13. Shelby
The next morning, I very strongly consider moving out before anyone wakes up, but, of course, when I push open my door a crack, Mac’s in the kitchen doing something fancy with a coffee filter and beaker-looking thing. I want coffee so badly—and yes, I need to own up to my mistakes—that I slip out the door and walk, head held high, across the still-slippery deck to the patio door.
I nearly lose my life as I do it, though, my heel slipping on the slick wood. Luckily, I regain my footing. I straighten my hair in the glass and wait for my pulse to calm down before pulling open the door.
“Good morning,” I say brightly as I stride into the kitchen.
Mac grunts, pouring coffee into a stoneware mug, his back to me. “I’m laying down some grating today.”
My shoulders drop. “I’m sorry, what?”
He turns around, coffee in hand.
My stomach does a complete double barrel roll, because I don’t think I’ve ever seen something so absolutely beautiful as this man holding out coffee for me. He’s wearing black sweatpants and a clean white T-shirt, and his hair curls down around his face, soft against his rough-hewn jaw. He points his chin at a carton of cream and the sugar dish already set out on the big plank table next to where I stand.
“Grating,” he says.
I take the coffee and slide into a chair at the table.
“To make the deck safer. I saw your silly walking out there just now. Thought I’d let you know.”
“Silly walking?”
“That’s what we call it when someone trips on a hiking trail. Makes it less embarrassing.”
“Oh does it?” My flaming cheeks have to disagree.
“Actually I have no idea,” Mac says, turning back around.
The soft rush of water sounds as he turns on the tap.
“Let me guess, you don’t trip on trails,” I say, loud enough to be heard over the water.
“Not generally, no.”
“Only when strange women knock you out in the dark?”
Mac’s back goes stiff. The water abruptly shuts off.
Oh my God, why did I do that? Bring attention to the ridiculous thing I made happen last night?
“I’m not concussed,” he says. “In case you’re wondering.”
I let out a breath. “I’m…really sorry.”
“It’s fine. I’m…sorry you saw the full monty.”
That’s not what I’m sorry about, but I hold my tongue, because Nate comes down the stairs then, grimacing when he sees the two of us talking. His cheeks are pink.
“Morning!” I say cheerily.
He flames even more red as he reaches for the cupboard to pull out a box of cereal.
“Hey, uh, I’m sorry about last night,” I tell him.
Nate’s eyes go wide.
“I heard a noise, and tried to open the door, and?—”
“It was an accident,” Mac says. “Nothing happened.”
Nate’s holding the cereal box in the air, but he abruptly slides it back into the cupboard. “I’m just going to get something from the breakfast program,” he says.
“Want a ride?” Mac says.
“Hell no.”
“Language!”
“That’s what I’m speaking.”
The front door slams a moment later, and Mac leans back against the counter, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose.
My stomach twists. I could tell things are rough between them, but it’s my fault things are this bad this morning. Guilt cloaks me as I think of the way Nate’s brows pinched as he fled the kitchen. “Mac, I’m so sorry?—”
“No. Don’t be.” He heaves a sigh, then scrapes his hand down his face. “He’s never going to believe nothing happened.”
I’m so surprised at this that I let out a laugh.
Mac frowns. “What?”
“I’m sure he doesn’t think anything happened between us.”
Mac tilts his head. “Why not?”
“Because you?—”
I flush, yet again. You’re you, and I’m me.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. I take a sip of the coffee, then another, wishing I’d asked if I could take it to go instead of scalding my mouth like this. “Listen,” I say between scorching sips. I stand up, moving toward the sink, and take another sip.
“You always chug your morning coffee?” Mac asks.
“Yup!” I drain the last of it and turn my face to pant a little.
“Shelby,” Mac says, reaching out and touching my shoulder.
Even through my sweater, his hands are big and warm. I look up, pulse fluttering. What’s he going to say? That he’s flattered I keep staring at him? That I’m actually pretty cute?
All things that have been said to me by hot men before.
But Mac doesn’t say anything. He just looks down at me, searching my face. Then he leans forward, so close I breathe in his woodsmoke pine-soap salty goddamned seafaring skin. I take a shuddering breath as his arm crosses in front of me.
Then I feel the mug lift from my hand.
Mac sticks it in the dishwasher rack behind him.
“There’s an extra set of keys to my truck on the hook over there,” he says, pointing to a neat little row of keys and one fob.
I swallow hard. “Oh.”
“I have to cover some evening shifts at the pub for the next few nights, so I won’t be home much until Friday. But there’s lots of food in the fridge. Nate’ll be around but…you probably won’t get him out of his room.”
I want to tell him it’s fine. That I really can call a cab this time. But he’s already heading for the door, where he pulls on a set of sneakers and grabs Tink’s leash.
It really would be good to have a vehicle today. This place isn’t exactly high on the walkability scale.
“Okay,” I say. “If you’re sure—thank you.”
He nods, whistling for Tink, who comes bounding down the stairs.
“Oh, and my number’s on the fridge. Text if you need anything,” he says as he opens the door.
“Stay off the deck!” I joke.
He snaps his gaze to mine, and I wish so badly I had a different brain.
“I’ll need to get on it to lay down the grating,” he says.
I open my mouth to tell him I was making another bad joke, but to my utter astonishment, the man winks at me, with a little grin to go with it.
Holy shit, Alasdair MacGregor just played me at my own game.
As forewarned, Mac’s gone for the next few nights. And I don’t run into him in the mornings after that first day. I thought he was going for his runs earlier than usual, but this morning, when I went out to the truck, I noticed the wetsuit hanging on a hook in the garage that I hadn’t given much attention to before has a little puddle under it. Is that where he’s been in the mornings? Freaking scuba diving?
The man continues to surprise me.
Despite the lack of his physical presence, Mac’s not altogether absent. As promised, he leaves food in the fridge for us in tidy glass containers, with little notes taped to them about how to prepare them. Somehow even Mac’s writing is sexy—all slants and slashes.
Would it be weird to fantasize about a man while reading his handwriting? Because I’ve been doing that. I don’t bother trying not to anymore, not when I keep seeing his naked form superimposed in my brain. Even sprawled out and in pain, he was so sexy I blush remembering it. Late at night, I even imagine other ways it could have gone. Like if we’d been alone, and I could have brought him into my room to “check him over.” A.k.a. play nurse…
In lieu of that, I write him back. Just little things like how the risotto was outrageously delicious and how Tink got thisclose to actually murdering a squirrel that day. They’re ridiculous, but it makes me feel like we’re having a little conversation, which makes me happy.
With Nate mostly hiding in his room, I take advantage of my time. I spend the week exploring Redbeard Cove, for reconnaissance for the Dinghy before I start working with Mac next week, but also in my own search for Shelby Jessica Fox. Extensive Googling has told me nothing. She’s not on archival sites, and she’s not in any search results remotely related to the coast of British Columbia. I found one in Florida, but she was in her twenties. I found another one in California, but she was a B-list actress who died thirty years ago. There’s no one with that name in Canada at all. According to the internet, my Shelby Jessica Fox doesn’t exist.
The impression I got with Chris that first day stands as I pay more attention to the town. It’s the perfect mix of local small-town flavor and newer big city sensibilities. It’s clear the tourist population is minimal at this time of year, though I can sense the businesses gearing up for their influx as the weather warms up. When I pass by the bakery, there’s a man outside redoing the curved vinyl lettering on the glass. He tips his hat at me as I pass, making me laugh and tip an imaginary hat back. And even though it’s only May tomorrow, the hardware store already has outdoor displays for summer lined up on the sidewalk: beach umbrellas, Adirondack chairs, and wood-carved signs that say things like Life is better at the cabin and Gone crabbing.
I strike up a few conversations with the few people of a certain age—a woman in the square in a purple hat who smiles kindly at me when I sit next to her with my London Fog. An older man next to me in the checkout line at the little grocer. Neither of them recall anyone called Shelby Fox living in town.
On Thursday, I come home to another closed door from Nate, and I envision another night on my own in my little loft. But just as I pull out tonight’s meal—a casserole-looking thing and a salad—the doorbell rings.
There’s a handsome man on the other side of the glass door.
I grin and open the door. “Cal!” I’m genuinely happy to see him. Especially because he’s carrying a bag full of Chinese takeout.
“Is that for me, or are you just taunting me on your way somewhere?” My dinner looked delicious, but I haven’t had takeout in way too long. I miss all the local spots in my neighborhood back home.
“I heard my bestie’s abandoned you,” Cal says. “So I come bearing food for you and Nate.”
I laugh. “Well done getting the nomenclature right.” I step aside so he can come in.
“You doing okay on your own?” Cal asks as we head to the kitchen. “He told me he had to pick up some shifts, and I know Nate tends to hide out in his room.”
“Of course,” I say brightly. “It’s not really my place to try to coax Nate out of his room; I’m just a temporary guest. But Mac doesn’t need to entertain me.”
It’s true, he doesn’t, but Cal’s expression tells me he might see the truth: It’s been lonely here without him.
“The man’s dedicated to his business,” he says.
“Admirable, don’t you think?”
Cal shrugs. “I prefer working as few hours as possible so I can carpe the fuckin’ diem, if you know what I mean. What’s the point of living out here if you don’t spend at least half your time in or around the ocean?”
As he sets out the cartons on the counter, I ask him about his work. He says he runs his own private investment and financial advising business.
I’m surprised by this. It’s what Richard did too, though he doesn’t own his own business. Cal seems more like he should run a surf shop.
“Doesn’t that require you to be in the city wearing a suit?” I eye his torn jeans and hoodie.
“I mostly just take care of a couple of high-value clients and reinvest my own money. It takes a surprisingly minimal amount of effort to be very comfortable.”
“If you love the stock market.”
“Or know how to play it.”
I still can’t get over how different he is from his best friend.
“Is that what you do for fun?” I ask as he sets the cartons on the kitchen island.
“Doing things you’re good at isn’t always fun,” he says.
I wonder what he means by that. But he continues before I can ask.
“Mostly I like to spend my time outside.” He lists off every ocean- and mountain-related recreational activity known to humankind. “Mac used to like doing that stuff too, you know. It was how he and Annie bonded, before she left and became a full-on city girl.”
I go to get plates, wanting to ask more about her and why she left, but Cal says he can’t stay. I also notice he gets a little less gregarious when he talks about Mac’s sister, and I remember Mac saying they were friends once, even though Cal has to be closer to Mac’s age than hers.
“It was above and beyond for you to bring this for us. You sure you can’t stay?”
“Sorry. I’ve got a hot date.” He winks.
“Well, in that case, it’s extra nice of you to think of us.”
But at the door, he hesitates and says, “For all the shit I talk about Mac, he’s the one who taught me how to take care of people. My parents weren’t really around, so I ate at his place a lot when I was younger. Food’s how you know he likes you.”
My cheeks heat. “He owns a food establishment. He likes feeding everyone.”
Cal gives a knowing smirk.
Doesn’t he? I don’t know why my stomach flutters at the thought of this being something special. I remember what Chris said about Mac, how he doesn’t make his club sandwich for just anyone.
As Cal leaves, he says, “Nate’s favorite is the cashew chicken.”
But I think about what he said, how Mac’s family looked after Cal when he was younger.
I head upstairs to see if Nate wants food. I raise my hand to knock but pause. Mac’s room is just down the hall, and the door is open. I can only see a sliver of his bedroom from here—the end of a wrought-iron bed covered in a dark duvet and the corner of a chair. But it’s exactly as I’d expect it to be—perfectly neat and tidy. Functional. He must not have special friends over much, though, given that bed probably sounds like a one-man band with even the slightest movement. Nate’s room is right next door.
My cheeks heat.
It’s really none of my business what goes on in Mac’s bedroom.
I knock on Nate’s door. I have to knock more than once for the sounds inside to stop—not video game noises this time, but rock music.
When Nate comes to the door, he’s a little sweaty. For a moment, I panic. The kid’s fourteen and had his door closed. But I catch a glimpse of a stage in neon lights on his giant computer screen and look down to see a plastic guitar leaned against his desk leg.
“Hi!” I say. “Do you play?”
Nate shifts to block my view. “It’s not a real guitar,” he says as if I’m dense.
“But that one is.” I point to the blue electric guitar on a stand in the corner.
Nate flushes red.
“I worked with a music label once,” I say casually. “Learned a bit about Fenders.”
His eyes widen slightly, but he still looks like he very much wants me to leave.
“Well, Cal dropped some Chinese food off,” I say. “And I just wondered if you wanted to come down and eat with me. There’s cashew chicken.”
Nate looks deeply conflicted.
“We could eat and then do a guitar battle after?”
His expression shifts to horrified.
I bite my cheek to keep from laughing. “I’m kidding. But come grab some food, and I promise I’ll leave you alone.”
I turn on my heel and head back downstairs, unsure of whether he’s going to follow me.
But a moment later, Nate comes into the room. I twist my mouth to hide my smile.
“So, what’s your favorite video game?” I ask as he opens one of the cartons and peers inside.
Nate doesn’t look up. “You wouldn’t know it.”
“Let me guess, the Fire series?”
Nate’s eyes snap to mine. “Yeah, I guess.”
I did a not-insignificant amount of work with the owner of the company that makes that game. I know how hugely popular it is—my company helped with their visibility problem, and they blew up after working with us.
I tuck this little piece of knowledge about Nate into my pocket.
Nate finds the cashew chicken and dumps it onto his plate, then adds rice. He’s clearly heading back upstairs. I don’t know why, but some small part of me hoped he might want to stay down here with me.
“I don’t bite, you know,” I say.
“What?”
“I mean we could hang out for a bit if you want.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
I try not to take that personally. Deanie’s dad remarried when she was a teenager, then started a new family. I know a bit about teenagers from her siblings, who have much bigger attitudes than Nate.
“I was thinking maybe if your dad has a night at home before I leave, I’d make dinner.” My insides scrape at the thought of me quietly leaving here next week without even seeing Mac again. How stiff would we be together at the bar? Would it be like starting over as strangers? I clear that thought for now. “I thought dinner would be a good way to thank him for letting me stay with you guys. It doesn’t honestly seem sufficient, but I’m not sure what else Mac might accept.”
The guy is thankless.
Nate’s silent for a minute. Then he says, “Are you leaving soon?”
Ouch. Okay, that one hurt. To his credit, Nate glances away after he says it, like he might have heard how that sounded.
I smile anyway. “Yeah. As soon as those guys leave the inn, I’ll be out of your hair.”
The thought of going back there even without the ATV dudes makes that hollow feeling scrape a little harder. But I don’t think about that now.
“Maybe you could help me cook?” I ask hopefully.
“Mac likes cooking. Why don’t you ask him?”
Now I have to work hard not to snap back. “Because I’m asking you. You seem cool.”
Nate pauses, then fishes around in the bag, hard. He’s upset.
But I see the change on his face. The hurt I just caused him with that word.
Nate doesn’t consider himself cool. He’s struggling. I remember that feeling with a clarity so sudden and sharp that any little hurt I feel vanishes in compassion for this boy.
The chopsticks I think he’s looking for are already on the counter. I tuck them farther behind the unopened cartons of food to buy me a minute. “Okay, well, maybe we could all make food together,” I say. “I know your dad wants to spend more time with you.”
Nate makes a scoffing sound. “Right.”
He spots the chopsticks, and I’m forced to hand a pair to him. He immediately turns and makes a beeline for the stairs.
What happened between those two? I can’t imagine Mac being anything but a doting father. But the way they are now…it doesn’t make sense.
“Good night!” I call after him.
After he’s gone, I settle down on a stool and stick a pair of chopsticks into a box of chow mein.
Then I grin. Maybe a normal person would be disappointed or upset with this interaction, but getting blown off by a hurt kid only locks in my motivation. I’m struck with a new sense of purpose, because I’ve finally found a way to thank Mac.