Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
ETHAN
Seagulls swoop and squawk over the crashing waves behind me as I gaze up at my parents’ mistake.
Before I start any job—whether it’s a new build or a restoration—I like to step far enough away so that I can picture the finished product.
From this vantage point, it’s not hard to see what made my parents buy a place in such disrepair.
The view is fucking incredible, and the house is big—way too big for a retired couple if you ask me, but Mom and Dad have their hearts set on a football team of grandkids.
Pity that Wyatt’s way too nomadic for a serious relationship, Gray’s got so many women lined up to date him that he finds it hard to stick with one, and me—I’ve sworn off relationships entirely.
The last two girlfriends I had both took off because of my super-long hours and general intolerance of the human race.
No point denying it: most people tend to annoy me, and I seem to annoy them, so at least it’s an even trade.
I lift the travel mug that the smiley barista made me buy and force down a lukewarm sip. Pretty sure I asked for hot coffee. I guess people around here have too much sand in their ears to listen.
The heels of my work boots sink into the soft ground as I assess the house, forming a mental to-do list.
Firstly, I need to make sure this job stays under thirty grand.
Right after I promised Mom and Dad I’d help them, I checked the building laws in North Carolina: below that amount, you don’t need a state-licensed contractor.
Since I wouldn’t dream of charging them anything for labor, I’ve already run the numbers a few times and should be able to stay on target.
I’m going to have to rebuild the outdoor stairs entirely and probably replace the balcony railing, but the lumber for that shouldn’t cost too much.
The roof shingles will take a bite out of the budget because the roof is in shit shape, but I’ve already got suppliers in mind to call for quotes.
The biggest hit will probably be the windows and shutters, but whatever Mom and Dad don’t want to pay for, I’ll cover.
I’ve been on jobs where they cut corners to save a few bucks.
Never again.
Not after seeing the true cost.
God knows how long it’ll take to get everything delivered to this no man’s land of an island.
The house to the right of Mom and Dad’s is about as big as theirs and looks nicely done up.
They’ve got concrete columns a foot wide holding up the house and metal straps reinforcing the framing.
All the windows have heavy-duty shutters.
I’ll see if I can have a chat with the owner, get a sense of what the weather throws at you out here.
On the other side of my parents’ place is a crappy little shack that looks like it got dropped there during a hurricane. It’s a shade of yellow that makes me queasy, the wooden staircase leading down to the beach is almost as bad as Mom and Dad’s, and the roof looks like it’s about to cave in.
Luckily, it’s not my problem. I just hope Mom and Dad didn’t move next to the local eccentric.
Every town has at least one.
After finishing my cold coffee, I climb back up the slope of grassy sand, fighting off another stab of disappointment that I’m not on a plane to somewhere I actually want to be. There’s no point regretting what can’t be changed, so I force myself to focus on the things I can control.
Top of my list is to get stuff ordered that needs to be custom-made because that’s the biggest potential threat to my timeline.
I unhook the ladder from my truck and get started measuring all the windows for glass and shutters.
Once I’ve called Mom and Dad to clear the costs with them, I order the lumber to rebuild the staircase and pay extra out of my own pocket to get it fast-tracked.
Then I snatch up my phone and set an alarm for later this afternoon to remind myself to check the ferry times for deliveries.
I haven’t even started any of the proper labor yet, and I’m already dripping sweat. I tug up my T-shirt to wipe my face, then glance at my watch. It’s just past noon.
My stomach makes its hunger known as I pour a glass of water from the kitchen tap into a cup I brought with me.
Through the window, the endless blanket of blue sea hits me with an unfamiliar sense of calm.
Looks like I made the right call by staying here at the house instead of one of the motels on the main strip.
Sure, the only furniture is the mattress I ordered, and there’s no TV other than my laptop, but the previous owner left the appliances, and I brought the basics so I can use the kitchen and laundry room.
Best of all, it’s quiet. When I’m done working in the late afternoons, I can sit out on the deck and read my Mandela book without some guy in a floppy fishing hat asking if I know where to buy bait, or even worse—where I’m from and whether this is my first time at Inner Shores.
I don’t mind chatting with people I genuinely care about, but I don’t need to bond with Terry from Idaho or Carol’s grandkids from Maryland who want to chew my ear off about made-up ghost stories.
Shit, I’m in a bad mood. Probably because I’m starving. I rip into a wrapped ham and cheese sandwich that I picked up at a rest stop, but it doesn’t even touch the sides of my stomach.
Pushing off the counter, I grab my keys. Time to see what Inner Shores has to offer for lunch.
I steer my truck down Main Street, hunting for an Indian restaurant or a Mexican eatery, but everything looks closed. What the hell? The only place serving lunch is that coffee shop I went to this morning. Hopefully, their food is better than their coffee.
I shove my hair back with my sunglasses and set off the hanging bells with my shoulder and then the doorbell as I push through the entrance. An elderly couple at one of the tables twists around and nods “hello.”
“Oh, good. You’re back,” chimes the barista from this morning.
She’s added a nametag to her apron. Chloe.
Suits her. Very… happy.
She’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, smiling at me. The small gap in her teeth snags my attention. Not sure why, since her smile is as fake as that old guy’s toupee.
No one who’s ever met me is that happy to see me walk through the door. Which is fine because I have more important shit to worry about than some stranger’s opinion.
“Back for another coffee?” she asks, propping her hands on her hips.
“Just some lunch, thanks.” I step up to the counter and eye the menu printed on a light-blue surfboard. At the top, someone’s written: HONEST, HAPPY FOOD.
Since when does food have feelings and emotions?
“Do you have any lying, depressed sandwiches?” I deadpan.
She blinks at me, then looks at the menu and chuckles. “Oh, you’re a funny one.”
Funny is probably the last word someone would use to describe me.
Scanning the surfboard, I frown at my choices. “Got anything spicy?”
“We might have some hot sauce somewhere out back; I could add it to anything you want.”
Ancient hot sauce that’s gone rancid in this heat? That’s a pass.
“I’ll just have a Reuben.” I dig out my wallet, but can’t resist adding, “Oh, wait—did I need to bring my own plate?”
Chloe gives me a wry smile and snatches the twenty-dollar bill from my fingers, her colorful bracelets jangling. “Money will do just fine.” She hands me my change, her elbow nudging the tip jar, a smirk tugging at her mouth.
I get it. She’s pretty. But in my world, people don’t get tipped for having good genes. They get tipped when they open up their coffee shop on time.
“I’ll get the sandwich to go,” I mutter, slipping the change into my wallet.
“Sure thing.” She whirls around, muttering something about sage as she dips into the kitchen.
While Chloe is getting my sandwich together, I poke around the place.
On the left wall, a side table holds a bowl of random shells with a little sign above it saying “Treasure Wanted.” Beside it, a painting of a striped lighthouse in a yellow frame hangs crooked on the wall, and a blown-glass mermaid perches on a tilted shelf.
Across the room, a rack of T-shirts is on display:
Girls just wanna have sun.
Shell yeah!
Coffee first, beach second.
Who came up with those cheesy slogans?
I glance at my watch and pace back to the counter. How long does it take to make a Reuben?
My phone timer chimes from my back pocket. It’s my reminder to look into the ferry.
Through a gap in the kitchen door, I spot Chloe laughing and chatting with an older woman in an apron.
“Hello?” I call out.
Chloe’s blue eyes snap to mine. “Be right with you,” she says, then goes back to flailing her hands at the woman like she’s telling some long-ass story.
By the time Chloe comes out clutching my wrapped sandwich, my jaw is ticking, and I’m twenty minutes later than I should be.
“Damn, that was fast,” I mutter as I collect the sandwich.
Her lips curve up. “Sorry, Mr. Punctuality, I forgot my stopwatch today.” She flashes me a smile that’s all white teeth and blinding sunshine.
I head out the door, shaking my head.
Running my palm across my jaw, I read over the checklist of repairs typed into my NOTES app. There’s a shitload of work lined up, but today was a good start.
To celebrate, I swing by the gas station for a case of beer to go with the pork steak in the fridge. With the sky a deep pink, I grab a bottle and head out onto the deck.
The previous owners left some old patio furniture, so I flop into one of the wooden deck chairs and stretch out my legs.
The rhythmic rush of the ocean loosens some of the tension in my shoulders. I take a long sip and breathe in the salty air.
My phone buzzes beside me. I tense when I see Leo’s name on the screen.
What if he got bad news from his doctors? What if he needs something and I’m all the way down here?
I lift my phone to my ear. “Hey, Leo, is everything okay?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
His voice hits me in the gut. He knows exactly why. “How… how are you?” I ask.
“I’ve been better, but I’ve also been worse. How are you, my friend?”
“I’m doing all right.” I tell Leo all about Inner Shores and my folks’ house renovation.
When I finish, he replies with a smile in his voice. “Your parents must be so thrilled. I keep telling Isaac that I want him to be just like his Uncle Ethan when he grows up.”
God help Leo and his wife if their son turns out anything like me. “Be careful what you wish for.”
“What do you mean? You’re a good man.”
I sigh quietly. Leo is one of the only people in my life who genuinely believes that. Wyatt would probably laugh if he heard him, and Gray would just shake his head.
Leo and I first met when we were young construction cubs, and another foreman was sending us off on wild goose chases for wood stretchers and reverse saws.
When Leo and I realized we were being tested by the bigger boys, we became instant comrades, trading war stories and helping each other out while we were still learning.
Leo had no desire to become a foreman. I’m the one who convinced him to be my deputy.
Guilt crashes like those waves down the shore.
What happened to him is all my fault.
“What’s new up there?” I ask, running my fingers through my hair. The way this humidity makes it curl is driving me insane.
“I applied for a job yesterday.”
“That’s great. Which one?”
“Dispatch for a transport company. Not exactly my dream gig, but it’s something to do, right?”
Something to do because he can no longer do what he loves. I clear my throat. “If you need a reference or anything, let me know.”
“Will do, boss.”
Our conversation stalls there, and I can’t think of anything left to say, but the silence is just as uncomfortable. It never used to be like this, and I hate it.
“I should probably go,” I say.
“Oh. Okay. Try to have a little fun down there. You deserve it.”
I say I will, even though it’s a lie.
We end the call, and I let my head fall back against the chair.
What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I hold a normal conversation with my closest friend?
I drag my hands down my face, frustration pulsing through my veins.
A sudden flash of movement between the balusters distracts me from my inward spiral.
A woman is coming up the beach path between the dunes, carrying a surfboard. Her wild, wavy blonde hair cascades down her skin-tight wetsuit.
I sit higher in my seat, my boots hitting the deck. Is that…?
Yep. It’s Chloe.
She doesn’t seem to notice me when she stops at the bottom of the yellow shack next door and rests her surfboard against the railing, shaking out her sun-kissed hair.
This woman may not be able to get to work on time or make a boiling-hot coffee, but she sure can wear a wetsuit. She turns to face the ocean and reaches behind her neck with both hands.
I tilt my chair sideways, unable to look away. An ear-splitting “crack” snaps through the humid air and my ass plummets to the deck, the chair sitting in two pieces beneath me.