Page 33 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

However, I am not prepared for the storm that hits a week before Halloween, when I get caught halfway home from Blue Hill with my backpack full of groceries and the wind whipping at my clothes. The sea crashes to my right, spitting salt spray in my direction, though I can’t tell the spray from the rain. I’m soaked through in mere seconds, chilled to the bone, and yet warmed by adrenaline as I stagger-run the remaining mile home, praying the house isn’t completely flooded.

“Dylan!” I shout as I fling open the door, my voice barely audible, even to my own ears, with the sea lashing the rocks behind the house and rain pummeling every window. “Dylan!”

“Up here!” His voice reaches me from the third floor.

I drop my peacoat and backpack and race up the stairs. He’s in his bedroom with the door open. His mattress is on its side, leaning against the wall by the wardrobe. He’s standing on the empty bed frame, one foot on each side beam, in jeans and nothing else, holding a balled-up T-shirt against the ceiling in the middle of the ugly brown stain I should’ve heeded like an omen while water runs down his raised arms and naked torso, puddling on the floor.

He sees me enter. “Towels! Pail! Quick!”

I fly to the third-floor bathroom and grab an armload of towels, rushing back to hand one to Dylan before tossing the others on the floor so they can soak up the worst of the rainwater and crumbled plaster that’s rapidly turning to mush. Then I fetch a bucket, and Dylan lets the wadded shirt and towel drop with a loud splat, centering the bucket under a steady stream of water. I’m already off, pillaging for another receptacle by dumping a dried palm leaf arrangement onto the floor and returning to Dylan’s room with a large brass pot.

For the next twenty minutes or so, we run two-person fireman’s drills, alternating the pot and bucket while Dylan collects water from the ceiling and I dump it into the bathtub, returning for the next round. It’s manic and stressful, and we’re both cursing throughout the entire ordeal, too busy triaging for either of us to split off and go check on the rest of the house. By the time the deluge abates enough for us to shove aside the bed frame and set the brass pot on the floor so Dylan can shake out his arms while I catch my breath, the hole in the ceiling is about two feet in diameter, still letting in rain from the crawl space above this section of the house.

“Didn’t anticipate that,” he says as he massages a shoulder.

“It’s my fault. I knew the roof was a disaster. I should’ve made it my first priority.” I blow out an exhausted breath, swapping the pot for the bucket. “Glad you saved the mattress.”

“It’s wet on one side, but I got it moved before the water broke through the ceiling.”

I empty the pot and return with a dry towel, handing it to Dylan. He runs it through his hair before hanging it over his shoulders and glancing around at the mess. Wet towels. Broken plaster. Furniture askew. Rain still battering the windows. I don’t see his laptop, so hopefully he put it somewhere safe before the flooding started. He might not think the hard drive contains anything of value, but now that I’ve read his writing, I’ll fight him on that. Hard.

“You got it covered here if I check the rest of the house?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He tips his head toward the stairs. “Thanks. Go.”

I make a round, grateful to discover that Dylan placed the usual buckets and bins before dealing with his bedroom ceiling. I empty each receptacle and mop up puddles as needed. After confirming that the attic is no worse off than usual and the most valuable antiques are still safe, I return to the third floor, where the storm is doing its worst.

Dylan’s bent over, swapping the bucket for the pot. For a moment, all concerns about rainwater and roof repairs vanish from my mind. I stand in the doorway and stare, rapt by the movement of his back muscles and the wet jeans that hug his ass. This is not the time to let lust overwhelm me. The house is literally falling apart around us, and the storm might continue for hours yet. But my skin heats up. My breath hitches. And I lose all control of my thoughts.

What would he feel like if I just . . . ?

What would I feel like if he just . . . ?

A held hand. A thumb brushing my skin. Friendly.

Or maybe more than friendly.

Storm-cloud eyes. Deep dimples. A smolder. A sigh. A reluctant smile.

I want. I wish.

What if? What if? What if?

Dylan carries the full bucket over to where I’m standing. A very quiet, very distant voice in the back of my mind tells me to take the bucket and empty it for him, but I’m too lust addled to move, my brain even hazier with him only a few feet away.

I assume he’s about to tell me to stop staring at him as though I want to do obscene things with him in dark places, but my face must not reflect my thoughts, because he doesn’t look at me as though I’m making him nervous or uncomfortable. He looks . . . concerned.

“Hey.” He puts down the bucket and sets his hands on my arms, gently, the way someone might comfort a shock victim. “It’ll be okay. Nothing important was damaged beyond repair. The rain will stop eventually. We’ll get the roof fixed. We’ll look back on this and laugh.”

Relief washes over me, followed almost instantly by another wave of emotion, one way too strong and too complicated to make sense of. Maybe I’m responding to his calm, deep voice. Maybe it’s his gentle hold on my arms. Maybe it’s his repeated use of we. Maybe it’s the surprise of someone providing kind reassurance instead of giving me shit for not making smarter choices so all of this would’ve been avoided, lessons I seem to have internalized so deeply they’ve come to define my adulthood, and define it to such a strong degree that when my carefully laid-out life plan fails, I’m consumed by shame, even while I try to hold myself together.

Whatever it is, something inside me cracks, and I fling my arms around Dylan’s neck.

“Thank you,” I say, and the break in my voice betrays the tears that threaten to fall.

He hesitates for a second, startled maybe, or unsure, but soon, his hands slide around my back, and he holds me against him, quiet and calm, while I sniffle in his arms, no longer thinking about his rippling back muscles or the fit of his wet jeans. All I want is this. Kindness and comfort. Warmth. Strength. A stronger line between lonely and alone.

“Sorry.” I pull back to wipe at my nose. “I had no idea I was on the brink.”