Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
NILS
Oliver spends two days in my guest room.
Two days of cooking in my kitchen, dressed in my clothes that somehow fit him better than his own.
Two days of us relaxing on the couch, a fire going, and me trying to learn card games that I’m pretty certain Oliver was making up on the fly.
Two days to become so fond of sharing space with a songbird that I miss him on the third day when the singing is gone.
Fighting the urge to stop by his house and make sure his heat is still working, I drive past and head toward the wharf.
Given the storm, Shiloh shut us down for the week.
Instead of being glad for the extra time, I’m a little disappointed.
It’s nice to know that nearly every day of the high season, I’ll see Oliver; less nice when that goes away in the low and I realize that I don’t have enough hobbies or things to do to keep me busy for that time.
So, instead of sitting at home, itching to run by Oliver’s and check on him, I’m going to check on the Drifter instead.
Instead of talking me out of it so he could go himself, Shiloh had seemed relieved when I’d texted and offered, glad to be able to remain home.
Glad, I know, to remain home with Ewan. The same way I was glad to stay home the past few days with Oliver.
Frowning, I carefully drive the quiet streets of Siren’s Point, not passing any other vehicles, as though the storm is keeping most people home.
I shouldn’t be comparing Shiloh and Ewan to Oliver and me.
Prone to dreaming, I am not, and building Oliver up in my mind as anything more than a coworker and friend is both ridiculous and unfair.
The Drifter is fine, as we expected it to be, sitting dry-docked in Shiloh’s warehouse for the winter.
Instead of turning right back around and going home, I stay and work on repairs.
Some winter months in the previous years, we’ve been able to haul.
Some winters were more like this one, with the traps pulled and a few months of downtime awarded.
Most years, the line between them was fine.
Shiloh likes hauling and misses it when he can’t go out.
He’d put us in the water every day if he feasibly could.
This year, he hadn’t wavered, but shut us down the moment the high season ended.
I miss it, too, but even if we had traps out, the days hauling would have been few this time around. The heart of winter is mainly for maintenance on the boat and equipment. Today, I happily work on it myself, glad for the distraction it offers from my beautiful, sunny neighbor.
It’s fully dark by the time I get home in the afternoon—the early nightfall the other part of winter that works against us. We’d still be on the water if this were July.
I slow the truck as I near Oliver’s drive, peering through the window to make sure his lights are on.
A friendly neighbor thing to do, and not a creepy one, I tell myself, even though I can’t ignore the part of me that wishes the house were dark.
I wouldn’t mind if every single day of our week off was spent the same way I’d spent the last couple.
Tapping my fingers on the wheel, I press harder on the brake, not coming to a full stop but to a crawl.
I shouldn’t. I should drive the last couple of minutes to my house and leave him alone.
He doesn’t need me and very probably doesn’t want me.
I should go home, check the chickens, and get back to my usual routine.
Do the same things I’ve done in the evenings my entire adult life and not let two days with Oliver change that.
Instead, I flatten my palm on the steering wheel and turn toward his house.
It can’t hurt to make sure he has heat. Just because it’s no longer snowing doesn’t mean his damn heater is working.
He’s probably not wrong about that house being haunted.
I’ve lived next door for five years, and most of that time, it’s been vacant.
Only two people have lived there for any length of time, and Oliver is one of them.
If I thought I could talk him into it, I’d ask him to just live in my guest room and stop trying to do renovations himself.
I wouldn’t have thought Oliver to be stubborn, but he’s been as hardheaded as a mule when it comes to getting his hands dirty in that money pit.
I’ve barely got the truck in park when the front door opens and he sticks his head out.
I relax a little bit, seeing the smile stretched ear to ear and the wave so vigorous he’s going to dislocate his own arm.
Turning off the ignition, I wave back—in a slightly less enthusiastic manner—and push open the door.
He starts talking before my boots hit snow.
“Hey, Nils! Pretty sure I’m a witch since I was just going to invite you over for dinner, and here you are.
I was only going to make enchiladas, but then I thought, it’s still pretty cold, so maybe soup would be good.
So, now I’ve got enchiladas and sopa azteca.
I was thinking maybe I should whip up some sopapillas for dessert, too.
Then, I was going to call you and try to tempt you over. ”
He grins at me, dimples carved so deep in his cheeks they’re throwing shadows.
His hair, flopped over the left side of his face like he was running his hands through it, looks as bright as the fresh snow on the ground.
With his sea-glass eyes on mine, I’m reminded once more of how good he looks in winter.
“Heat working?” I ask, mounting the porch and leaning down to take off my boots. His house is already a war zone; there’s no need for me to add to the mess.
“It is! Hallelujah and further proof that I’m magical. Or maybe that’s you.”
I snort, following him inside and closing the door behind us. Lightness bleeds through my body, tension I hadn’t even known I was holding sloughing away. Maybe he’s not a witch but a siren, luring lobstermen to him with a smile and a song.
“I turned it up, too. I’m not even cold, but there’s something about looking out the window and seeing snow that makes me feel like I am, you know?
Oh, I also baked a couple breads today. That was the other thing I was going to offer you.
If Spanish cuisine didn’t work, I was going to bring out the homemade sourdough and watch your resolve crumble. ”
It wouldn’t have taken much. Nothing at all, in fact.
We could be having snow cones made from a scoop of snow from the yard, and I’d have been at his door in minutes, begging to be let inside.
Watching the way the fabric of his sweats moves over his ass as he walks, I try to pinpoint the exact moment this happened.
I wasn’t always this aware of him, and I don’t think I can even blame the storm for the way I am now.
It’s been months in the making, this excited burn in my stomach when I wake up for hauling; the comfort of being around someone who doesn’t need me to talk to understand what I’m saying.
It doesn’t feel shocking to find him attractive.
It does feel like a bit of a surprise to want so badly to be near him, though.
My preference has always been toward silence and solitude.
Dating has always been impossible for me.
In middle and high school, I’d watched my classmates shakily take their first steps into relationships, the halls buzzing with chatter about who was paired off that week.
I gave up on that dream before it could ever take hold of me, well aware of the fact that I—stupid, stuttering, and poor, wearing clothes that didn’t fit, with dirt perpetually under my fingernails—was never going to be spoken about as part of a couple.
Talk about me only ever came in the form of ridicule, and no teenager was going to voluntarily attach themselves to me.
Nor did I ever blame them for that. Self-preservation is a skill I learned young.
I could hardly fault anyone else for showing it.
Oliver couldn’t act to save his life, though, nor do I imagine him to be a particularly good secret keeper.
If he didn’t like me, I’d know. The fact that he so clearly enjoys it when I’m around is so surprising, it feels like a trick.
Like the punch line to a joke years in the making.
Leaning a shoulder against the wall, I listen to him talk, his words as scattered as leaves on the wind, fingers quick as he puts together what I suspect is the sopapillas.
He’s not even paying attention, gaze constantly bouncing back to me, smile flitting over his face whenever we lock eyes.
“So, yeah, anyway. How was the boat today? Shiloh texted to see how everything was going and mentioned you were doing repairs. I wanted to come help, but he said it wasn’t necessary.
You know, I think we might end up with more days off this winter than days working.
It’s like Shiloh got a personality transplant. ”
I smile at him. He grins back before biting his lip and turning back to his hands. Shiloh didn’t get a personality transplant; he got a Ewan.
I don’t know anything about cooking, but I know it smells amazing in here.
I wasn’t hungry before I walked in the door, and now my stomach is grumbling loud enough that I’m pretty sure Oliver would hear it if he stopped talking.
I stand and watch until he finishes, enjoying the view.
Stepping forward, I help him plate before taking both into the living room.
As I do, I think about my own living room—recently so full of life and Oliver—and have a fleeting wish we were there instead.
He could cook dinner in my kitchen just as well, if not better, than his own.
We could eat in front of a working fireplace.
I wouldn’t have had to go searching for him after work—he would have been right there.