Chapter Nineteen
Nineteen
On Sunday morning I slept in, stretching luxuriously in bed.
Flo had messaged late that she’d gotten to Cincinnati okay, and then I’d finally been able to sleep.
It was unsettling being without her but, oh, I’d forgotten how nice it was to sleep in.
I’d only woken up because my phone vibrated with Flo demanding a proof-of-life photo of her cats.
The sweet little things were gamboling around the stairs, their mother watching over them from the landing.
Mac was a fluffy tabby with intelligent yellow eyes.
She meowed good morning as I shuffled out to take the photograph.
I sent the photo off to Flo, then fed the tumbling little fluff balls, made coffee, and went back to bed with my book.
From my pillowy bed I could see the rain lashing the windows and the ocean roiling in the bay.
It was a perfect day to do nothing at all.
My phone vibrated again, and my heart kicked up a notch when I saw it was Jake. But his message was a prosaic one. See the weather report? Best get those windows up sooner, rather than later.
It was no wonder I’d thought he was an old fisherman when I’d only had his messages to go on. He texted like an old man, with punctuation and everything, and of course on the day of our date, his message was about the weather.
I frowned at my phone screen. Then I punched open my weather app and winced. Gale-force winds and heavy rain were predicted by evening. Possible thunderstorms. My phone buzzed for a third time.
I’ll be up at your place in an hour. I’ll bring my ladder.
I groaned. But I didn’t say no, because my stupid pulse was racing at the thought of seeing him again.
Instead of luxuriating in bed with a book on my Flo-less Sunday, I raced to the bathroom and quickly showered so I could shave my legs and make sure I was, uh, prepared, in case anything happened.
There was no harm in an abundance of caution.
“Do you have a rain slicker?” Jake asked, when he turned up at my door.
He was dressed like a fisherman for real now, in a bright yellow rain jacket and fishing pants, with a beanie on under the hood.
It should have looked ridiculous, but actually it looked stupidly hot.
He was the kind of guy I could imagine at the wheel of a trawler in high seas.
My gaze flicked to his big, strong hands.
“Zoe? You’ll need a rain slicker.”
I flushed and tried to focus on the task at hand.
I did indeed have a rain slicker. It was, however, bright cerulean blue with white polka dots, and not terribly functional.
I dug it out while he waited on the porch.
It barely covered my butt, I thought ruefully, as I buttoned it up to the chin.
He gave me a dubious look when I emerged, which I completely understood.
I did not belong on a fishing trawler in any way, shape, or form.
I was drenched in two minutes flat.
“The storm windows are out in here,” Jake told me, leading me through the sodden garden to the stone outbuilding.
He wrenched open the splintered old door to reveal stacks of storm windows under sheets.
“Sorry, I should have reminded you to do this before now,” he said, as we carried the heavy things out.
“It’s not really your job,” I pointed out.
It took us about half an hour per window, a bit longer with the complicated ones like the portholes and the dormers, so most of my Flo-less Sunday was spent out in the weather.
Not that I did more than help carry windows and hold the ladder.
There was absolutely no way I would ever be able do it myself.
Jake’s offer to “show me” so I could do it in the future had surely been facetious.
When we finished the final window, we collapsed on the front porch swing, both wet and tired.
The rain was sheeting down again, pouring in waterfalls from my broken gutters. Jake followed my gaze up to the roof.
“Want me to fix those gutters next week?” he asked.
“I really should just employ you on a retainer.” I wondered how much it would cost.
“Maybe I’m just finding reasons to see you,” he said lightly.
I felt his words thrum through me. “We live on the same street. You hardly need a reason.” I felt absurdly shy.
There was a buffeting gust from the northeast, and it howled in the eaves above us. Out over the ocean, thunder rumbled from the dark clouds stacking up on the horizon.
“Got those windows up just in time,” he teased.
“Looks like it.”
“Is there anything you don’t eat?” he asked, abruptly changing the subject. He turned to look at me, his face only inches from mine on the two-seater swing.
I shook my head. I couldn’t think of anything. But to be fair, I could barely think of my own name when he was looking at me.
“Is six-thirty too early for dinner?”
I laughed. “I have a kid, remember? I’m used to early dinner and early bed.” I blushed, not registering what I’d said until I’d said it.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Oh, that twinkle. He had the most incredible eyes. They were like summer shoals in a tropical ocean.
“Make it six then,” he said, as he rose from the swing. “I’m not going to complain if I have more time with you. You can keep me company while I cook.”
Now, that sounded appetizing. I watched him flip up his rain hood as he stepped off the porch. The squall was blowing in from the ocean, sending flurries of rain whipping across the cliffs.
I’d forgotten to ask him about Marly’s postcards and the mysterious F, I realized as I watched him disappear into his hardware store.
I must have tried on ten different outfits and changed my underwear four times. In the end I settled on my new jeans and a soft, wine-colored sweater. It was only his house, not a fancy restaurant, and everything else felt too formal. I did wear lace underwear, though. Just in case.
I fed the cats and bedded them down in the hallway, grabbed an umbrella and a bottle of wine leftover from the pizza night, and dashed through the rain before I could lose my nerve.
The lights above the hardware store were blazing through the darkness, and I could hear the ocean making a terrific roar against the cliffs as I reached the porch.
The door to the store was locked. I realized I didn’t know how to get up to his private rooms.
“Hey.”
I couldn’t tell where his voice was coming from. The suck and sigh of the wind was too loud. I huddled, wincing as the rain lashed at me.
“Hey! Zoe!”
I looked up. Jake was on the balcony above. He had to lean over to see me, and he took the wind full in the face.
“Come around back,” he called down. “The side gate is open. You can come up the back stairs.”
I found the gate—there was a “MIND THE DOG” sign—and let myself in, dashed across the muddy yard and up the back stairs to the balcony.
“Ah, you’re drenched,” he said, sounding concerned. “Let me get you a towel.” He opened a French door into the apartment and a blast of warm air eddied out at me.
The legs of my jeans were sodden, and my boots were covered in muck from the yard. I slipped my shoes off and left them on the balcony.
“Maybe bring them in,” Jake suggested, catching me at it. “They’re liable to blow away if the wind picks up.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.” He fetched me a towel while I carefully put my muddy boots just inside the door.
I took inventory of the room while he was gone.
It was open-plan, a space that had clearly once been two rooms. The kitchen was to my left—simple, with pale wood cabinetry and a modest island.
On the far-left wall was a brick fireplace with a roaring fire; Hazel was snoozing on a dog bed in front of it.
French doors on both sides opened to the wrap-around balcony.
In summer he’d be able to throw the doors and all those sash windows open and let the sea air flow in.
He’d also have views all the way down to the spit.
Although, tonight, all I could see was darkness.
The windows on the ocean side were slick with rain and the balcony looked drenched.
The room was painted a warm, creamy off-white, and the furniture was mismatched but cozy. There were bookshelves on every spare wall between the windows, I noted approvingly. The room smelled delicious too. Something good was cooking.
Jake reappeared through the door next to the fireplace, carrying a fluffy white towel. He tossed it to me. “Here you go.”
I handed him the bottle of wine in exchange for the towel, aware that my hair was a mess from the wind. So much for taking care with my appearance, I thought as I tried to dry myself off. I didn’t have high hopes for drying the jeans. They were soaked through from the thigh down.
“It’s going to be quite a night, by the looks of it,” Jake said as the wind kicked at the windows.
“Hope you’ve got your storm windows up,” I said dryly.
He grinned at me, the double dimple in full flight, and my heart tumbled over. “Why don’t you dry off by the fire. Can I get you a wine?”
I nodded, trying not to drip on his rug as I crept toward the fire. The warmth was divine.
“I’ve got white in the fridge if you prefer?” Jake offered.
“I’m easy,” I said, then winced. God, everything was sounding suggestive tonight.
Jake was wearing a well-laundered flannel shirt in soft gray and sage green and jeans that clung lovingly to his long, hard legs. His shirt was open at the neck, revealing his collarbones and a triangle of burnished skin.
“I didn’t do fancy for dinner,” he warned me as he poured a couple of glasses of Chardonnay. “I just roasted a chicken.”
“It smells amazing.” I took the wine from him. He smelled amazing too—that woody, salty, warm Jake smell.
I had no idea what to say next. I’d forgotten how to date.