Beads of sweat trickle from his collarbone down to his taut chest.“If I say yes, will you leave me alone?”
“Probably not.”
He huffs a reluctant chuckle.“Fine.”He holds up a finger.“One surfing lesson.”
“You never know.You might like it.”I give him a smile, then turn and walk back to my house.
Now to find a wetsuit to fit the Thor next door.
CHAPTERNINE
ETHAN
According to legend,Inner Shores is one of the most haunted places in the US, and I swear one of its damn ghosts has taken over my body.I can’t think of a single other reason why, when I should be focused on rebuilding the outdoor staircase, my mind keeps spinning back toher.
As I set another plank into place and drive the screws home, my mind drifts to the mermaid tattoo inked across Chloe’s ribcage.How smooth it would feel beneath my calloused fingers.
I think about that cute gap between her front teeth, those ridiculous bracelets, and the way her skin has more freckles than the beach has sand particles.
Stuff that’s never caught my interest in anyone else before.
I still can’t believe I invited her to dinner.That she seemed to enjoy my company enough to want to take me surfing.
The way her voice wavered when she told me she’d had skin cancer will haunt me for the rest of my days.
As will the memory of her soft hands gliding over my back, diligently covering every inch of skin with sunscreen.
Get the hell out of my head, ghost—I don’t want to be thinking about this girl.I’m here to work, not fuck around.The second this house is fixed up, I’m outta here, and even if I wasn’t, relationships have never ended well for me.
A sudden gust of wind knocks my pencil off the stack of 2x4s.With a fast swipe, I rescue it from rolling off the deck and glance up at the clouds.The sky over the sea is an ominous shade of gray, the towering clouds billowing above white-capped waves.
I grab my phone and open the Weather Channel app, letting the live stream play in the background while I screw the next board in place.
The whir of my screw gun stops in time for me to hear the presenter going on about heavy winds and rain.
How much rain are we talking?
As if he can hear me, he drops the words “tropical storm.”
My fingers freeze around the screw gun, and I twist to watch the host on the screen.He’s pointing at a low-pressure system building off the coast of North Carolina, his finger tracing a line from the storm right to the heart of…Inner Shores.It’s not a hurricane, but the angry swirl of red on the map isn’t small.
The older couple who live next door said storm season wasn’t until the fall.
A tropical storm could do some serious damage to this house.
I flex my fingers open and shut at my side.For fuck’s sake.Nothing’s ever simple.
I head back up the stairs and out front, doing a walkaround, counting windows I’ll need to shutter with plywood.The outdoor chairs will have to come inside, so will all the lumber—new and old—and I’ve gotta get the roof into shape.The storm is still far out at sea, and it could downgrade or move off somewhere else, but that’s a risk I’m not willing to take.
Even if the storm fizzles out, there’s no guarantee another one won’t swing by to say hello next week, or the week after that.Why anyone would want to live under this constant threat is beyond me.
My gaze darts to Chloe’s sagging roof, her eaves choked with old leaves, the enormous tree reaching over her shack, and—what the hell?I step closer to peer at the side of her house, where I’m guessing a lamp used to hang.Is that exposed wiring sticking out?I rub the burning sensation building behind my chest wall.This fucking hut should be on a poster of whatnotto do in a storm zone.
Maybe she hasn’t heard about the storm.I pace over to her front door and give it a few taps.Silence.When I glance down, I step back to reveal some cursive letters printed across her doormat:My Door Is Always Open.
Surely, that’s a metaphorical statement.My curiosity gets the better of me, though, and I give the knob a little twist.The front door pops right open.What?
“Chloe?”I call into the dark, empty living room.
