Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
N ate jiggled the old key in the front door’s lock until it finally gave with a satisfying click. He pushed the door open and stepped into the little green-trimmed cottage—his cottage now—and grinned. The place smelled like cedar, age, and potential.
He stood in the entryway for a moment, just soaking it in. The ceilings were vaulted with wood planks that needed sanding and a fresh coat of stain. The windows in the entire home were older than he was and drafty and would all have to be replaced, but the bones of the house were solid.
Classically styled.
The living room was filled with soft morning light, highlighting so many other items he was adding to his growing list. There was a stone fireplace that was obviously original and had the kind of mantel that begged for a row of photos once it had a fresh coat of paint on it.
Thankfully, hardwood floors ran throughout the house. Even though they were scratched and scuffed from decades of wear, he knew that was an easy fix. He’d helped his parents sand and stain the floors in his childhood home at least three times over the years.
He ran a hand over the doorframe as he stepped inside, mentally tallying his to-do list.
First would be patching the drywall and fixing the floors. He wasn’t about to move his furniture in until they were done.
For now, he’d brought with him the essentials: an air mattress, his toiletry items, a small table, and his coffee maker.
The kitchen needed lots of love too. The cabinets were sturdy but outdated.
The countertops were scratched and broken, and the faucet was leaking.
He’d replace all the appliances as well.
He was thinking of a total remodel and maybe even a new design for the space.
But there was an old-school charm here. The kind you couldn’t fake with subway tile and marble.
He could already see it coming together.
By the time he finished unloading his tool boxes, a few bags of clothes, and his Bluetooth speaker from the back of his truck, the sun was high and he was sweating through his shirt.
He stood on the back porch with a cold bottle of water and looked out toward the bluff.
The ocean stretched far and wide beyond the windswept grasses, the breeze carrying the scent of salt and pine.
He pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to Faye:
“Closed on the place. Swing by after work? I want you to see it before I ruin it too much.”
She replied almost instantly:
“Congrats! I’ll stop by after three. Can’t wait! Want me to bring anything?”
“Just your expert design eye,” he replied, then added, “and maybe a pizza from Baked.” He slid his phone into his pocket with a grin, then rolled up his sleeves and got to work.
It took him almost two hours to rip out all the old carpet and padding and remove all the staples from the bedroom floors.
He had just started hauling it all outside when the large dumpster he’d rented was delivered out front. Another thirty minutes later, he had hauled everything out and dumped it into the thing and had managed not to fall in it.
He had called the hardware store in town and was having Brett deliver the sander in one hour. That meant he had time to start demoing the covered front porch while he waited.
He grabbed his crowbar and sledgehammer and got to work. It took him less time to tear the porch down than it had to remove all the carpet, padding, tack boards, and staples. He’d tossed all the trash in the bin as he worked so there was little cleanup to do once he finished.
Thankfully, there were smaller cement steps under the wood porch someone had built long ago. Those would have to do until he could decide what he wanted to build on the front of the house.
Once he was done out front, he headed into the kitchen, eyeing the ancient countertops like a new challenge.
They were a cheap laminate—cracked in one corner and warped from years of spills and heat.
He wedged the crowbar under the first edge and leaned into it, grunting as it popped up easily with a loud crack.
Cabinet doors came off next, which was an easy task thanks to his drill.
He stacked them neatly until he could haul them outside together, then he unscrewed and pried the cabinet bases free from the walls.
Dust and forgotten crumbs rained down from behind them, and he coughed once under his mask, thankful he had purchased the quality filtered type from the hardware store the day before.
Who knew what was flying around in all the debris.
He continued this way, hauling all the debris outside, until the kitchen was stripped down to bare walls, electrical wires, and open water pipes, which had all been shut off.
Standing there, he could already imagine what it would become.
He had drawn some sketches while he’d waited to close on the place, and Faye had contributed some as well after he’d shown her the floor plans he’d gotten from the previous owner.
He liked the idea of open shelving on the smaller wall, and enlarging the windows on the wall at the back of the house. The cabinets would go on the longest wall.
He’d want to add granite countertops and build a massive island in the center to separate the kitchen area from the dining nook.
Faye had drawn up a sketch of that for him. She had a really good eye for designing spaces and really seemed to enjoy helping him out. But she had yet to step foot in the place for real, and he wanted her to get a fresh view on it before he ordered the cabinets they had looked at online.
The low rumble of a truck caught his attention, and he stepped outside to see Brett backing the trailer up with the sander inside. He waved as the teenager jumped out.
“Where do you want it?” Brett asked, already reaching for the tailgate.
“Right inside the front door’s good,” Nate said, walking over to help lift the heavy thing.
They slid the large drum sander out of the back of the truck and carried it into the house. Once Brett was gone, Nate took a few drinks of his water and got back to work.
The first pass over the floors sent a cloud of dust into the air and revealed the golden grain beneath the dull finish brought on by years of wear.
He moved slowly and methodically, focusing on even lines and keeping a steady pace.
He was soaked in sweat and covered in sawdust within the hour, but he couldn’t stop grinning.
This was his. All of it. The rhythm of the work, the scent of wood, the satisfaction of revealing what had been hidden—it was all grounding. Meditative, even.
By the time Faye was due to arrive, he was finished sanding the entire front room. He still had all the bedrooms to do, and he had to pull up the old linoleum floors in the kitchen and in each of the three bathrooms.
He would rip out the old yellow and green tiles in each of the showers and tubs, and haul out the matching toilets and sinks.
He also had to remove and replace all of those cupboards.
But he was planning to live there, so he’d need at least one working bathroom. He had chosen to use the main bathroom.
Wiping his face with a bandana, he headed to the bathroom to rinse off quickly in the green shower. Just as he tugged on a clean shirt and stepped back into the living room, he heard the sound of a car outside.
He moved to the front window, running his fingers through his wet hair, and felt something warm settle in his chest at the sight of Faye walking toward the porch with a pizza box and a six-pack of sodas.
She was grinning when he opened the door. “I come bearing new home gifts,” she said, holding up the soda.
“You’re officially my favorite person today,” he said, taking the sodas.
“Only today?” she teased. “You already got rid of the front porch,” she said as she stepped inside and looked around. “Wow, I guess you’ve done a lot more than that already.”
“Yeah, it’s been a productive day so far,” he said, waving her inside with a sweep of his arm. “Demoing is the easy part. Putting it all back together is harder.”
She circled around and looked at the newly sanded hardwoods then whistled. “These floors are going to look amazing once they’re stained.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “I want to give you a tour, but first—pizza. I’m starving. I worked through lunch.”
They carried everything over to where two folding chairs were set up next to a small table.
For weeks he’d tried to keep things professional between them. Even the flirting that he normally did with others was different with her.
He was slowly coming to terms with the fact that it was impossible to not want to be around her. She made him feel like himself, something he’d never had with any other woman.
They sat across from each other, the pizza box flipped open between them, steam rising from the meat lover’s creation from Baked. Faye took a bite of her slice and leaned back with a sigh.
“God, I love Baked,” she said. “They put garlic butter in the crust and always give me extra dipping sauce.”
“That’s the best part,” Nate agreed, taking a huge bite and groaning in approval.
For a while, they just ate in companionable silence, the kind that came easy between them.
He watched her eyes moving around the empty room and could tell that she was thinking about designing the space.
After they’d devoured half the pizza, he gave her a tour of each room. He told her what he had planned as they went along.
When they returned to the kitchen, he pulled out the clipboard that held the sheets of graph paper on which she’d drawn her earlier designs.
“So,” he said, pushing aside the pizza box to make room for the papers on the small table, “do you still think this will work?” He held up a rough sketch of the kitchen.
“If I tear out that wall”—he pointed—“and open it to the dining area, I can build that big island there. I’d move the sink from under the window to the island.
” He showed her the sketches she’d done several days back when it had been slow at work.
Faye leaned in, brows drawn, and took the pencil from his hand.
“I still love that design,” she said, glancing around quickly before sketching something else. “And if you add an L-shape here, you could add a bank of lower drawers there, which would be way more functional than cabinets.”
He watched her face light up with each idea. “You’ve thought a lot about this,” he said, amused.
She laughed. “Yeah, since being in Max and Juliette’s kitchen, I know what works and what doesn’t. What they missed.”
He smiled, watching her as she doodled little symbols for pendant lights above the imaginary island. “Have you ever thought about doing this for a living?” he asked.
She paused, the pencil tip hovering. “Yeah. Once or twice. It just never seemed realistic.”
“Why not?” he asked, leaning back in his chair. “Blake Jordan runs a successful interior design company in town or you could work with the Parker brothers. Then again, you could always go into business for yourself.”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged, smiling a little sheepishly.
“Life got in the way, I guess. You know, school and health stuff. And now…” She waved vaguely toward the front of the house.
“I’m in Pride, working for you, dreaming about helping you tear apart your house and rebuild it. Unless you want me to quit?”
“Point taken.” He chuckled. “I love that you’re helping me out,” Nate said, his voice lower now. “This, tonight. It’s kind of perfect. I want—” He shook his head. “I need your input. I want to make this place perfect.”
Her gaze met his, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then she nudged the pencil toward him. “Well, I don’t think you can mess it up. You’ve got solid bones in this place. You just need time to determine what works as a good design for each space.”
He grinned. “Then it’s a good thing I asked you over.”
She didn’t answer but instead went back to drawing out the space. “You could add French doors here,” she said and took the pencil again.
He watched her sketching on the graph paper, her lower lip caught between her teeth in concentration, and he felt that tug again—low in his chest, subtle and steady, like an anchor dropping.
This wasn’t new.
He’d felt it for weeks now. Every time she laughed at one of his lame jokes.
Or when she looked at him like she saw him.
Not the guy who ran the Brew-Ha-Ha, not Juliette’s younger brother, not the charming flirt that he’d perfected around town—but the real version of himself.
The quieter one. The guy who still sometimes didn’t have it all figured out.
He hadn’t wanted this to happen.
From the beginning, he’d told himself that they would just be friends. She was Max’s sister. She was recovering, adjusting, rebuilding her life. He was supposed to be the supportive friend, the one who helped her settle in, the safe person who didn’t make things complicated.
But she was complicating everything with that sexy laugh of hers.
He’d dated other women. Hell, he’d more than dated.
He’d been in love, or at least thought he had.
Once or twice. But this—what he felt around Faye—was nothing like before.
There was no pressure to perform or impress anyone.
She didn’t play games like all those other women had.
She didn’t make him feel like he had to hide any part of who he was.
She made him feel—grounded.
And that scared the hell out of him.
Because when she smiled at him like she just had—soft, grateful, completely unaware of what she was doing to his insides—he didn’t just want to kiss her. He ached to.
He wanted to tuck that loose strand of her hair behind her ear and lean in close, feel her breath catch, feel her heartbeat race under his fingertips.
He wanted to know if her lips tasted like the root beer she’d just sipped, if kissing her would feel as natural and right as everything else between them had.
But he couldn’t.
Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Because he wasn’t just risking his heart—he’d be risking their friendship. And he didn’t know if he could live with himself if he hurt her in the end.
So instead, he gave her a smile, like his heart racing at the thought of kissing her was no big deal. Like he wasn’t dying inside. Like every word out of her mouth didn’t make him fall harder.
“Thanks for helping me dream this up,” he said, his voice a little rougher than he wanted.
She nudged his shoulder with hers. “Of course. Dreaming is the best part.”
Yeah, he thought. It was.
But only when it didn’t feel so damn dangerous.