Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
ETHAN
According to legend, Inner Shores is one of the most haunted places in the US, and I swear one of its damn ghosts has taken over my body. I can’t think of a single other reason why, when I should be focused on rebuilding the outdoor staircase, my mind keeps spinning back to her.
As I set another plank into place and drive the screws home, my mind drifts to the mermaid tattoo inked across Chloe’s ribcage. How smooth it would feel beneath my calloused fingers.
I think about that cute gap between her front teeth, those ridiculous bracelets, and the way her skin has more freckles than the beach has sand particles.
Stuff that’s never caught my interest in anyone else before.
I still can’t believe I invited her to dinner. That she seemed to enjoy my company enough to want to take me surfing.
The way her voice wavered when she told me she’d had skin cancer will haunt me for the rest of my days.
As will the memory of her soft hands gliding over my back, diligently covering every inch of skin with sunscreen.
Get the hell out of my head, ghost—I don’t want to be thinking about this girl. I’m here to work, not fuck around. The second this house is fixed up, I’m outta here, and even if I wasn’t, relationships have never ended well for me.
A sudden gust of wind knocks my pencil off the stack of 2x4s. With a fast swipe, I rescue it from rolling off the deck and glance up at the clouds. The sky over the sea is an ominous shade of gray, the towering clouds billowing above white-capped waves.
I grab my phone and open the Weather Channel app, letting the live stream play in the background while I screw the next board in place.
The whir of my screw gun stops in time for me to hear the presenter going on about heavy winds and rain.
How much rain are we talking?
As if he can hear me, he drops the words “tropical storm.”
My fingers freeze around the screw gun, and I twist to watch the host on the screen.
He’s pointing at a low-pressure system building off the coast of North Carolina, his finger tracing a line from the storm right to the heart of…
Inner Shores. It’s not a hurricane, but the angry swirl of red on the map isn’t small.
The older couple who live next door said storm season wasn’t until the fall.
A tropical storm could do some serious damage to this house.
I flex my fingers open and shut at my side. For fuck’s sake. Nothing’s ever simple.
I head back up the stairs and out front, doing a walkaround, counting windows I’ll need to shutter with plywood.
The outdoor chairs will have to come inside, so will all the lumber—new and old—and I’ve gotta get the roof into shape.
The storm is still far out at sea, and it could downgrade or move off somewhere else, but that’s a risk I’m not willing to take.
Even if the storm fizzles out, there’s no guarantee another one won’t swing by to say hello next week, or the week after that. Why anyone would want to live under this constant threat is beyond me.
My gaze darts to Chloe’s sagging roof, her eaves choked with old leaves, the enormous tree reaching over her shack, and—what the hell?
I step closer to peer at the side of her house, where I’m guessing a lamp used to hang.
Is that exposed wiring sticking out? I rub the burning sensation building behind my chest wall.
This fucking hut should be on a poster of what not to do in a storm zone.
Maybe she hasn’t heard about the storm. I pace over to her front door and give it a few taps. Silence. When I glance down, I step back to reveal some cursive letters printed across her doormat: My Door Is Always Open.
Surely, that’s a metaphorical statement. My curiosity gets the better of me, though, and I give the knob a little twist. The front door pops right open. What?
“Chloe?” I call into the dark, empty living room.
Tell me she didn’t leave without locking her door.
Her car is in the driveway, but I don’t see her bicycle.
“Chloe?”
Still no answer.
What was she thinking?
What if some sick bastard learns that she keeps her front door unlocked? It’s not hard to imagine, given she’s got a sign on her doorstep broadcasting it to every creep this side of the Atlantic.
Not my problem.
Her house. Her life. Her choices.
I take one step back, then another, that damn mat laughing at me the whole way.
You know what?
No.
I stalk back to the front door, pick up the frayed doormat, and toss it toward my front yard. Screw it—I’ll buy her a new one. One that says: Fuck Off. This House Is Armed.
I stomp back down the stairs to my place to grab my wallet and keys, then drive straight to Mugs.
It’s busy today, with four of the six tables occupied, one by the three old guys who always seem to be here. They point their stares at me like I’m Clint Eastwood sauntering into a Western saloon on his first day in town. I give them a nod, but they don’t return the gesture.
Doesn’t bother me in the slightest, especially when the prettiest eyes in the room settle on me.
“Well, look who decided to grow a pair and buy his own coffee instead of bribing an innocent woman into doing it for you,” Chloe says, smiling brightly as I walk up to her.
I let the “grow a pair” comment slide. There are more important matters to discuss.
My palms grip the edge of the counter as I lean forward. “I went by your house to see if you’d heard about the tropical storm. That place is woefully unprepared for anything other than a balmy sea breeze.”
Her gaze jumps from my forearms to my eyes. “Take a breath before you pop a blood vessel. We get storms out at sea all the time. I can’t remember the last time we had a direct hit.”
I watch her, waiting for more. “That’s it? That’s your plan? Hoping the storm does a little spin and dances off somewhere else?”
She frowns at me. “Who pooped in your coffee? It’s not like it’s a hurricane. If it looks like the storm is going to hit us, then I’ll get ready.”
“You won’t have time. You need a tree lopped and your roof fixed. You’ve also got wires sticking out that could start a fire, even without a storm.”
She arches a brow. “Know anyone who works construction?”
I let out a sigh. “I’ve got enough on my plate, and I’m not even licensed to work on your place. Shit, Chloe, how can you be so blasé about this?”
Somewhere between being called a butthead and being slathered in sunscreen, I realize I’ve started caring about what happens to this woman.
Not my problem has become very much my problem.
Call it being neighborly or whatever, but I don’t want anything bad to happen to her.
“At the very least,” I say, “make sure you’re not at home when—if—the storm hits. Go stay with a friend.” That way, if her shack collapses, she won’t get buried in the debris.
She bites off a laugh. “Sorry, but no-can-do. I’d never leave my place alone in a storm. Like you said, Shirley is fragile.”
She named her shack Shirley? Of course she did.
My lips press together. “Chloe.”
“Ethan.” She tosses down her cloth. “Fine, I’ll do some prep. Happy?”
I’ll be happy when the storm is over, and my house—and hers—are still in one piece.
Her gaze slides to mine, hovering there. “Would it be possible to borrow your hammer?” Her bottom lip disappears between her teeth as she blinks at me.
“If you want.”
“I think I might. Does it perform well?”
What sort of question is that? “It’s a hammer. It does what it’s supposed to do.”
“That’s good to know.” Her smile grows a little wider. “I bet it hits really hard.”
“Depends on how you swing it.”
Her sudden burst of laughter pours over me like warm honey. What’s so funny?
I run back through our conversation but can’t think of anything—
Wait.
Her blue eyes sparkle with amusement.
My own widen.
She’s not talking about a hammer, is she?
Heat rises to my cheeks, but before I can decide how to respond, someone stumbles into the coffee shop, knocking over the concrete starfish holding the door open and sending it swinging shut with a bang.
I turn to see a middle-aged man with shaggy blond hair, standing with both arms outstretched like he’s Al Jolson about to sing “Tootsie.”
Looks like I finally found the local eccentric.
I twist back to Chloe, only to see some of the color drain from her face.
Just as I go to ask if she’s all right, the man shoves me out of the way from behind.
“Whoa, there,” I snap.
“Who thah hell are you?” he slurs at me, and I catch a face full of booze-breath.
“Rick!” Chloe hisses, her cheeks bright red. “What are you doing here?”
He blinks slowly at her, tilting back on his heels.
“I caaame in here to ssssee you. And my handsome frriend over ’ere.
” With a sleepy grin, he reaches to pat my shoulder, but misses entirely and tumbles forward.
I catch the guy’s arm to keep him from cracking his skull on the corner of the counter.
Chloe looks mortified, and everyone in the coffee shop is staring.
The three old men climb to their feet, weathered hands balled into fists and scowls etched on their wrinkled faces. In this guy’s current state, they could probably take him.
“Not now, Rick,” Chloe says. “You need to go.”
I give the guy a generous five seconds to do what she asked.
He frowns and aims a wobbly finger at her. “Whaddya going to do? Throw me out?” He snorts like that’s the funniest joke in the world.
Chloe might not be able to throw this guy out, but I can. I snatch hold of his arm again. “You were asked to leave.”
Dick tries to wriggle out of my grip, throwing curses like it’s his job.
“Let him go, Ethan.” Chloe comes out from behind the counter, her soft hand curling around my arm. “It’s okay. He’s with me.”