Stuck With The Grumpy Contractor

1. Population Not Enough

Chapter one

Population: Not Enough

Claire

“Here we go,” I mutter as I drive past the sign welcoming me to Tidehaven. “Get in, meet with the realtor, get out. Easy peasy.”

I nod like that somehow magically makes selling the beach house the simplest thing I’ve done all year. Which, considering the year I’ve had, it just might be.

“As long as I can avoid Jack Wilder,” I say to no one as I turn onto Main Street.

I still don’t know why he acts like I’m his personal arch nemesis every time I’m in town. Either he reserves a permanent glare specifically for me, or something went catastrophically wrong with his face at birth and left him permanently scowling.

I shove the thought of my unfriendly neighbor aside and take in my surroundings.

The town is quiet. Too quiet for my taste.

I prefer Tidehaven during peak season, when tourists crowd the sidewalks and people actually exist outside their homes. But I’ve been putting this trip off for months, which means now it’s just me and the locals.

Population: not enough.

I pass a few small shops before turning onto the road lined with rental cottages, all their windows shuttered against another season of rain and coastal storms.

The road curves, and my chest tightens when my family’s beach house comes into view.

I’m not sure if I want to smile or cry.

Maybe both.

The house still looks mostly the same as it did when I was a kid, though the white paint has faded into a worn cream from years of salt air. The wraparound porch sits empty except for the swing hanging near the front door.

Well. Kind of hanging.

As I pull into the driveway, I make a mental note not to sit on it until I confirm the chains won’t snap and send me crashing through the porch floor.

I grab my phone before climbing out of the car, miraculously remembering I promised Nicole I’d text her when I arrived.

Here safe and sound! Based on the status of my porch swing… which is dangling at a rather precarious angle… I have a lot to do.

Nicole: I told you so. Now just hire someone to do the work and come home!

Me: We’ll see how it looks on the inside first.

Nicole: Message me if you need a distraction. Or we can Zoom if you want a virtual shoulder to cry on.

Me: How could I possibly resist a virtual shoulder? I’ll get back to you on that.

I smile as I shove my phone into my back pocket and search for the house key.

Nicole wanted to come with me to help with repairs and sorting through everything, but I need to do this alone.

This is my last stop on the road to letting Ben go.

Physically, anyway.

Emotionally? That road still stretches somewhere beyond the horizon.

“You’re here.”

I close my eyes briefly.

“And so it begins,” I mumble under my breath, lowering my hand from the lock.

Then I plaster on a fake smile and turn around.

“I am,” I say, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.

Jack Wilder walks the short distance from his yard to mine with his usual glare firmly in place. Because of course it is.

It’s been a few years since I’ve seen him, but he’s still a walking cliché of tall, dark, and handsome.

Unfortunately.

“You staying long?” he asks, his tone slightly less hostile than usual.

I shrug. “Just getting things settled to sell the place. If all goes well, I’ll be out of here before the first storm of the season.”

“Sell?”

“It’s time.” I thumb behind me toward the house, already preparing my escape. “But I have to run. Lots to do.”

Jack opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, but nothing comes out.

“I’m sure I’ll see you around,” I say with a small wave.

“What kind of sale?” he asks before I can fully turn away.

“The house?” I ask. Or question. Honestly, what else would I be selling?

Jack rolls his eyes. It’s a nice change from the glaring.

“And what happens with the land?” he asks.

“That… usually goes with the house.”

I know what he means. In towns like Tidehaven, “selling” usually translates into bulldozers, luxury rentals, and outsiders who think authentic coastal charm means hanging decorative fishing nets in bathrooms.

And sure, I could clarify things in two seconds.

But he hasn’t exactly inspired cooperation.

Jack huffs. “Forget it.”

Before I can respond, he turns and heads back toward his house.

Good riddance.

I unlock the front door but pause with my hand hovering over the handle.

Despite weeks of mentally preparing myself to come back to Tidehaven, I’m still not sure I’m ready for the memories waiting inside.

Maybe I should’ve let Nicole come after all.

“I’ve got this,” I whisper to myself.

Then I take a deep breath and push open the door.

The familiar scent hits immediately.

Salt. Damp air. Old wood.

The kind of smell my parents always swore they could “air out” every summer despite decades of evidence proving otherwise.

The little shelf beside the door still sits beneath the window. A ceramic bowl waits there for keys that no longer belong to anyone.

I smile despite myself.

My parents loved putting things in bowls like it somehow counted as organization. I’m definitely going to have to keep track of how many ceramic bowls I discover while cleaning this place out.

I walk farther inside, my gaze drifting across everything the same way it always does whenever I come back.

The house still feels lived in.

Not like the rentals down the road with their seashell wreaths and aggressively cheerful signs about salt life.

This place was home first. Beach house second.

My stomach rumbles, and I wander toward the kitchen.

I could walk this path blindfolded. I used to do exactly that when I was twelve and convinced the house was haunted. Also convinced I could outsmart ghosts by refusing to turn on lights.

There probably isn’t much food here, but there’s no harm checking.

I open drawers out of habit before moving to the cabinets because if I stop moving, I might start thinking.

And that’s a rabbit hole I’m not ready to fall into yet.

Maybe later. After I meet with the realtor. Preferably while holding ten pints of ice cream.

Priorities.

I open the cabinet beside the sink and freeze.

“Oh my goodness.”

Peanut butter.

So much peanut butter.

I blink at the shelf like if I stare long enough the jars might reorganize themselves into something less insane.

There are at least eight jars lined up perfectly across the shelf like a grocery store display.

I look toward the ceiling.

“Seriously, Ben? Seriously?”

I grab one jar.

Creamy.

Another.

Crunchy.

Then I completely lose it at the next one—the natural kind that separates and turns making a sandwich into an upper body workout.

I laugh, shaking my head as I lean against the counter.

A shelf full of peanut butter definitely wasn’t on my Tidehaven Bingo Card.

Ben and I only visited the beach house twice together, but apparently that was enough time for him to decide it needed to be fully stocked.

My husband treated peanut butter like a basic human right.

And now I have proof.

I place the jar back in the cupboard and let myself sit with the ridiculousness of it.

The sweetness too.

Even if it’s sweet in the most irritating way possible.

“Honestly,” I mutter. “You were such a menace.”

I grab the crunchy jar again and search for stale crackers.

“If I’m going to do this,” I tell the empty kitchen, “I’m at least going to do it with peanut butter.”

“I swear upon my goldfish’s life you will move,” I grunt while bear-hugging the refrigerator.

The appliance doesn’t budge.

Maybe it knows my goldfish died when I was nine.

“And who decided to shove this thing back against the wall after unplugging it for the season?” I ask the empty kitchen. “It’s not like it would’ve been in the way.”

I drop my arms and glare at the refrigerator.

Then kick it for good measure.

“Unbelievable,” I grumble, scooping another spoonful of peanut butter into my mouth before collapsing into a chair at the table.

Protein-packed lunch.

Very healthy.

Very mature.

I’ve barely propped my feet up when someone knocks on the front door.

I’m not expecting anyone, but maybe whoever’s standing out there can help me move the stupid refrigerator.

“Please be someone with muscle,” I whisper as I set the peanut butter aside.

I yank open the door without thinking and come face-to-face with Jack Wilder.

Of course.

“Is that glare permanent?” I ask before my brain can stop my mouth. “Seriously. Why do you always look at me like I’m your enemy?”

“Hello again,” Jack says, his glare softening slightly. Slightly. “I wanted an answer about the property.”

I raise an eyebrow. “The house and land are one package. I don’t do halfsies with beach houses and sandy grass.”

“That’s not what I…” He exhales sharply, a deeper scowl forming between his brows. “Who are you selling to?”

I shrug.

Maybe if he acted like a normal human being instead of an aggressively suspicious lighthouse keeper, I’d feel more inclined to answer.

“A developer? Investor? Individual?” he presses.

I study him while mentally debating whether asking him to help move the refrigerator is worth it.

Pros: cold food.

Cons: I’d have to invite him inside.

And there’s really no room in my life right now for rude men with opinions about my property.

On the other hand, cold chocolate milk would go exceptionally well with peanut butter.

“How are you with refrigerators?” I ask.

Jack blinks.

“Refrigerators,” I repeat when he keeps staring at me. “Mine refuses to move so I can plug it back in. I think it’s glued to the floor.”

“A refrigerator should not be glued to the floor,” he says flatly.

I stare at him.

Did he genuinely think I meant that literally?

“You’re right,” I reply dryly. “How silly of my family to superglue kitchen appliances to the floor. I’ll make sure we address that generational issue immediately.”

“I just mean—”

“No, no,” I cut in. “I should absolutely investigate my family history of aggressive refrigerator placement while I solve the issue myself.”

Jack takes a small step toward the doorway like he expects me to let him inside.

“This has been lovely and all,” I say, glancing dramatically at my nonexistent schedule. “But I have somewhere to be.”

“The property—”

“Or maybe we don’t have to talk later,” I amend before closing the door.

I lean against it afterward, listening to his footsteps creak across the porch boards.

I managed to avoid him entirely during my last three visits to Tidehaven.

Surely I can survive one final trip without getting dragged into whatever weird hostility he has toward me.