Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHLOE
Nothing in Willow’s workshop makes sense.
Like, why does she have a lampshade made entirely of paperclips?
No one knows. And that picture over there on the wall—the one with all the smudges and smears?
It’s a sex painting that she and one of her old boyfriends made with body paint and too much time on their hands.
She’s got it displayed behind a collection of dainty little frames holding pictures of ducks.
I enjoy random stuff as much as the next person, but Willow takes knickknacks to the next level.
Did I mention there are crystals everywhere? Colorful stones dangle from every cupboard in her kitchen. They hang across her living room window like sun-catchers. There’s even a crystal toilet roll holder in the bathroom.
As chaotic as this place is, every single piece—from the paper maché elephant to the six-foot starfish—is a reflection of the beautiful soul sitting beside me, clutching a soldering iron.
I pick up one of her pottery jugs that looks like, well, jugs. There are nipples and everything. “One of these days, he’s going to explode,” I mutter.
For someone who’s so concerned about making mistakes, Ethan doesn’t seem to realize what’s bound to happen. Burnout is real, and Ethan Davis is on the verge of bursting into flames because of it.
“Sounds like he needs help,” Willow says, bringing her face closer to the magnifying glass.
“He does, but he’s too stubborn to see it.” Being so focused on the end goal means you miss so much along the way.
I want him to enjoy his time here, and that can’t happen if he never stops working.
Willow squints down at the seashell Ethan gave me. “Yeah, but you’re stubborner,” she says, closing the metal loop through the tiny hole she drilled a few minutes ago.
“Not sure that’s a word, Wills.” But she’s right. I am stubborner. “If he doesn’t take a break, he’s bound to regret it.”
When Ethan thinks about Inner Shores, I don’t want him getting lost in images of sandbags and plywood shutters. Don’t want him getting swallowed by the sound of drills and saws.
I want him to remember how it felt to stroll along the sandy beaches and stand in the foamy surf. I want him to think about me.
“So how do I convince him to come out of his cave?” I ask. That’s what his parents’ house is—a big, empty cavern for a big, snarly bear.
Willow sets aside her tools and hands me my new necklace with a smile. “You don’t give him a choice.”
I toy with the shell hanging on the chain around my neck as I cross the small patch of sandy grass between my house and Ethan’s. The trinket is my new favorite thing, and it isn’t even yellow.
After chatting with Willow, I formed a plan, which I lovingly named: Operation Healthy Distraction.
From what I’ve gleaned about Ethan, he’s not the type of guy to miss a deadline. He’ll do everything possible to finish this project on time, which I respect. However, he doesn’t need to kill himself doing it.
That’s why I added “healthy” to the title. Because you know what happens when you don’t take time out to breathe? You suffocate. And the man I spent the night with during the storm looked like he was drowning.
Ethan answers his door on the third knock, his hair slightly damp and curling over the collar of his bottle-green T-shirt. He looks good—he smells even better.
“Oh, good. You’re ready,” I say with a smile. “Throw on your shoes and let’s go.”
He doesn’t do either of those things. He stands there, staring at my chest. Not that I blame him; I’ve been told by multiple drunks at the Sand Dollar that I have a great rack.
“You made the shell into a necklace,” he says.
Okay, so maybe he isn’t staring at my breasts.
His loss: they look damn good in this tank top.
I love how the flowy white fabric dips under my arms, offering a peek of the lacy racerback bra I’m wearing underneath and a glimpse of my tattoo.
“I told you I was going to keep it.” Not sure why it surprises him so much.
“Are you coming or not?” It’s a long walk, and I’m excited to get this party started.
To my amazement, Ethan slips on a pair of white sneakers and steps onto the deck. From the pocket of his cargo shorts, he withdraws a set of keys and locks up the house. “What’s wrong?” he asks with a frown. “Is the pipe leaking again?”
He’d lock his door just to come next door?
Weirdo. “The pipes are just fine and dandy. You and I are going out. Out-out.” He opens his mouth, presumably to protest, but I cut him off with my very logical and well-thought-out explanation.
“Save your excuses. You can’t stay in that empty house all night.
The season officially kicks off next week, and this place will be swimming with tourists come Friday.
This is your last chance to enjoy this place like a local.
I know you have a lot of work to do, but you need some fun in your life, too.
Might as well hang out with a beautiful woman for the night, then you can get back to being a workaholic on Monday.
” Boom. Mic drop. I turn and start for the stairs, my flip flops slapping my feet with victorious little claps.
Ethan’s heavy footsteps sound at my back, and I can’t help but laugh when he says, “It’s only Saturday.”
“Sundays are for sunshine and the sea. If you’re not a new man come Monday morning, then you can turn me down next Saturday.”
“Or I could just turn you down now,” he grumbles as we pass my mailbox and take a left at the side street that leads to the main street.
In a couple of days, there will be traffic from here to the stoplights, but tonight it’s only us, the singing cicadas, and Mr. Walker—the fire chief—riding his beach cruiser toward the fire station.
Ethan could turn me down, but he’s not going to. Because I am determined. Singularly focused. And I plan on distracting him the entire way to the bar.
“See that house over there?” I point at a salmon-pink two-story with white shutters and a balcony on the roof that’s perfect for tanning. “That’s Lola’s parents’ place.”
“Am I supposed to know who that is?”
“You’ll meet her later. And Willow, too. We’ve all been best friends since elementary school. The guy who’s fixing your truck? His brother lives over there.” I nod toward Glenn Parish’s place. “His family also owns Grandma’s Crabs.”
That’s how the twenty-minute walk goes—me pointing things out, and Ethan asking why he needs to know any of this.
“You need to know because your parents are moving down here,” I say. “And I don’t want you to worry about them when you head back to Philadelphia. They’re going to be in good hands.”
We pass the hardware store, the grocery store, five tourist traps, Mugs, Grandma’s, and finally get to the Sand Dollar.
A collage of neon beer signs hangs on the black shiplap walls in between black-and-white framed photos of Inner Shores through the years.
This place used to be a dump before Lola took it over; now it’s what I like to call island-chic.
The Sand Dollar is known for loud music, laughter, and cheap beer every Tuesday and Thursday night.
The entire back wall is made of garage doors that, when lifted, open onto a patio of high-top tables and string lights.
Behind that is a stretch of grass littered with cornhole boards, backed by dunes that give way to the beach.
The sunsets here are as epic as the late nights.
Next Friday kicks off the summer concert series, and bands will grace the stage in the corner of the lot every Friday and Saturday night until Labor Day.
Every year, the Sand Dollar throws a huge Fourth of July bash that ends with fireworks set off down at the pier.
It’s one of my favorite nights ever—the true essence of summer.
When I was a kid, I never wanted summer to end.
As an adult, that feeling is still there: the excitement, the freedom.
It’s a little different because I still have to wake up and go to work, but when you’re doing a job you love, that isn’t such a chore.
Lola gives me a wave from behind the bar. It’s not too busy yet, so she has a minute to come over and say hi.
I gesture at the giant quietly taking in the chaos around us. “Lola, this is my neighbor, Ethan.”
She gives him an unapologetic once over, her ruby lips tipping into a saucy smile. “Oh, I know exactly who he is. We’ve got some loose boards on the deck out back if you want to take that shirt off and earn a little extra cash.”
What the heck? I cover my burning face with my hands. This was not part of the plan. I said to make Ethan feel welcome, not hit on him. “Oh my God, Lola. Keep it in your pants. We want him to like us, remember?”
There’s a dry, crackling sound beside me.
Holy shit. Is Ethan laughing?
Lola beams and asks what he wants to drink. When he orders the same local beer he had in his fridge, my heart skips a beat. Already drinking like a local. Maybe we’ll win him over yet.
Lola winks, says he has great taste, then asks if I want the usual. Gin and tonic is the only thing I can have more than a few of and still feel human the next morning. I nod and turn back to my neighbor, who isn’t frowning anymore.
He goes to sit down on one of the empty stools, but we’re not staying here. Inside, you could be in any bar in any city.
Outside is where the Sand Dollar shines.
When Lola serves us, I tell her to start a tab and hook my arm through Ethan’s, dragging him into the balmy evening breeze, where the sun is skimming the tops of the palm trees.
The only free table is near the stage, which isn’t ideal, but it’s either that or standing beside the cornhole games. The season might not officially kick off till next week, but there are already a lot of faces here I don’t recognize.
Ethan takes a few silent sips from his bottle, scanning the place from the red tin roof down to the dunes.
“So, what do you think?” I ask.
He tilts his bottle at the pergola. “I think those posts are crooked.”