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I mean. Best day ever, and it’s not even nine A.M.
Houses begin to appear as we get closer to East Beach on the far side of the island. Abel slows so we can get a better look.
“This is one of my favorites.” I point to a white house with light blue shutters and porches on both the first and second stories. “Such a classic.”
Abel ducks his head. “I like that style too. The Charleston row house. The porches are oriented?—”
“To catch the breeze.” I grin. “I like how they’ve got that big daybed-swing thing out there. Perfect place to read.”
“There’s a sleeping porch on the second story too. Where those shutters are.” Abel points them out. “Nice and shaded.”
“Best nap of your life up there. I imagine it’s pure heaven.”
The houses get bigger and more elaborate the closer we get to the beach. The oceanfront ones are nothing short of spectacular. They’re huge compounds with detached garages and crofters. Sweeping views and sloping rooflines.
“The round windows on that one”—I point to a Cape Cod style mansion—“are chef’s kiss. And the shingled siding with the white trim and shutters, just gorgeous. Love the detail on the porch railing too. The starburst pattern. That one might be my favorite.”
Abel’s turn to grin. “You know why it’s your favorite?”
“Why?”
“Because I built it.”
Because he’s not enough of a catch as it is. He’s also got to be a hugely talented builder with the huge, callused hands to prove it.
“Of course you did.”
I cross my legs. Abel’s gaze catches on them before he turns back to the road. “Porch detail was a pain in the ass to get through inspection. Glad you agree it was worth it.”
“Who bought it?”
“It was a custom build for a tech entrepreneur from Raleigh. She’s got a bunch of kids and grandkids, so she wanted something big and cushy to accommodate everyone.”
I shake my head. “Can you imagine how magical it would be to gather as a family at a place like that? Right on the beach too. You could sip cocktails with all your favorite people on the back porch while overlooking the ocean.”
“Is that what you’d do there?”
“Hell yeah. I’d mix up a big batch of margaritas, and we’d all sit—I’d have rocking chairs, tons of them—and watch the kids run around on the beach.”
Abel nods. “Sounds nice. Am I invited?”
“I mean, yeah. You are my husband. It’d be weird if you weren’t there. You make great margaritas too.”
He smiles. A handsome, hot slice of full lips and white teeth that makes my heart skip a beat. “You like my margs.”
“I love your margs.”
“So as long as I make them, you’ll keep me around.”
“Yes. And don’t forget Cher’s frisbee career. You have to handle that too. Earn your keep.”
He laughs. “I’m on it.”
We drive for a while. All around the island, past the impressive expanse of The Ocean Club, the newer of Bald Head’s two clubs, and the pair of golf courses that are tuckedinto the island’s lush interior. Abel points out his job sites—he’s busy, there are several of them—and we loop past Old Baldy, the battered lighthouse that lent the island its name.
Tai falls asleep in Abel’s lap. We slow down to let a brown snake slither across the road. The air gets warmer. Or maybe it’s just me.
Morning Abel makes me sweat, literally.
