Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ETHAN
“I think I like my shower door just the way it is.”
Twelve words that have played in my head a thousand times since Monday. I left Chloe’s house right after she said them, my breath short and a throb stirring below my belt over what she might’ve been hinting at.
Was she trying to tell me she doesn’t mind if I watch her? Was she actually inviting me to?
No way. This is how delusional men convince themselves a gorgeous girl is hitting on them, and then get slapped in the face when they try to do something about it.
Chloe seems like a carefree woman who does whatever the hell she wants. She probably meant that she couldn’t be bothered fixing her shower door. Might’ve even said it to make a point because she didn’t like me sticking my nose in her business.
Then again, our conversation in the coffee shop before her dad interrupted tells a different story.
She actually said she wanted to borrow my hammer.
My dick twitches, and I adjust my trousers and focus on finishing up the storm prep now that I’ve patched up the roof.
So much for Chloe’s hope that the storm would change course and leave us all in peace. That red smudge on the radar map is still making a beeline for Inner Shores.
A sigh leaves my lips as I trail my gaze over the house.
Apart from fixing the roof, I’ve spent the last couple of days making sure Mom and Dad’s retirement plan doesn’t turn into a tragedy. There’s still a chance the storm could escalate, and I want this house ready if that happens.
Has Chloe even considered that possibility? I’ve caught glimpses of her dad hanging around her place, so I’ve been keeping my distance.
She’s not my problem.
The sentiment doesn’t stick like it should. Probably because the longer I’m here, the more it feels like she has become my problem, whether I like it or not.
Not that it matters.
I’m leaving, she’s staying. Simple as that.
The last thing I want is for her to resent me for being… me.
Then, when I eventually come back to visit my parents, it’ll be awkward. She’ll permanently ban me from Mugs, and since nowhere else on this island has decent coffee, I’ll turn into even more of an asshole and—
No. Just no.
I have a job to do, and that’s it.
Lose focus, and things start to go sideways.
My gaze slides over to Chloe’s house.
But sometimes, when you ignore shit, things can get a whole lot worse.
Like those gutters on her house that are full of leaves, the missing shingles on the roof, those damn wires…
My fingers slide into my hair, pressing against my skull. What about flooding—has she secured against that?
The pressure in my chest feels like it’s about to explode.
I turn away and head down the slope of sand leading to the beach, angling my face from the wind to keep it from being whipped by mini sandstorms. The combination of pale sand and an overcast sky is like staring into a fluorescent lightbulb.
I cup a hand over my eyes, scanning Mom and Dad’s downstairs level.
Everything looks good. The sandbags I lined up along the dune should hold if the sandy banks give way.
The same can’t be said for Chloe’s place.
No sandbags. No shutters. Just dead branches and stuff strewn around that’ll become flying missiles in the wind.
If they do, they’ll definitely become my problem.
There’s really only one thing to do. No point pretending I don’t know how to fix this.
I climb back up to the road and grab some more sandbags from my truck.
By the time I’ve got the back of Chloe’s house looking more prepared, my forehead is dripping with sweat, and I’m hungrier than a bear on the first day of spring.
As long as Chloe’s roof holds up, her shack should live to see another day.
I also moved a few things out of the wind, but decided not to touch her favorite surfboard.
What the hell did she call the shack again? Sherry? Shelby? Dorothy?
That girl’s on another planet.
I head back inside and grab a quick snack before changing into a fresh T-shirt. My arms feel like lead balloons, and my eyes are burning. My Mandela autobiography is still sitting on the kitchen counter with a bookmark poking out of the first chapter.
My phone pings with a message, which reminds me: I should probably get Chloe’s number, just in case she needs anything when the storm hits.
The message is from Leo, asking if I’m ready for the storm he saw on the news. Writing long texts makes me want to swallow battery acid, so I dial his number instead.
“Hey,” I say when he picks up.
“You still alive there?” he jokes.
“So far.” I peer out at the angry sky. “But if this thing takes out the outdoor stairs I just spent days working on, I’ll be fucking pissed.”
He chuckles. “There’s no chance of that happening. I know the quality of your work, man.”
My chest pinches. I still can’t talk construction with Leo. “So, how are you? How’s the family?”
“Uh… they’re okay. The missus is a bit worried. I saw my doc the other day about the pain I’m in, and they want to do a whole bunch of tests.”
My feet still against the dusty floorboards. “What do they think it is?”
Dumb question, Ethan. He’s not talking about tennis elbow—what happened to Leo would screw up anyone’s body. His doctors told him he’ll need a wheelchair for the rest of his life.
“Who knows. But I want them to find the cause rather than just prescribing stronger pain pills. I can’t pick up work if I’m zonked out all the time.”
“Right.” A weight presses on my chest as I blink out at the sea.
“Hey, man. I’m worried about you,” Leo says. “I thought maybe you’d be able to rest a bit while you’re there, but it sounds like you’re busier than ever.”
“Rest? What’s that?” I reply.
He chuckles, but it sounds heavy. “Just remember: no one lies on their deathbed wishing they’d worked harder. Make sure you carve out some time for yourself too.”
I promise to try, then we say goodbye, and Leo’s voice is replaced by an eerie silence. I clasp my fingers around the back of my neck, trying to make sense of this sudden feeling of loneliness.
Since when do I, of all people, want company? I probably scowled at the obstetrician when I was born because she had the audacity to smile and coo at me.
The faint rumble of a car engine pulls up outside, and an idea spikes in my head.
A shiver of anticipation runs through me.
Is it possible that Chloe wants a bit of company before the storm traps us all inside?
My palm traces the scruff on my jaw as I consider knocking on her door.
Just go over there and be neighborly. Let her know about the sandbags.
I snag two beers from the fridge and stride over to Chloe’s before I can talk myself out of it.
Her dad is on her doorstep, fumbling with a key.
Does this mean she locked her house? A spot of warmth blooms in my chest. I can’t believe she actually listened to me.
I step up behind him and clear my throat.
The guy jerks around so fast he nearly ass-plants. “Who are you?” he grunts. “Whaddya want?”
Honestly, how did someone so smiley and happy come from this guy? “Is Chloe home yet?” I ask.
He shakes his head, tipping back a little on his heels.
Dick—was that his name?—isn’t slurring as much as last time, but it’s obvious he’s had a few.
A few too many to be driving that battered-up truck he just parked half on the damn curb.
My eyes catch on the logo painted on its side: Quick Fix Construction.
You’ve got to be kidding me. That was the name of the company my parents almost hired to fix up their house.
I gesture at his truck with the beers. “You work for Quick Fix Construction?”
“Shit, no. I own it.”
No way. No wonder this guy’s got a laundry list of one-star reviews. He can barely hold himself up, let alone hold a hammer.
Dick blinks down at his rusted key, like he can’t figure out what the hell to do with it. “I can’t get into Clo’s house—don’t s’pose you got a key? Ya know, if you two are…” He wiggles his brows.
I recoil slightly. What sort of father talks about his own daughter like that?
“No,” I say.
Dick grips his hips, his eyes widening at the two bottles. “Wanna share a beer while we wait for her?”
A muscle in my jaw ticks. “No, I don’t want to share a fucking beer. I want to ask how someone who owns a construction business can let his daughter live in a house that looks like it’s about to blow out to sea.”
Dick’s narrowed gaze swings from the house back to me. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Someone who actually knows what he’s doing.”
He glares at me, then stomps down the stairs to his truck, slamming the door and spinning out of the driveway.
Good riddance.
Back at my own place, I keep a careful eye on Chloe’s house. With every silent hour that passes, the knot of worry in my gut tightens further.
Come on, Chloe. Where are you?
As gale-force winds whip up the sea and thick clouds swallow the horizon, the girl next door doesn’t come home.