Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
CHLOE
A vicious curse erupts from the Simpson house. I lift a hand to shade my eyes from the evening sun, hoping to catch a glimpse of my new neighbor.
Is that Mr. Punctuality sitting flat on his ass on the wrap-around deck?
It sure is.
He shoots to his feet and gives one of the grayed Adirondack chairs a swift kick.
Looks like Lola’s source was half-right. Someone did buy the house, but this guy doesn’t look old enough to be retired, and I haven’t seen him come into the coffee shop with a wife.
I give the guy a friendly wave so he knows that I totally saw him bust his butt on the deck, then reach for the towel hanging over the railing and head to my outdoor shower to rinse off.
Surfing might be my favorite pastime, but peeling off a wetsuit? Not so much. After a bit of a struggle, the black neoprene flops to the ground. I rinse off all the sand first, then throw it over the wooden panel to dry. Humming to myself, I strip out of my bikini and hang it up as well.
I wonder how he liked his Reuben. It was Marlene’s first day in the kitchen, so I didn’t want to make her nervous by rushing her, especially since the poor girl jumps at every sound.
To distract Marlene from her nerves, Mrs. Norton started telling her about my plans to expand into the empty lot next door, and I got distracted too.
The lot beside Mugs has been abandoned for as long as I can remember.
After two years of pinching pennies, I managed to save enough money to buy it.
I had this great idea to make it into an outdoor space where folks can enjoy their coffees while watching the distant waves crash against the shore.
Just about every other restaurant has one, and I’m a little jealous.
I want a pergola with a roof made of surfboards, a boatload of yellow picnic tables, and sand.
That’s right. I want sand under those tables so that people can kick off their flip-flops and get the full beach experience.
It’s not a huge project, so we might even have it ready by the Fourth.
That’s when things really get crazy on the island.
Finished with my shower, I turn off the water, wrap my towel around myself, and head upstairs.
With the air unseasonably warm, I throw on a pair of soft cotton shorts and a tank top with a built-in bra because wearing a bra in my own house offends me.
Now to find something to eat.
There’s not really a lot in the fridge, which is what I get for feeding the girls all my burgers last night.
I should’ve picked up a pound of shrimp from Joe’s Seafood Market.
Guess I’ll have to make do with lettuce wraps and the few veggies wilting away in the fridge’s bottom drawer.
I carry my meager dinner out to the back porch—the best spot to watch the sunset paint the sky.
A breeze wafts across my cheeks, smelling not like the salty sea, but something delicious and meaty. My stomach rumbles.
What is that glorious smell?
My new neighbor’s kitchen windows are open, and I can see him moving around, opening and closing cabinets. If he wasn’t such a dick, I’d go over to ask what he’s cooking and beg for him to share. But since he is, I’m stuck eating sad rabbit food.
The telltale slam of a screen door drags my attention back to the old Simpson place. My new neighbor emerges from the downstairs exit and crosses our shared driveway, heading this way.
I set my plate aside and may or may not run my fingers through my hair so it doesn’t look like it’s plastered to my head.
Not that I care what he thinks. It’s just easier to win a fight when you’re looking your best, and this guy has been brewing for an argument since 6 a.m.
Oops, my bad. 6:15.
He slowly comes into view as he ascends my back staircase, and that’s when I remember the boards that are rotting underneath.
Because I’m a good person, I decide to warn him. “Watch out for the fifth—”
CRACK!
“Motherfucker.”
“Step,” I finish, just a smidge too late. Don’t laugh. My front teeth dig into my bottom lip. Do not laugh.
He shakes out his foot with another curse and stomps up the rest of the stairs to my deck. A brave move considering none of those boards are very stable.
“This place should be condemned,” he grumbles, his face as red as Lola’s favorite swimsuit.
Just like that, I don’t feel like laughing anymore.
“Those stairs are a death trap, and you’re missing a shitload of shingles,” he says, nodding at the A-frame roof.
He did not just walk over here to insult my house. Condemned, my ass. His attitude should be condemned. I glue on a stiff smile, refusing to let him get to me. “Did you need something?”
He shoves his hair back from where it’s fallen over his forehead, huffing a breath like being here is a huge inconvenience. He does realize he’s the one who decided to come over, right?
“Do you have any salt and pepper?” he asks.
Ahh, now I see. He’s here because he needs something from me. “Let me get this straight. You come over here, insult my house, and then ask me for some of my food?”
“I didn’t ask for food. I asked for salt and pepper.”
It’s edible, isn’t it? Which makes it food.
The sooner I get him some seasoning, the sooner he will take his negativity far, far away.
I slip off my chair and head into my quaint kitchen, not expecting him to follow me inside without an invitation.
He’s so tall, he has to duck to clear the door frame.
If only he’d knocked himself out on my “sagging overhang,” as he so grumpily mumbles.
I tear open the cabinet above my stove, and the hinge at the top that’s been hanging on for dear life decides that today is the day to finally give up. The thing falls off.
Not all the way, though.
No, that would be too simple.
It hangs unevenly, flapping against the range hood because why wouldn’t it?
Chuckling, I withdraw my salt and pepper shakers, offering them to my new neighbor. “Here you go. Can I get you anything else? Would you like a cupboard door to go with it? It’s half-off today.”
His lips don’t even twitch.
Does he not realize how funny that was? Comedy gold.
His green-eyed gaze swings from the broken cabinet to my rooster- and hen-shaped salt shakers like they offend him too.
He really needs to find a new mode. This one is getting monotonous.
I give the shakers a good rattle. “Thanks for dropping by to say ‘hello.’ You can go back to your house now.”
He takes the set, turning the pieces over in his large hands. “It’s not my house. My parents bought it.”
“Well, that’s good.” First happy bit of news to come out of his sarcastic mouth all day.
“Why is that good?”
“Because now I won’t have to sell my house to avoid living next to a butthead,” I say with a wide smile, like my dad always taught me. “Say it with a smile, Clo. Makes the bad news easier to take.”
He blinks a couple of times, his brows slowly climbing toward his disheveled hair. “Did you just call me a butthead?”
I lift a shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t know your name, and ‘Butthead’ seemed fitting, considering you’ve been nothing but rude since you came into my coffee shop.”
His eyes widen. “Your coffee shop?”
The emphasis he puts on “your” doesn’t go unnoticed. Here I thought maybe he’d take the opportunity to apologize and even mend his grumpy ways. But no. He’d rather insult me. “What’s wrong? Do women not own businesses where you’re from?”
“Nah, they do. I guess I just expect a boss to be more punctual. Sets a poor example for your employees. A lot of shit can go wrong when you’re not there.”
I’ll show him a poor example. I steal back my rooster and my hen from his fingers. He can eat whatever delicious meal he cooked without them. “Okay, that’s it,” I say. “I only share Henrietta and Ronaldo with friends. You should look for seasoning elsewhere.”
He doesn’t budge.
“Go on. Get out of here.” Salt sprays onto my floor when I wave Ronaldo-rooster at the door. I can take Inspector Butthead dissing my stairs and my overhang, but the way I decide to run my business is none of his.
What is it about men that makes them feel entitled to give their opinions on everything without invitation?
I’ve had enough of this guy. “And if you even think of setting foot inside Mugs ever again, I suggest you bring a better attitude. Otherwise, you might end up with hot coffee all over your lap.” I wouldn’t dare, but he doesn’t know that, does he?
I can imagine it now, right down to his shrill scream of indignation if I walked up to him and dumped a big old pot right over those nice jeans.
“I believe you mean lukewarm coffee,” he says.
He did not just go there.
The corners of his lips twitch into an almost-smile.
Now he wants to badmouth my coffee? Who died and made him Mayor of Jerkville?
“Let me guess. You’re one of those guys who likes his coffee boiling hot and burnt to a crisp.
Do you even know what that does to the grounds?
” Clearly not, because he’s looking at me like he just got slammed in the face with a wave.
“If the water is too hot, it leads to excess extraction, making your coffee bitter as hell. I suppose that shouldn’t surprise me, though.
You seem like the kind of guy who thrives on bitterness. ”
He’s not almost-smiling now. No, my dear neighbor is back to scowling as he turns on his heel and stalks out onto the back deck without another word. A split second later, there’s a sharp snap and a loud curse.
I return Henrietta and Ronaldo to the cupboard with a smile. Really, really glad I never got those stairs fixed.
The next morning, I’m up before the sun and there’s no sign of my new neighbor.
All the windows in his house are dark, which is a good thing because I barely slept thanks to the cat orgy that started around midnight, and I’m not in the mood for a fight.
Not even the sea can ease my ire this morning.
The waves aren’t cooperating either, so I cut my surfing session short and head back home to get ready for work.