Set in the sun-soaked world of California surf culture, Tattered Tides is an emotional, slow-burn romance about second chances, self-forgiveness, and the healing power of love.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Tattered Tides by Sarah A. Bailey, which releases on May 5th 2026.
Weston Ashford was determined to have it all. After a tumultuous upbringing, he’d found a family of his own, a safe place to call home, and his calling: surfing. As a World Junior Champion, his future was finally bright, until his past came for him, and one mistake had him sinking straight toward rock bottom.
Years later, he’s fresh-out-the-slammer and stripped of his medal, his future uncertain. When one last chance to follow his dream of becoming a professional surfer presents itself, he takes it with both hands—no distractions, no weakness. That is, until he crosses paths with his coach’s daughter. Weston quickly realizes that, while she’s the only person capable of shaking his focus, she may be the only one capable of healing his heart too.
Willow Graham isn’t supposed to be here. She had plans, and they didn’t include an abrupt move back to her hometown of Pacific Shores, or dropping out of the University she worked so hard to attend. Her entire life unraveled after a traumatic experience she’s still struggling to come to terms with, and her only priority is getting back on track.
Both hellbent on rebuilding their futures and rediscovering who they are, Willow and Weston initially find themselves at odds when their shared spaces cause a tension neither of them are prepared for, but as their forced proximity gives way to mutual understanding, they discover a connection deeper than they ever thought possible.
Will their unexpected bond prove strong enough to overcome the tides between them, or will they end in tatters?
EXCERPT
Chapter Twenty
Willow
“That fucking sucked.” Allie braces her hands on her knees, sucking in gulps of air.
“Allie, my love, you’ve gotta move your body more,” Dahlia says, rubbing her back. “No way are two old birds like Darby and I in better shape than you.”
“I’m in shape,” she pants. “I’m just filled to the brim with watermelon wine coolers and Malibu lemonade. The water was way too choppy for my stomach to handle this morning.”
I cover a snort with my hand. My mom shoots me a warning glare a moment before Allie lifts her head, brown eyes narrowed at me. “I will vomit all over you.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” I smile.
She groans, holding her stomach as she stands up. “I’ve got to go lie in bed for three days.”
My aunt pulls her shoulder-length blond hair from her face, tying it back before placing her hand on Allie’s shoulder again, guiding her down the beach. “I’ll have Archer come by a little later with dinner for you, okay?”
“Hey!” I call out after her. “You need to ignore Declan’s calls for at least forty-eight hours.”
She tosses me a thumbs up, my mom and aunt both nodding in agreement.
I wasn’t a witness to their blowout last night, but apparently Declan really drove into her after Archer arrived, accusing her of having an affair with him in front of most of the party. It wasn’t until Allie’s dad, Dom, and my uncle Everett essentially threw him out that things finally calmed down.
I think, at this point, we’d all prefer she never speak to Declan again, but Allie has a penchant for toxic relationships, and it typically takes several breakups with the same guy before she calls it quits for good. She never becomes emotionally invested in any of them—in anyone besides Archer. Personally, I think she’s self-sabotaging, buying time until she and my cousin figure their weird fucking relationship out.
In a way, I feel for Declan. I imagine it’d be difficult to date someone and realize that they’re irrevocably in love with someone else, but regardless, the way he speaks to her is despicable and I still hate the guy.
“How are you feeling, baby?” Mom asks as she and I trail Dahlia and Allie, hauling our deflated paddleboards back toward the house.
The morning sun shines down on the mountains to the east, the whipping ocean breeze and beaded saltwater cooling my already heated skin. Though, I think the sun is only a fraction of the cause for the flames erupting over my flesh after that moment with Wes this morning.
I could feel him against my thigh. He was hard. Throbbing. And I have no business thinking about how much I liked it while my mother is standing right beside me.
“I’m feeling fine,” I say as we reach the stairs.
I glance over my shoulder, finding my dad, Liv, and Wes huddled together, talking with their arms crossed. Likely discussing strategy for his first competition. Though, when Wes’s eyes flash to mine, molten and deep blue in the daylight, that heat inside my body surges.
Truthfully, I feel like I could throw up.
I don’t think the alcohol or last night’s breakdown have anything to do with it. I think it has everything to do with the fact that Weston slept outside my tent. On the ground, in the elements, knowing he’d have to wake up this morning and push his body to the brink. Still, he chose me—my safety and comfort over his own. Weston held me while I cried. He didn’t question me, didn’t doubt my feelings or my fears. His touch never made me flinch or freeze.
My chest is so full of butterflies, I fear they may begin spilling from my mouth, showing everyone on this beach how infatuated I’m becoming with that boy.
He looks at me like he may be feeling the same way. Those storms that always seem to be clouding his eyes have become clear. When he studies me now, I could swear there is a desire as potent as my own written in his features.
His stare burns into me the entire ascent up the cliffside.
“I can put these away for you, Mama,” I say when we reach the garage, plucking the strap of her paddleboard from her shoulder. I notice both Allie’s and Dahlia’s are also propped outside the back door.
“You sure?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I grab the door handle, pushing it open with my shoulder. “I’m going to wait for Weston.”
“Ah.” Mom nods, hazel eyes sparkling mischievously. “Okay.”
“We’re friends,” I snap.
“Mm-hmm.” She smiles, peeling off her wetsuit and shimmying down to the yellow one-piece she’s wearing beneath it. “I used to be friends with the bad boy surfer too.”
Am I that transparent?
“Just be careful, okay?” Mom asks. “I like Weston a lot, but I don’t want you to jump into anything too fast, before you’ve had time to process everything you’ve been through this summer—and all that he’s gone through too.” At my frown, she pulls me in for a hug, pressing her lips to my forehead. “Give the both of you some grace, some time to grow into this friendship.” Pulling back, she smiles at me with sparkling eyes. “Because falling in love with your best friend is the greatest feeling in the world.”
I respond with a resigned nod before my mom spins and strides off toward the house. Stripping out of my wetsuit and adjusting the straps of my green bikini before I gather it up, along with the rest of them, I toss them in the corner of the garage to be washed later. Next, I drag each of the heavy bags that contain the inflatable paddleboards inside and prop them up in the corner where my dad stores them, dusting off the dried sand.
I begin a load of laundry—mostly beach towels—and empty out the ice chests my cousins lugged up here earlier this morning.
I know my mom means well, and while my dad and I haven’t discussed it, I have high doubts he’d disagree with anything she says. Plus, Weston mentioned my father told him to stay away from me. That pissed me off, and the familiar vexation surges in me now. I understand they’re protective of me, especially after what I’ve gone through, but their misplaced concern ignites a defensive flame in me.
Despite only knowing him a few weeks, Weston has proven time and again to be nothing but respectful and kind. He’s also funny. He constantly makes me laugh, and his aura is addicting. I crave his presence because I feel good around him. Less broken, and more like me.
We both tried to fight that at first—him because he needs to focus on his future, and me because I need to get mine back on track, but I think we’ve both realized now that we’re better when we’re together, and I can’t see how it could be wrong to lean into that feeling.
Then there is the aspect of Weston that I nearly made a fool of myself by admitting last night when I was drunk: the desire. For months, I’ve struggled to look in the mirror, struggled to feel anything other than disgust and disappointment with my own body. Not to mention the physical side effects of my abortion—I woke up this morning to find that I was spotting. Again.
My libido has not only been nonexistent, but fighting against me. That is, until Weston entered the picture. Now he’s the image behind my eyes every time they’re closed. He’s the spark between my thighs, and the touch reigniting my dormant desire.
I want him, and while I want to nurture this budding friendship between us at the same time, I don’t know how much longer I can go without his touch.
As I’m organizing the extra drinks in the garage fridge, I hear the hum of distant voices growing louder.
“You did well today. I think it’s time to take you out of the cove and have you begin practicing on larger waves. There are a couple spots up the coastline I’d like to take you to, so we’ll start on Monday,” my dad’s voice echoes outside the garage.
“Okay,” Weston replies. “That sounds great.”
“Can you put the boards away for me? The house is a fucking mess, and I don’t want Darby having to clean up inside alone.”
“Absolutely. I’ll take care of it.”
Dad’s Crocs squeak with each step he makes against the concrete outside before the garage door creaks open, and Weston enters, wetsuit folded at his hips as he holds a board in each hand.
He’s beautiful.
Wet, dark hair falls at the center of his forehead, thick brows hover over those gray-blue eyes, widening when he notices me. He licks his lips, swallowing as a bead of water runs down the center of his bare chest. I watch until it disappears.
“Hey,” he says, breaking my trance, stripping out of his wetsuit and down to the pair of swim shorts he’s wearing beneath it.
“Hi. I waited for you.”
“Did you?”
My eyes are still locked on his waist, and I take a slow perusal of his chest, raking them back up his body, catching his gaze again. “I did. I have a question for you.”
“I suppose I must have an answer for you.” He grins, walking the boards over to the corner of the garage and sliding one into the stands before propping the other onto the shaping board. “Don’t let me forget to wax those later.”
I nod as he leans against the wall, crossing his arms, settling in. Nerves prick my stomach, and I’m suddenly filled with apprehension. I breathe deep, summoning all my courage. “You said last night you’re afraid. Of never experiencing the full range of emotion. Love and intimacy.”
His brows draw together in surprise, before he huffs a laugh, rubbing his jaw and dropping his gaze to his feet. “You remember?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Yeah, Wills. I’m afraid of that.”
“You’ve never felt anything like that before?” I take a step toward him.
He lifts his head, eyes blazing. “I’ve never felt anything even close.”
“You’ve never been in love? Not even a crush?”
His lips part, and he looks me up and down before his mouth snaps shut. He shakes his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever known someone well enough to want them like that. I don’t think I’ve ever felt safe enough to feel anything at all.”
Nodding, I say, “I can understand that. I’m not sure I could’ve a few months ago, but I understand it now.” I feel his stare in every atom of my body when I ask, “So you’ve never . . . daydreamed about someone? Fantasized? Even when you . . .” My eyes drop to his hips of their own accord.
He laughs softly, and my gaze snaps back to his face. “Uh, no. Not really. I don’t think my brain works like that. I don’t see anything or anybody when I’m . . .” He chews the inside of his cheek, crossing his arms. “I think even inside my own mind, I have to feel like I know someone. I have to feel some kind of connection.”
I tilt my head. “Do you feel like you know me?”
His breath hitches, eyes sparking. “Yeah, Wills.” Weston’s voice is low. Rough. Fervent. “I feel like I know you.”
“Do you feel safe with me?” Allowing the heat inside my core to radiate with every word, I ask, “Connected to me?”
He doesn’t answer, but I don’t miss the way his fingers flex where they rest on his bicep, like he wishes he were gripping me instead. We’re close enough now that the heat of his exhale lands on my skin. His pupils dilate when I reach behind my neck and slowly untie my bathing suit.
“Because I do. I feel safe. Connected,” I whisper, drawing the string until the knot pops and it untangles. I catch the fabric, placing my palms over my breasts before they become exposed. “I’m going to take a shower.”
I step back, keeping my eyes on him a moment longer before I spin and walk toward the back door.
“Willow,” he rasps, the sound so anguished it sears my flesh. “I need you to tell me what you want from me right now. I can’t be guessing with you. I can’t risk getting it wrong.”
My chest floods with liquid warmth—a rush of blood my heart only pumps at his command.
I keep my back turned to him as I whisper, “I want you to follow me, Weston—but only if you want that too.”
That warmth spreads when I hear the sound of his footsteps moving in my direction.
I exit and round the side of the garage, heading toward the shower stall built against it on the farthest end of my parents’ property. I nudge the swinging door open with my hip, stepping inside the changing area. I spin around in time to watch Weston enter, closing the door behind him. He leans back against it, keeping space between us.
I cover my chest with one hand as I reach behind my back, tugging the string of my bikini, unraveling the top entirely. I drop my arms as it falls away, baring myself to him. My nipples tighten against the sea breeze and his stare.
Weston’s eyes are fixed on my breasts, lips parted, breath heavy. I slip my thumbs under the hem of the bottoms on each side of my hips before pushing them over my thighs. They drop past my knees, hitting the ground as I step out and kick them aside.
His gaze drags down my body, slow and purposeful, as if memorizing every inch of exposed skin.
When he reaches the apex of my thighs, a noise crawls from his throat, some kind of whimper. His eyes glaze over, half-lidded and swimming with passion. Utter devastation.
All that desire I’d thought I’d lost comes barreling back when Weston’s gaze is locked on me like this. Even without his touch, without his words, I feel him all over me.
I turn, offering him a view of my backside as I step into the shower.
A shuddered breath and a tortured, “Fuck,” follows me inside.
I turn the handle, and water cascades around me. Weston remains at the edge of the small stall, watching me with that same tormented and beguiled expression as I drench myself, spinning around to tilt my face toward the stream and push my hair behind my head.
“You’re so beautiful, Willow,” he whispers brokenly. “I’ve struggled to find beauty in most things for most of my life, but you . . .” The words trail off, like he’s lost them, and when I open my eyes through the hazy steam, he’s shaking his head and rubbing his jaw, looking at me like all those lost words are written on my skin.
My body screams with need. Touch. Feel. Savor. Heat coils tightly in my core as my ribs ache and expand, like my heart is outgrowing the space they confine it in.
“I won’t touch you unless you ask me to. Even then, I . . . I’m no good at any of this.”
I step out of the water, just enough to see him clearly, but it still beats at my back.
“I don’t think that’s true, Wes.” I smile softly. “But right now, I don’t want to be touched. I want to be desired.”
“Baby, I’m desiring you so hard it fucking hurts.”
My eyes drop again, cheeks heating at the sight of the impressive bulge beneath his shorts. “Show me?”
His hands shake as they reach for the tie at his waistband. He unravels it, slowly pulling apart the Velcro that holds them together before his shorts drop to the floor, and I’m met with his strong, powerful body. Despite being covered in water, my mouth goes completely dry at the sight of his cock. Thick, hard, huge.
“No way is that fitting inside me.” The words come out choked. My eyes snap to his, horror sluicing through me because I had zero intention of voicing that aloud. “I . . . I didn’t mean to suggest—”
He smirks. “I think we could make it work.”
I swallow my traitorous tongue, continuing to soak in the raw perfection that is his body. When my eyes find his cock again, he pulses, and though his palm remains on his thigh, the tendons in his hand flex with need.
“You can touch it,” I whisper.
God, I want to watch him. He’s so big, so rugged. Yet tender and deep and soft and rough. A delicious contradiction. I want to see him when I close my eyes. I want to imagine his hand is mine. My mouth. My body. I’ve been starved for sensation, for yearning, for an ache like this.
“Touch yourself,” he begs. “Show me.”
It’s all rushing back to me, everything I’ve been suppressing for months, terrified I’d never feel again. I’ve not been seen naked by another person in so long, but I haven’t been looked at like this ever.
After losing so much of myself, I thought I’d never find my way back. Safe vulnerability, comfortable exposure. Yet somehow, in a matter of weeks, the man in front of me plucked every jagged edge of my shattered pieces, and created something new.
My pulse pounds in my ears as I skate a hand down my chest, gripping one breast and rolling my peaked nipple between my fingers. The other slides over my hips, fingers dipping between my legs to tease my clit. The self-disgust that typically begins to rip at my flesh when I reach this point doesn’t appear. All I see is my own desire reflected back at me through his eyes, all I feel is the expression on his face—desperate and devastated.
Weston grabs his cock, swiping a thumb over his tip, spreading the moisture beaded there down to his base before pumping hard. A rough groan escapes his lips at the movement.
My lids flutter, eyes fighting to stay open as I brush over my swollen bud. I’m fucking drenched, and it has nothing to do with the water pouring down around me. “Wes—”
A door slams nearby, voices echo, floating through the open sky above our heads.
We both freeze, and when his eyes widen with shock, I know mine are mirroring them.
“It’s like . . . the dick doesn’t suddenly taste like whipped cream, the whipped cream just now tastes like a dick. You know?”
I grimace at the sound of my aunt’s undeniably recognizable voice.
Wes snorts, and I lurch forward, removing all distance between us as I clamp my hand over his mouth. A muffled groan vibrates against my palm, and my entire body flushes when I realize my bare chest is pressed against his. His hard cock throbs at my stomach.
“Yeah, I can get behind most kinks, but I’ve never understood food play.” That would be my mother. It’s quiet for a tick before I hear, “Is the outdoor shower running?”
Fuck.
“Yeah, Mom. It’s me!” I call.
“Why are you showering out here?” Her voice is right outside the stall.
“Uh . . . I didn’t want to track sand inside the house?” I say it like a question.
“Oh.” She hums. “Well, I appreciate that. I should make your father start doing that.”
Weston’s eyes flare with panic.
“Where is Dad?” I ask, attempting nonchalance.
“Dishes,” she responds. Wes and I both breathe a sigh of relief. “I’m doing a load of laundry. I was going to grab some beach towels.”
“I threw some in earlier!” I call back.
“Oh, right. Because you were waiting for Weston,” she sings, snickering. “Okay, love you.”
“Love you,” I grumble, feeling Wes smile against my palm as he slowly raises a brow.
“Bye, Willow!” Dahlia calls as their voices fade away.
I drop my head to his shoulder, sighing with relief. He cups the back of my head, and if I’m not mistaken, he plants a kiss into my hair.
“We should probably go before we’re caught,” Wes whispers.
I whine, the sound muffled against his collarbone, nodding in agreement.
