700 Senses of Summer (The Romantics #2)

1. Jack

1

JACK

MORNING MEATLOAF

“A ll clear. Station one is heading out,” Chief clipped over the radio as we loaded up into the engine.

Sand dusted my boots as I climbed into the rig and dropped down into my seat.

Everything ached.

The last twenty-four hours had been non-stop. It was one chaos fest after the next. I started my shift with a vehicle versus tree, then immediately followed it up with a medical call that ended up being airlifted inland.

Then it was small complaints that we had to respond to. Bonfires on the beach where there shouldn’t have been bonfires. Fireworks gone wrong, turning into a small brush fire. A medical call where we were first on the scene while EMS was tied up on their own call. Another car accident, thanks to a drunk driver.

I thought sunrise would have been a reprieve, but it wasn’t. Just when I thought I was going to be able to clock out and go home, we got toned out for a possible drowning in progress.

A paddleboarder had gotten caught in the fast-moving current pulling away from the barrier islands and out to the channel. Workers maintaining an oyster bed had caught sight of the person and called it into the Coast Guard .

We had been on shore to receive the paddleboarder and decide on the continuum of care. Thankfully , the guy had been fine and was just happy to be back on land. But the ghosts of what could have been lingered on the ride back to the station.

The shiny red and gold sign for Cedar Island Fire and Rescue came into sight as the driver pulled up to the garage bay. The station had, thankfully, been renovated after a long fundraising campaign. Even though I considered it a second home and loved the wear and tear from decades of crews working around the clock, having floors without fifty years of residue and couches that weren’t disintegrating from chili-induced farts did a lot to boost morale.

“Wharton.”

I glanced over my shoulder as we unloaded and spotted Drew coming in to relieve me.

“How was your night?” he asked as he bent to tie the laces of his station shoes.

One cursory glance, and he knew the answer.

“Busy as hell,” I said with a yawn. “ Hopefully , it will be?—”

“Don’t say it," he clipped.

I snickered under my breath. We were a superstitious bunch. Full moons brought out the craziest calls the island had to offer. A busy shift was usually followed by a slow one. But say s-l-o-w, and it would summon back-to-back tones raining down hellfire on the crew.

“Hope it’s easier for you,” I said with a chuckle.

“You going to get some sleep?”

Honest to God , that’s what I wanted. Forty -eight hours of uninterrupted shuteye before I had to be back on shift.

“Nah. I need to stay awake for a little bit. I might poke around the old Whitlock place,” I said as I emptied out my locker and stuffed my gear and travel mug in my duffel bag.

Drew’s brow furrowed as he sidled up to the locker next to mine. “ They need to bulldoze that house. One good storm and the whole thing is coming down.”

“Nah,” I said as I shouldered my bag. “ It’s got good bones. It just needs some work.”

“Make sure you’re up to date on your tetanus shots,” he called after me. “ I don’t wanna have to cover for you if you get laid up after stepping on a rusty nail.”

The morning sun would have been great if I were awake. Instead , it lulled me into a trance. I wanted to stretch out in the hammock on my deck and get a catnap, rocking in the warm air.

I cranked up Jimmy Buffet as loud as the old speaker on my truck would go and pulled away from the station. Tall grasses and towering trees edged the coastline. The Atlantic was a crisp blue today, sparkling in the sun. Traffic heading toward the ferry was nearly bumper-to-bumper as tourists lined up to go to Ocracoke Island , but the route home was sparse.

Two quick turns and I was bumping down my driveway. Shadows danced along the hood of my truck as sunbeams filtered through the sprawling branches of the two live oaks that bracketed my driveway.

I hopped out and slammed the door. But instead of heading inside, I rounded the mailbox and stood in the sand-sprayed street, staring up at the old Whitlock place.

The stairs leading up to the stilted mansion next door looked like a death trap. Half of the planks were missing, making it more like hopscotch than a walkway. The shutters were hanging haphazardly, and the exterior needed to be power-washed.

The old Whitlock place had sat abandoned for years after Juniper Whitlock died. Rumor had it that the property had gone to her next of kin, but I had never seen anyone come to stay in the property or care for it. There was no telling what it looked like inside.

Even though I had grown up on Cedar Island , I had never been inside. By the time I moved into my little cottage, the mansion next door had been locked and shuttered.

I should have taken a buddy-swimming approach to scaling the steps, just in case I fell through, but I was driven by curiosity and exhaustion. I gripped the rails with both hands as I stepped over the gaping holes to get up to the second-story front door. The board beneath me creaked and groaned as I settled my weight on it, but it held.

I took the next step, then quickly went back to the other board when it splintered, sending up a puff of dust.

Maybe Drew was right. Rusty nails and tetanus seemed like an unpleasant end to a hellish shift.

I eased up on my toes, trying to get a peek in the salt-sprayed windows. The windows on the oceanfront side were shuttered, but I could still get a peek from the street side.

The house looked like it had been filled with the ghosts of lives past. White sheets were draped over furniture. Cobwebs hung from nearly every corner. The door had been locked years ago, but from the way it was hanging, it looked like the wind had cracked it open.

I wasn’t risking life and limb today. I wanted a nap more than I wanted an hour drive to the nearest hospital after falling through the deck and breaking my legs.

I eased back down the steps, careful to only step on the planks I knew were sturdy. Maybe I’d come back over and replace the boards after a long nap and hot food. I was sick of protein shakes and power bars, but they were fast and portable when I was on duty.

I gave the dilapidated house one last look, shaking my head as I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my uniform shorts, and walked next door.

Everything was just as I had left it. Neat and organized. I toed off my shoes on the doormat, dropped my station bag in the laundry room, stripped down, and dumped my uniform straight into the washing machine.

I grabbed a container of leftover meatloaf from the fridge on my way through the kitchen. The blackout curtains were wide open, flooding the house with morning sun. I took a bite as I stood in front of the glass and stared at the beach.

The waves were cresting in neat lines, steady and true. I turned and rested against the windowsill on the side of the house and studied the part of the Whitlock place that faced my bedroom. Maybe it was on my mind because I had just been over there. A window on the second floor looked straight into mine, but heavy drapes prevented me from seeing what was inside.

I took another bite before carrying the meatloaf into the shower so I could eat while I rinsed off the shift, then get some shuteye.