Chapter 12
Diana
I’m sitting at a table with Ike Wentworth and he’s being nice.
I know how to interact with him when he’s taunting me, but I have no idea how to handle him when he’s kind and his shirt sleeves are rolled up and he smells like pine and something that makes my toes curl.
I take a long breath and hold it before I hyperventilate.
I can’t believe I showed him my spreadsheet.
You are not going to hyperventilate in front of Ike.
He saw my spreadsheet. So what? I don’t care. Except now he’s looking at it with a grin growing on his face like he can’t wait to tell his buddies about it. Another Diana York faux pas for the town lore.
The first few items on the spreadsheet are standard home repair stuff that I figured Ike could handle to keep us within budget—exterior lights, grounds maintenance, and minor plumbing things.
Last night I climbed upstairs and into my bed and made this list while Ike’s manipulative cologne was fresh in my nose.
Things went off the rails around row fourteen when I added his cologne to the list of things Ike needs to fix if we’re going to live together.
Row twenty-five was where I started a deep dive into the rumors he’s spread about me and needs to undo.
And row thirty-two was where things really took a turn.
Luckily, it’s past the bottom of the page.
I snap the laptop shut, holding it closed with white-knuckled fingers. “You get the gist.”
Ike is grinning behind his stupid beard. “Let me see that again, Di.” He reaches for the computer. “I didn’t look at all of it.”
I snatch my laptop off the table, hugging it to my chest. “I’ll email it to you.” I dart for the stairs.
His chair scrapes away from the table. He’s following me.
“You’re going to run away?” His voice has the teasing quality I’m accustomed to.
There’s the guy I remember. I knew better than to trust the phony civil front he was putting on.
“It must’ve gotten spicy. The last thing I saw was something about my cologne, which was interesting. ”
I freeze halfway up the creaky steps. I am not running away from this tormenter.
We both have to live here. I spin on my bare feet, stomping down the stairs and across the living area until I’m looking up at Ike.
“Okay, listen.” Geez, he’s tall. I’m basically having a conversation with his bearded jaw.
“I’ll show you the rest of your to-do list line by line and you’re going to agree to it without mockery or complaint.
Got it?” I can’t believe I’m offering this, but I’m doing it in the name of clear communication.
He peers down at me, his brown eyes full of amusement. “I’m not going to agree to anything until I know what it is. For all I know you want me to massage your feet every night.”
That’s a good idea and not far off from where things were headed on line thirty-two.
“Oh, you’d like that, I bet. Pervert,” I bait him, tightening my arms around my laptop.
Okay, I’m rescinding the offer. He can never see that spreadsheet, but I can’t delete it.
Making it brought me too much joy, and joy is in short supply these days.
So I’ll copy it, delete the incriminating lines, and send the edited version to Ike, the feet guy.
“Big talk from the woman who drools over a man in a firefighting uniform.” Is he moving closer?
“Oh, you got that far? You’re a fast reader. I never would’ve guessed.” I grin at him with confidence I’m not feeling. I can’t believe he got to the line about not wearing his fire uniform in my presence.
He looks like he’s seconds from wrestling this computer out of my arms. And he is definitely moving closer. His cologne and rolled up shirtsleeves are all up in my business. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
Yeah, right. “I know enough. You’re the golden boy of Cape Georgeana and you’d do anything to earn their love, including personally filling potholes on your day off.
” Stevie told me about that. “You were Mr. Popular in highschool, and now the whole town calls you Mr. Everything behind your back because you don’t know how to say no to anyone.
Town Manager, volunteer firefighter, Captain America, Mother Teresa.
” The amusement in his eyes is gone. He takes a step back.
“Oh, and you’re obsessed with feet. Mine, in particular. Did I miss anything?”
His tight eyes flit to my bare feet. “You pretty much nailed it. You know me.” He fixes a wide smile in place that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Except the feet thing, of course. I’m a butt guy.”
This man is a button pusher. “Yeah, you’re a butt guy.” I paste on the trademark York Business Smile. Ike is not as amused as I am. “Well, a butt, anyway.”
His expression changes. His eyes harden. He nods once. “Send me that list.” Then he shoves through the door, letting it slam behind him.
∞∞∞
Ike never came back. It’s almost eleven o’clock. The tide came up long ago, and now the breeze is whistling around the lighthouse tower. It’s a sound I’ve never noticed before.
The wind picks up, howling around and through the drafty house, and my bedside lamp flickers.
The waves sound closer than they did last night.
I’m over the haunted house atmosphere. I push send on Ike’s freshly-edited spreadsheet, then close my laptop and drop it onto the quilt.
That Mac is the only thing that ever sleeps beside me.
Spreadsheets are the only husband I need, I think with a yawn.
Spreadsheets can’t spoon you, a voice taunts in the back of my head. It sounds like my grandma. Spreadsheets won’t banter with you over a fluffernutter dinner.
“You’ve never seen my spreadsheets,” I mumble. I reach over, placing a hand on my warm laptop. “Good night, lover,” I whisper, and the ridiculousness of my life forces a laugh out of me.
I groan at my foolishness, curling under my starfish quilt and sliding my bare legs around until I find a cool spot in the sheets.
I thought I’d fall asleep quickly, but my feisty conversation with Ike runs through my mind on a loop while the wind howls around me.
I don’t like the way I teased him. I took things too far.
I called out a huge weakness, and he didn’t dish it back.
He could have. Instead, he left. And I’m feeling worthy of all the witchy rumors about me.
I want to call Ike and apologize, but when I swipe open my phone it occurs to me that I don’t have his number. Email, yes. But do I have my husband’s phone number? No. This really is a business arrangement. I shoot a quick humble pie text to Stevie.
DIANA:
Hey, can you give me Ike’s phone number?
STEVIE:
You don’t have it?
STEVIE:
Isn’t he asleep on your couch right now?
DIANA:
He isn’t here. I need to call him to apologize for being myself.
I tack on a GIF of a laughing Wicked Witch of the West. She’ll get it.
STEVIE:
You’re not a witch, you’re his wife!
She attaches a GIF of Miracle Max from The Princess Bride that makes my laughter drown out the sound of the wind. I am so grateful to have Stevie as a friend. Next, she sends his number and wishes me good luck.
I have Ike Wentworth’s phone number.
This shouldn’t make my heart rate spike, but here I am—my heart thumping and my cold finger pushing the little green phone icon to call him. I try to calm my breathing while it rings in my ear.
“Hello?”
“Ike?”
“Yeah.” He sounds winded.
“Why are you out of breath?” I didn’t mean for the question to sound like an accusation, but it did. This apology is getting off to a rocky start.
“I’m working.” There’s shuffling on his end. “Why are you calling so late? Everything okay over there, Diana?”
I’m relieved that he doesn't sound like he’s nursing a grudge.
And he would be stacking wood—or whatever he’s doing—in the middle of the night.
It probably belongs to his widowed neighbor.
She’ll pay him in cookies, and he’ll donate the cookies to a soup kitchen. But wait. “How did you know it’s me?”
There’s a heavy thud on his end. “I know your voice.”
I don’t know why that information makes me smile. “Oh.”
“And the 212 number kinda gave you away,” he says with a grunt.
Oh, yeah. That.
“So…” he trails off, his voice strained.
“What are you doing out so late?” I smack my hand on my forehead. Then I rest it on my computer to remind myself of the one constant in my life—my hot boyfriend, Mac.
“Why? Do you miss me?” Ike’s voice is gravelly and strained.
“Ugh.” I can’t remember why I called this man.
Oh, yeah. Humble pie. “I called to apologize for how I spoke to you earlier, but you know what? You’re fine.
” I toss in my bed, punching my pillow to make it softer.
“And the tide is up, but you’re a big boy.
You can figure out how to get back to the island. ”
“You’re worried about me.” His voice sounds so smug. “What a good wife.”
Then thunder cracks, so loud and close that I gasp. A second burst of simultaneous thunder and lightning crashes, and my heart is pounding.
“You okay?”
It takes me a second to find my voice. “Yeah?”
“You sure?”
Not in the least. “Yeah. I’m good.”
This time he sounds serious. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, Di.”
The jig is up. He knows I’m nervous, though I’m trying my level best to play it cool here.
I’ve lived alone for a long time. I don’t get scared in the dark, and I navigate New York City by myself on a daily basis.
But I’ve never ridden out a storm in a dilapidated house, yards away from the ocean.
So my voice cracks a little when I say, “Don’t worry about it. ”
Instead of letting my awkwardness slide like he did earlier, he chuckles in my ear. “That’s our deal. I live with you. I’m coming back.”