glasses, the sound of laughter, and the whisper of secrets are the symphony playing in my head, putting another broad smile on my face. There’s no place like the Driftwood and no place I’d rather be.

“Flowers won’t do this time,” I kid to Johan, a bar regular who somehow forgot his girlfriend’s birthday for the second year in a row. I slide a bottle of Coors in front of him alongside a business card for the Seaside Surf shop. “Glenda has been eying that pink-and-green boogie board all summer.”

“What would I do without you, Olivia?” Johan tips the beer at me with a bright, honest smile, the absolute best type of reward.

“Good thing you’ll never have to find out,” I singsong and slide onto my next table. This is my life. Five, sometimes six nights a week. Server, hostess, part-time bartender, and full-time cheerleader. Raising spirits in all manner possible. Ten seasons, off and on, since the day our family landed here in beautiful sun-drenched Seaside, Oregon.

Home.

A foreign word to me for most of my childhood.

I catch the sight line of another pair of regulars, the universal squiggle on the palm indicating they are ready to close out their check. “I got you, on the house tonight. Are you walking home?” I ask because Paul is two drinks above his normal limit. I’m not too concerned. Marion has been sipping club soda all night. She broke the news of her impending pregnancy hours ago, a celebration that spread across the bar, three other tables offering to pick up their tab.

“Randy is meeting us outside and driving us,” she says, mentioning her brother.

“Give me a second and let me wrap one of the giant pretzels for him. They’re his favorite.” I’m gone before she can object. A sense of warmth spreads through my chest as I place the order with Maxey at the bar and turn to take in the sight. A scene I never would have thought I’d be a part of a decade ago when I walked into this space.

One final move by my dad, a promise made on that first day: “Sunflower, this is it. Our final destination. This is where we plant roots.” It was all I ever wanted, and I had no clue at the time how much I needed this town.

“Maxey,” I say, hearing the urgency in my voice, “how long has Edgar been over there?” My eyes snap tight as I tip my chin toward the young lady who asked for a table away from the band. She arrived alone an hour ago and had kept to herself, mostly. I had spotted her out on the beach once or twice during the week, both times alone. I thought she might be just another tourist passing through, but Helen at the inn indicated she arrived a few weeks ago, leasing a house in town, a six-month rental at that.

Maxey glances back at the wall, tilting his neck to the side to keep his ‘80s rock band hair from his eyes. “Four minutes…” He wipes the smile from his face when he turns and reads mine. “… and counting.” Maxey is aware of the Driftwood policy of watching out for women. Our reputation of being a hard-partying, fun place is balanced by a dedicated staff who make sure it’s a safe space for everyone, especially women. “Edgar’s harmless,” Maxey says as I push off from the bar.

I navigate through the crowd and notice everything. Edgar and his younger brother live with their overindulgent mother two towns over. Edgar is the older one, pushing forty, but still acts as if he’s sixteen, meaning dumb and impetuous. He’s a harmless flirt most nights, and every woman in a five-mile radius has put him in his place. Why our new-to-town stranger, who is just over ten years his junior, yep, I carded her, has yet to do the honors is a mystery. Nothing about Edgar is appealing, not his beer breath, his beer belly, nor his “I slept in this” T-shirt the past two nights. He’s going to be alone the rest of his life, but who am I to throw stones? Given the state of my love life, so might I.

“I heard he’s not welcome back in Seattle.” The mention of the city of Seattle stops me in my tracks. I don’t turn but recognize the voice. Shannon and her Thursday night trivia team are slamming back cocktails between gossip, a weekly ritual that is typically harmless.

“I heard he was run out of town.” The chirpy voice of Razia is unmistakable; fingernails against a chalkboard is my best description. I don’t need to turn to know what and who they’re talking about, our new Deputy Sheriff, Mark McBain. He showed up here in Seaside four months ago with his lips shut nearly as tight as his jaw. Everyone in town has been trying to get to know his backstory yet continues to come up empty.

There’s the strong, silent type, and then there’s him. He’s kept to himself, distancing himself from everyone not named Sheriff Murphy. Parked his RV outside of town on a dangerous cliff that no one in their right mind would visit, an implied sign screaming “visitors not welcome.” The only thing anyone has ascertained about him is that he’s dedicated to the job. No nonsense, straight shooter. Outside of work, he’s an enigma wrapped in mystery, dipped in blackout curtains.

He’s even been resistant to my charms, which is saying a lot because, well, I’m Olivia. Everyone opens up to me.

“My cousin lives in Seattle, and he said there’s not a cop up there who will say a nice thing about him.” Shannon continues, and my shoulders tighten. It takes everything in me not to turn and tell them of the sixteen other things they can do that don’t involve sullying the reputation of a man they know nothing about with fabricated claims. I’ve seen this ugliness up close. Way too close. The dagger marks still tingle across my skin.

I bite my lip and continue toward Edgar. Maybe I can address two issues at the same time. I pull out my phone and tap out a quick text.

Me: Could use some backup at Driftwood.

I don’t elaborate. It’s unnecessary when you’ve been given a bat signal, and know he’s always watching. I slip my empty tray underneath my arm and rest my other hand on the back of the chair of Seaside’s newest resident, at least for the next six months. “Everything good here, Victoria?” My words are for her, but my gaze is locked on Edgar.

Greasy hair hangs in front of his eyes. He’s leaning forward, pressing both elbows on the top of the table. He’s trying to close the distance between him and Victoria. It barely registers to him she’s leaning so far back in her chair it might tip over. Get a clue, dude.

“Eh… yeah, I guess,” she says, looking up at me with intense, kind eyes that sparkle when the overhead light hits them. She pauses, and I try to interpret the look. Is it distress or discomfort? She’s new to town and probably doesn’t want to offend a local. I don’t have that issue.

“Okay. Edgar believes it’s his God-given right to hit on every woman in the bar. We are all about the love connection here at the Driftwood, but he’s coming up on his ten-minute limit. Say the word…” I don’t need to finish my sentence as I watch Edgar’s confidence deflate. He pushes the hair from his eyes and leans away from Victoria.

“I still have six minutes,” he scoffs in my direction, shaking his head. Last summer, when he hit on two sisters sitting at the same table, I instituted the ten-minute rule for him. He thought I was kidding at the time, but two embarrassing-to-him episodes later, he realized it was a Driftwood rule, enforced even on my days off.

“Ten is a max,” I remind him. “The right of refusal remains with the lady, always,” I say to her, letting her know she will always be the one in control at the Driftwood.

She nods. “Thank you. I think we’re good, I appreciate it. You’re Olivia, right?” She stands and offers a hand and a stunning smile, which she wisely held back from Edgar. She’s wearing a short denim skirt, and Edgar leans back in his chair to steal a glance.

Subtle is not a skill he possesses. I step in front of him, blocking his view, and take Victoria’s hand. “That I am. Pleasure to meet you officially. I’ve seen you on the beach a few times.”

“The beach, I bet you…” Edgar’s eyes go wide, and he leans around me to steal another peek. I hold up my empty tray directly in front of his face like a giant stop sign. If he’s not going to be subtle, I don’t see any reason I need to.

I lift a finger in his direction. “Don’t you dare complete that lonely thought in your puny little head, or I’ll put you on a time-out for the rest of the season.” He’s aware of my reputation and wisely snaps his mouth shut.

A quick smile spreads across Victoria’s face with a gentle, approving nod as she slips back into her chair. “Well, next time you see me, join me. I’ve not met too many people.” I read between the lines. It explains why she’s awkwardly sitting alone in a bar on a Thursday night, giving someone like Edgar the time of day. At least she picked the right bar and the right night because I’m on duty.

My finger remains raised in Edgar’s direction, halting his next thought. “I will positively take you up on that offer. I can be a chatterbox; you might regret it someday.”

The smile on her face spreads like wildfire on a breezy day. A radiant smile of someone I’d like to get to know better. “I doubt that. I’m a superb listener.”

“We’ll see,” I joke and lower my finger. “Five minutes and twenty seconds Edgar. Max.”

I ignore his grunt.

“Good looking out, Olivia,” Victoria says as I walk backward away from her table.

I wave my arms out to my side, sweeping the bar. “It’s what we do here at the Driftwood. Don’t leave without checking in with me.” I give her the last piece of advice to let her know that when she steps through those doors, her found family is looking out for her.

“Will do.” She shoots me a half smile, and I bow.

I head back toward the bar just as Maxey is placing the giant Bavarian pretzel in the bag. I deliver it to Paul and congratulate him and Marion once again. With my tables taken care of for the moment, I exhale. I press my empty tray to my chest, arms crossed and feel a different type of warmth come over me. I sense him before he makes his presence known.

The strong, silent type.

“Where do you need me?” I close my eyes for half a heartbeat and let the timber of his gravelly voice rumble through me. I sense he’s standing directly behind me, and it takes everything in me not to lean back against his impossibly hard chest.

“False alarm. I handled it.” I jut my chin in Edgar’s direction.

“Has it been ten minutes yet?” Deputy Sheriff Mark McBain queries, hovering just above my shoulder. With the heat of his breath on my neck, I almost don’t answer, hoping to will him to speak again. He won’t. He’s a man of few words.

“He’s got about three more minutes,” I say just as Edgar looks in my direction, his gaze transforming from defeat to fright as he takes in the behemoth behind me. He scatters away, and I try not to laugh.

Much.

“Sorry to have you make the trip out here for nothing,” I say, finally turning. My breath hitches because I was right. He’s standing ridiculously close to me. Part of me knows it’s because of the music and the noise of the bar, but another part of me tells me it’s because of other reasons. It must be. I tilt my head up to capture his gaze; steely blue eyes focused well above me at Edgar. His dedication to the job gives me an opportunity to drink in this gorgeous man. All six feet three inches of him.

“Never apologize. It’s my job.” He delivers the line that should be emblazoned across his shirt. A line I’ve heard too many times from him in the months he’s been here. It’s always the job with him.

My gaze lowers, locking on the shiny Sheriff badge pinned to his chest. City of Seaside, Oregon Sheriff’s Department. He wears it proudly. He wears it well. He’s like a real-life superhero patrolling our quiet streets. A sense of calm runs through me; it always does when he’s this close to me, which isn’t nearly enough in my books. And for the millionth time since I met him, I wonder what I would find if I could read his book. Would it be filled with thoughts of me?

“Still, you gave me your personal number to text you when I have issues at the bar. I don’t want to abuse it.” I think back to the night at the bar when he first offered his phone number to me. It was a rowdy night during the annual music festival, and some kids were getting out of hand and refusing to leave. Before I could even dial the Sheriff, Mark was here. He put those kids in their place. Had us turn off the music and marched each of the brats, one by one, to the small stage we have for the band to apologize to the entire bar. But it was what he did next that shifted everything for me. Escorting them out of the bar, on his way, he had each of them stand in front of me, without averting their eyes, and address me as Ms. Barnett. He hovered next to each of them, glaring at them, forcing sincere apologies from each of them. I knew it would be a night none of them would ever forget. I most certainly never will.

It was on that night the nibble of the mysterious spark I felt whenever I was in Mark’s presence burst into a full-on flame. A torch I’ve secretly carried ever since.

When he lingered afterward and offered his phone number, I thought I had finally broken through, that it would be the start of something, something good. It wasn’t. His very first text made it clear what this was for him.

Deputy McBain: In case of emergency, fastest way to get my attention.

I reread that stupid text the way the teenage version of me overexamined every utterance from a boy she had a crush on. I searched for clues, hidden meanings, and double entendre for days.

“You never will,” he says with a definitiveness I don’t possess. “If there’s nothing else…” He hesitates, and my stupid heart skips a beat, wondering if he’s waiting for me to give him a reason, any reason. Then I remember the other reason I texted him.

Gossip.

“Saturday.” I say the word so abruptly, so loudly, there is no way it doesn’t come across as desperation. “You’re off on Saturday, right?” I feel the tingle in my chest, an all-too-familiar charge when it comes to Deputy Sheriff McBain. Me extending myself to him, and him coming up with an excuse.

“I am.” He gives me nothing. Two-word responses and the look of stone.

I glance over my shoulder to see how many people are witnessing me throwing myself at this man. I’ve been dropping hints in his direction for weeks. He notices everything. He must see me. “Come to the boardwalk festival. We’re raising money for the food pantry. There’s a fun run. A 5K. I’ve seen you out running in the mornings.” I’m not sure why I tossed in that last part.

“You?” He says it as if he can’t believe it. “You’re here till close at 1:00 a.m. most nights.” He recites my schedule back to me. “And you’ve seen me running at 5:00 a.m. on the beach?” A hint of a smile flashes in the corner of his lips and disappears just as fast. “When do you sleep?”

I giggle and adjust the tray just to prevent my hands from tracing around the edge of the badge on his chest. “I could ask you the same. I’ve seen you in the shadows on the boardwalk at close, making sure everyone has a ride and makes it home safely.”

“It’s my job.” There are those three words again.

“You clock out at midnight.” He’s not the only one who tracks people’s schedules.

I notice the gulp of his throat as he realizes I know the truth.

“It’s fine, Deputy. Our little secret,” I tease him. “But just for the record, not everyone in this town can keep a secret, and you and your ‘my lips are sealed’ approach is giving fodder to this small town’s rumor mill.” I watch as his jaw clenches and his shoulders tilt back. His guard snaps to attention. “It’s because they know nothing about you when you’re out of the uniform.” I pop my hip, seeking an alluring pose, but his eyes never waver. He gives away nothing.

“Four months. You’ve been here four months. I bet you can tell me every statistic in the world about traffic patterns, sea tides, and the weight capacity of the Ferris wheel, but not name which baseball team Agnes in your office roots for or what treat I indulge in after winning a 5K?” His brow lifts, as if considering answering. I have no clue whether he knows the answer to the first question and know I’m on solid footing for the second.

“Agnes is from Chicago, so I have a fifty-fifty shot. I’ll say the Cubs.”

“And you’ll be one hundred percent incorrect.” I roll my eyes, not in the dismissive you’ve got to be kidding way, but in the adorable, men can’t resist me way I’ve mastered working in the bar all these years. I have layers. His nonreaction doesn’t surprise me. I’ve winked, strutted, and flirted with this man dozens of times, still nothing. But he’s never told me the one word to put all of it to a halt, stop.

His brow furrows, and I know I’m working on borrowed time. “I know you think you’ve learned everything about this town there is to know for your job…” I wait for the brief nod before continuing. “But you don’t, not truly. Not until you let down your guard, let people see you without the beige-and-brown official uniform, which you totally pull off, by the way.” He crosses his arms across his chest, and in my head, I hear him grunt his disapproval. “Anyhoo, let loose for once, and you’ll discover people will do the same, and you’ll get to learn things about them they’d never share with a man on duty.”

I can’t be any clearer. But per usual, he gives me nothing. I have one final card to play. “It’ll be a great opportunity to recruit people for the community watch program you’re trying to start.”

“How did…” Bullseye.

“Like I said, you are a man of mystery, therefore the center of gossip. This town doesn’t have many secrets, and if they do, they wind up being discussed here at the Driftwood. You should totally make me your confidential informant or something. I’d even let you give me a cool nickname. How does CI Liv sound?”

He uncrosses his arms and takes half a step back, the twinkle of interest wiped away from his face. “I have to get back to work.” I nearly reach out to stop him from leaving but know better than to do that.

“She hates baseball.” I read the confusion on his face. “Agnes. Her ex-husband was a White Sox fan. She hates everything associated with him.”

His feet plant, and I wait for him to speak. “And what’s your race treat?”

Good pivot. I can work with this. I run my hand through my hair, knowing he’s watching. “Only one way for you to find out.” I turn and walk away. A smile pulls on my face when I don’t hear movement behind me. He’s watching.

“Saturday?” he asks.

“Saturday.” I speak into the universe a day in the week that suddenly feels like a date.

Chapter Two

Mark

I step out of Driftwood, exhaling slowly as the night air cools my face. I step across the boardwalk to the railing and look out at the darkened ocean. The waves crash on the beach, providing a pleasant melody that calms my nerves.

Olivia Barnett.

Again.

“Keeping your distance, McBain?” I mutter to the wind because it can’t judge me.

I indulge, taking two long minutes for my heart to stop racing, for my mind to clear.

It’s been four months since I arrived in Seaside. I’ve adjusted to the slow pace, embraced the hours, accepted that nothing significant ever seems to happen here.

Nothing except her.

I check my watch, coming up on midnight, the end of my shift. I should head back to the station, but I don’t. I stare instead at the second most beautiful sight this evening: the moonlight rays as they bounce off the waves, reminding me of the sparkle in her eyes when she invited me to the festival.

A tease of an invitation, not her first by any stretch of the imagination. But it’s the closest I’ve come to accepting outright. My phone buzzes, and when I see Sheriff Murphy’s name, a wave of guilt hits me.

“Everything quiet at the Driftwood?” he asks without preamble.

“Yes, sir. Just finished my walkthrough. Nothing to report.” At least not to you.

“Good. Remember what we discussed, maintaining professional distance when it comes to a certain someone there?” I glance over my shoulder as if I were expecting to find Sheriff Murphy hanging out the window of his cruiser with a pair of binoculars, spying on me. He repeats instructions he’s given to me almost on a weekly basis since I arrived in Seaside yet provides little context as to the reason.

“Understood, sir.” I end the call and feel the tension in my jaw. If he only knew how difficult this simple task was becoming, he’d likely reassign me to the graveyard patrol.

I try to keep a professional distance with Olivia Barnett, but it’s near impossible with someone so extroverted, so ever present, so bubbly, so… everything. My pulse quickens with just the thought of her.

The gods continue to toy with me as her laughter invades my head, floating on the cool evening air from the bar’s outdoor patio on the boardwalk. She tosses her strawberry blonde hair back, laughing at something from a couple at a table. The laugh is infectious, light, bubbly, and I fight the pull of a smile on my face. She’s wearing her standard Driftwood uniform, the gray faded bar t-shirt and jean shorts. But the way she wears it is anything but standard. The t-shirt is knotted on her right side, just above her waist, just high enough to flash a sliver of skin when she moves. Her shorts, those damn frayed blue jean shorts, with those dangling strings which take everything in me not to reach down and rip them away. She’s a dangerous temptation.

I look away, but it’s too late. My chest tightens, filling with a perilous warmth I can’t afford to possess. Not when it comes to her.

“Professional distance,” I repeat and force myself to walk away.

I should head to the station and clock out, but I won’t. The Driftwood closes at 1:00 a.m., and I’ll stick around, like I do most nights. For their safety is the professional term I use to justify my action.

But my stupid, beating heart knows the real reason.

Mel Walker is an award-winning rare bird, the male romance author. Specializing in heartfelt small-town romance, he enjoys telling compelling romances with all the feels. A native New Yorker and life-long frustrated NY Mets fan. He enjoys baseball, reading, bike rides, and writing outdoors where he absorbs the energy of the city.

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