Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
ETHAN
I grip the kitchen counter and stare out at the ocean’s gray swells.
I can’t believe that kid had the nerve to ask Chloe out. He didn’t even know how to change a damn tire. Makes me wonder what else he doesn’t know.
Stop thinking about this. You’ve got work to do.
I snatch up my phone, set an alarm so I don’t forget to stick my buffalo wings in the oven, and start patching up the back deck.
An hour later, I’m drilling into one of the loose planks when my phone starts beeping. I switch off the alarm and tug up my shirt to wipe sweat off my brow, then I still.
Is that water running beneath the deck?
Fuck, don’t tell me there’s a leak down there. I don’t have time for that kind of problem.
I lean over the railing, but there’s no sign of water, no noisy pipe, and no forgotten hose.
Then the humming starts—soft, sweet, and feminine, blending with the water sound.
The tightness gripping my chest slowly eases. It’s only Chloe using her outdoor shower.
Every house along this stretch of beach seems to have one, including Mom and Dad’s, though I’ve never used theirs. I’m here to get a job done, not frolic in the waves and stand under beach showers.
My neighbor, on the other hand, appears to be part-fish. No wonder her deck stairs are failing, given how often she’s up and down them with that yellow surfboard wedged beneath her arm.
I reach for my phone when a shape flashes between the gaps in the railing.
Hang on… is that…?
If I take a small step to the right and tilt my head just so—holy hell.
Skin. Bare skin. Wet strands of sun-bleached hair plastered to a smooth, tanned back. The figure turns around, and I spin to face the house, heat racing up the back of my neck.
I didn’t look, I applaud myself, while the rest of my brain grapples with the fact that you can see right into Chloe’s outdoor shower.
Does she know?
Of course she doesn’t. How could she?
My fingers tug at my shirt collar. When did it get so fucking hot?
I brush my palm over the back of my neck, trying to figure out the easiest fix for this. I could add an extra baluster to close the gap, but then the railing wouldn’t look uniform.
The way the soap slipped off the curves of her…
Fuck me—why am I still thinking about that woman? She isn’t my problem.
Thank God, the outdoor shower shuts off, and I can focus back on the task at hand.
Except I don’t.
I sink into the closest chair and stare at nothing until my stomach starts growling.
Shit. Fuck. I forgot to cook the wings.
With the way my stomach protests, I’m going to end up passing out before they’re done.
Takeout it is.
I head inside to rinse off and change into a fresh pair of jeans and a T-shirt. A glance at the mirror makes me wince. I run my fingers through my messy hair. Damn humidity.
Whatever. My dinner date is going to be my Mandela book, and maybe a newspaper if I can track one down.
I lock up the house and head over to my truck, doing a double take at the woman standing on the sidewalk, frowning at her phone.
I’m not in the mood to be called a butthead right now, so I step past Chloe and press the fob to unlock my door, tossing my book in the back seat.
Her face snaps up at the noise. “Oh. Hi.”
So much for avoiding conversation.
“You left so fast earlier, I didn’t get a chance to thank you for helping with the tire,” she says.
I glance back at her, my gaze landing on her thin yellow sundress that drags my mind straight back to that shower… to the water snaking down the groove of her back, forging a wet path towards—
I shake off my thoughts and clear my throat. “Did I screw it up?”
Her head tilts, making her hair fall over her shoulders. “What do you mean?”
“You look like you’re waiting for a ride.”
She swallows tightly. “I was.”
My eyes take in more of her, noticing the light makeup on her face… her pretty dress and wedge heels… the disappointment lining her brow. “He stood you up,” I guess.
She presses a hand to her hip. “What makes you think I’m waiting for a guy?”
“It’s not Todd, is it?” God, I hope not. I’ve never met a Todd who wasn’t duller than dishwater.
“Who the heck is Todd?”
“The five-year-old you had over today to stare at your car while I fixed it.”
Chloe smiles. “You mean Young Tom. And no, he’s not the one who stood me up.”
She adds nothing further, and I give her a clipped smile.
Not my problem. “Okay. Have a good one.” Not my problem.
I climb into my truck and start the ignition.
After reversing out of the driveway, I catch a glimpse of Chloe in the rearview mirror, peering down the street.
She frowns at her phone again, her lips turned down.
Not my problem.
Not my problem.
Not my… Dammit.
Before I know it, I’m reversing back toward her. Clearly, someone’s being an asshole to this woman tonight, and I don’t want that someone to be me. Seeing her alone in that nice dress, like she’s been ditched, makes me want to smack some sense into the dickhead who did it.
I pull up in front of her with the passenger window open. “I’m off to grab a bite. You hungry?”
The makeup on her eyelids makes them sparkle. “Always.”
Looks like we have something in common after all. “Well? Want to come?”
Her brows slide up, her mouth opens, and she laughs.
Not really the reaction I was expecting. “What’s so funny?”
She crosses her arms. “Man, I must look pretty pathetic if even you are feeling sorry for me.”
“That’s not what… I didn’t mean it like that.” This is why I mind my own damn business.
She taps her lips, hiding her smile. “Decisions, decisions. Stay here looking pathetic, or get into a truck with a complete stranger.” Her hand falls to her side. “How do I know you’re not a serial killer?”
“If I were a serial killer, I’d be way more charming and charismatic than I am. That’s Psychopath 101.”
“True.” She twists her heel into the sandy asphalt, still hesitating.
“As fun as this is, I’m starving, so you have about three seconds before I drive away.” My patience has an expiration date.
She swipes her phone’s screen, snaps a picture of my license plate, then climbs into the passenger seat.
Instead of fastening her seatbelt, she leans into me, and I catch a glimpse of a tattoo peeking through a cutout in the side of her sundress.
A mermaid. My lungs seize as her soft cheek smashes against mine, her arm held out to take a selfie of us with her phone.
When she draws back, she leaves behind a waft of coconut. “What was that for?” I ask.
“Proof in case you decide to murder me.” She snort-laughs.
Maybe I should be offended, but to be honest, I like that she’s being careful.
When we reach the main drag, I scan the restaurants for signs of life. “What do you recommend? Oh, good—the Mexican’s open.”
“Nah.” Chloe points ahead, jiggling the stack of beaded bracelets on her wrist. They’re almost as colorful as her nails. It’s like she couldn’t decide which color to choose so she picked one of each.
“Keep going,” she says. “I know a better place.”
“Or, we could get Mexican food.” Chips and salsa while you wait? Yes, please. After the work I got through today, I could eat the whole menu.
“Trust me, you don’t want to go to the Mexican place tonight.”
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “And why is that?”
“Because you’d rather have Grandma’s Crabs.”
I glance at her profile. The sunlight streaming through the window highlights her little ski-jump nose. “Pretty sure I don’t want your grandma’s crabs.”
A puff of laughter bursts from her glossy lips.
“Wow. A joke? Who are you and what have you done with Sir Butthead?” She pushes her curled hair back from her face, tucking the glossy strands behind her ears.
“The reason you don’t want Mexican food is because tonight is salsa night, which means the back half of the restaurant is turned into a dance studio.
You don’t seem like the kind of person who enjoys impromptu dance lessons, so I suggest going somewhere else.
Somewhere like the best damn seafood restaurant on the island. ”
I sigh. As much as I’d like Mexican food, dance lessons sound like hell on earth.
“Fine.” I’ll eat seafood.
“Wow. If you could contain some of that enthusiasm, that would be great.”
“Funny.”
A chuckle. “I know.”
Chloe directs me to make a left toward the beach.
We drive on pitted asphalt until a seafront shack appears, its wooden walls painted in pastel stripes.
Christmas lights wink from above a bunch of picnic tables and umbrellas tilted toward the sandy beach.
Out front, a giant crab sculpture guards the entrance, its orange paint peeling off and one eye missing.
The place doesn’t look too busy tonight, but I can imagine it being packed in the middle of summer.
We park out the front, and I do what I’d do for any woman and hold the restaurant door open for Chloe. She brushes past me with a soft “thank you,” bringing that aroma of coconut again.
We step up to the chalkboard menu nailed above the counter.
Crabs, every which way. There’s also a heap of other stuff, but surely only an imbecile would come to a crab restaurant for the first time and not try the main specialty.
“Anything take your fancy?” Chloe asks.
All of it. That’s the problem. “I think I’ll get a full order of king crab legs.”
“Good call.” She steps up to the teenager behind the counter. He’s wearing a bib like he’s the one about to eat a pile of messy seafood. She gives him our order, and when he rings up the bill, I fling out my credit card. “l’ll get it.”
“Thanks, but I can pay for myself,” Chloe says.
“You get it the next time.” My implication that there’ll be a “next time” awkwardly hangs in the air. What the fuck, Ethan? She’s only here because she got stood up. That’s hardly going to happen again.
I divert by lifting my chin at the sign on the wall, which reads: “Valentine’s Day Special: Shell-Ebrate Your Love with Some Crabs!”
“It’s May,” I mutter.
“Oh, didn’t you know it’s Valentine’s Day every day in Inner Shores?” She nudges my ribs with her elbow and waggles her brows.
After we’ve got our dinner on two recyclable plates, I trail her outside to one of the benches facing the sand. This place looks like a stock image of a beach sunset. Even though the sun is disappearing beyond the horizon, Chloe shifts beneath the cover of the umbrella.
“I think it’s time we call a truce,” she says, settling her yellow skirt around her knees. “Your ban from Mugs has officially been lifted. You can tell Lily Jane that she doesn’t need to be your coffee mule anymore.”
Wait—Chloe knew about that? And I thought we were being so careful.
I’m sure Lily Jane will be thrilled, but I have to admit, I’ll miss seeing her first thing in the morning. She’s a nice woman, and she promised to swing by the house with her wife when Mom and Dad move in. I can see them quickly becoming friends.
“And I’m sorry I called you a butthead,” Chloe adds, squeezing a lemon wedge over her crab cakes.
“You can call me whatever you want.” I don’t care either way. The truth is, I have been a bit of a butthead to her.
“Well, you bought me dinner, so the least I can do is call you by your real name. Which is?”
I pick up a crab leg and snap it into two pieces. “Ethan Davis.”
“Ethan,” she echoes, like she’s testing it. “So, what is it you do for work? Terrorize children?”
Isn’t she funny? I lick butter sauce off my fingertips. “I’m a construction foreman back in Philly.”
“A foreman, huh?” She sticks her fork into a crab cake. “Does that mean you like being in control?”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” I’d rather be the one giving orders than taking them. “What’s your story?”
“I’m an Inner Shores girl, born and bred. This place is heaven on earth.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“No?” She holds out her hand, tapping each fingertip. “We have surfing, beach campfires, an awesome bar right on the sand, kite surfing, deep-sea fishing, kayaking, and so much more. What do you think about that, city boy?”
“I think it sounds like a bunch of stuff I’d hate.”
“How do you know you’d hate it if you’ve never tried it?”
“Because I’m a thirty-two-year-old man who thrives on routine.” There’s safety in predictability.
“Maybe if you worked a little adventure into your routine, you wouldn’t be so scowly. You might even enjoy yourself.”
What is she, my therapist now?
It’s hard to enjoy yourself when the weight of the world is on your shoulders. When you look at something new and all you can see is all the shit that could go wrong.
Leo on a stretcher. Flashing red lights.
She nudges my leg with hers, dragging me away from those terrible memories. “I tell you what. When you’re finished with whatever little householdy things you’re working on next door, let me know, and I’ll help you.”
“Help me what?”
“Find adventure.”
“There won’t be time for that. I’m only here for a few weeks.”
Her blue eyes sparkle in the fading sun. “Come on, Ethan. There’s always time for adventure.”