Chapter 3 #2
I stood from the table before I did something stupid, like reach across it and brush her hair off her cheek just to feel it between my fingertips. I picked up my tool bag and slung it over my shoulder.
“Enjoy your hot shower,” I said, backing toward the door.
“You too,” she said and instantly blushed again. Damn. I backed up until my shoulders hit the door as she laughed nervously. “I mean, have a good night.”
I nodded my head and grinned. “Night.”
I left before I could convince myself to stay longer.
The cool night air hit me on the landing and cleared my head. This was Missy. My best friend. The one person on this stupid planet I could trust and depend on. The one who knew all my secrets. All my darkness. All my dreams. And had never doubted me. Not once.
I hadn’t expected dinner. I hadn’t expected… any of what had gone on between us. What the hell was that anyway?
I’d flirted with a lot of women before. This was… different. It felt right.
I walked down the stairs, boots clunking against the old wood, and headed the few blocks home. Since it was so close, I hadn’t even driven my truck there. I liked the small town. Having come from city life, being in Silver Cove was like breathing for the first time.
My house sat at the end of the street, tucked behind the tall maple trees that lined the sidewalk.
Even in the dim porch light, it still looked like a postcard someone had left out in the rain too long—faded, weather-worn, and stubbornly hanging on.
I loved it. The wraparound porch creaked under my steps, the boards shifting the way they always did, like an old dog lifting its head when you came home late.
Damn, now I wanted a dog. Later. After I finished fixing the place up.
Come summer, my crew and I would spend the warmer days sanding and painting the exterior. Until then, it was what it was. I planned on putting a new roof on her too. Something that matched the current shingles.
Inside, the place smelled like sawdust, old plaster, and whatever candle I’d last burned to trick myself into believing I lived like a normal person.
The house was quiet, too quiet, and dark, except for the single lamp that I’d left on in the foyer.
The hardwood floors on the first level were already stripped and waiting for stain, wide planks with a pattern you couldn’t find in modern lumber.
The entryway had unique tiles with patterns I hoped to repeat in some of the bathrooms. They’d been hidden under laminate for God knew how many years, but I’d brought them back inch by inch.
The house had two staircases, one grand wooden staircase at the front that curved up to the second floor with those hand-carved railings that had hooked me the moment I saw them.
And the second one, narrower and straight, tucked in the back hall near the kitchen.
That one also led down to the mudroom-slash-laundry room I had rewired last month.
Tonight, the back staircase was my mission. I headed there after stopping off to get a cold beer from the fridge.
I dropped my tool bag on the floor and took a sip of the beer before cracking my knuckles and pulling up the edge of the old carpet. It released with a groan and a puff of ancient dust. I slipped on my mask and gloves and went back to it.
“Come on, baby,” I muttered, yanking harder. “Show me something good.”
The carpet tore free, rolling back like a dusty wave, revealing beautiful inlay hardwood of birch and maple beneath.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was salvageable with some work. Oh, hell yes. This could be fun to remake.
A thrill ran through me. These floors were unique, original, full of life under all the grime. All they needed was sanding, staining, and a little love.
I kept ripping at the old carpet, going slow so as to not pull up any of the wood.
As I worked, my smile faded slowly while my mind drifted back to Missy. How she’d looked when she talked about her parents. The flash of hurt she always tried to hide from, even from me. The way she held herself together like she was used to being disappointed in life.
I hated that look on her. I felt the same way, so I knew how deep the cuts were.
When we were kids—middle school, junior high—Missy Sharpe had been chaos in the form of a girl. Her hair had always been escaping her ponytail. She’d been bright, cheerful and almost always laughing too hard at everything I said.
And yeah, I’d had a crush on her. A stupid, awkward, thirteen-year-old crush that I buried under years of pretending that I didn’t notice her.
Then life happened. She had dance classes. I had rugby and whatever other sport my parents had signed me up for.
She had her plans. I had mine. We shared our dreams.
Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that I’d outgrown whatever that was between us. Maybe I’d been too embarrassed to confide in my best friend that I wanted to kiss her. Dreamed of it. I still did.
But working beside her these last few months to get Sweet Expectations ready, listening to her plans, watching her grin when a project turned out exactly like she wanted, those old feelings had bubbled themselves right up from under the floorboards of my chest like they’d never left.
Stubborn as hell. Just like the girl herself.
I pulled up another section of carpet, breathing harder than the work required.
“Get a grip,” I muttered to myself as I hauled the roll down the stairs. “You’re not thirteen anymore.”
But the truth settled as heavy as the dust around me: I wasn’t over it. Over her. Not even close.
And the more time I spent around her, the harder it was getting to pretend that my feelings were nothing but the history between us.
Missy had changed over the years. She’d grown into herself, built the life that she’d chosen. But at her core? She was still that warm, bright girl who made everything around her feel a little more alive. Brighter.
I set the carpet down in the mudroom, wiped sweat off my forehead, and glanced up toward the back staircase that I’d just exposed.
Hardwood. Solid. Worth restoring.
Just like some things, and some people, you never really let go of.
And dammit, I wasn’t sure I wanted to let go.