Page 65 of Fake it for Keeps

20

HALLIE

The beach house was exactly as I remembered. Worn, weathered, and achingly familiar.

Home.

I stood in the doorway, my bag at my feet, and let the memories wash over me. The faint smell of salt air and old wood. The creak of the floorboards under my weight. The way the afternoon light filtered through the windows that were older than I was and in desperate need of being upgraded.

After spending time on Colt’s yacht and then that hotel, I could see the age. The disrepair. The outdated appliances and furniture.

But that was okay because I was going to fix all of it.

I left my bag and moved through the rooms slowly, running my fingers along surfaces I’d touched a thousand times before. The kitchen counter where my mom used to roll out pie dough. The windowsill in the hallway where I’d carved my initials when I was eight. The back porch where Dad had installed a screen door himself, proud as could be even though it hung slightly crooked.

Everything was exactly where it should be, frozen in time like a museum of my childhood.

I ended up in the garage. My stomach always did a weird flip when I stepped into the garage. There were warring thoughts. My memories that were all good versus what my mother had told me when she had found him.

It was almost fitting his last minutes were filled with him doing what he loved most. Where he’d spent countless hours tinkering with his motorcycle, fixing broken things, building new ones. His tools still hung on the pegboard, organized with a precision that had always amused me. Dad had been chaotic in most areas of his life, but his garage was sacred.

I touched the workbench and felt the familiar ache in my chest. Three years since he’d died. Three years since Mom had found him here, collapsed on this very floor, iced tea spilling from the glass in his hand.

I still missed him every single day.

“Hey, Dad,” I whispered to the empty room. “I’m back.”

The house didn’t answer, but I felt his presence anyway. In the tools he’d used. In the half-finished projects still scattered around. I could still smell Old Spice that somehow lingered even after all this time.

I thought about the last summer we’d spent here together. I’d been twenty-three, fresh out of cosmetology school, excited about my new job at the salon. Dad had been so proud, telling anyone who would listen that his daughter was going to make people beautiful for a living.

“That’s important work, Janie,” he’d said. “Making people feel good about themselves. Never underestimate that.”

We’d spent that whole week working on the house together. He’d wanted to repaint the shutters, repair the porch railing, maybe finally fix the leak in the bathroom. We’d gotten about halfway through the shutters before getting distracted by a bike ride into town for ice cream.

We never did finish those shutters.

Now they hung, half-blue and half-peeling white, a monument to unfinished plans and time that ran out too soon.

“I’m going to fix it all,” I told the empty workshop. “The shutters, the porch, the plumbing. Everything. I’m going to make this place beautiful again. Just like you always wanted.”

The house had heat, thank God. The furnace was old and temperamental, but it worked well enough to keep the chill at bay. Still, I couldn’t resist building a fire in the living room fireplace the way Dad had taught me.

I crumpled newspaper and arranged kindling the way he’d shown me a hundred times. Small pieces first, building up to larger logs. Leave room for air to circulate. Don’t pack it too tight.

“Fire needs to breathe, Janie,” I could hear him saying. “Just like people.”

I struck a match and held it to the newspaper, watching the flames catch and spread. Within minutes, I had a respectable fire crackling, filling the room with warmth and the comforting smell of burning wood.

There was always something so comforting about a fire. It didn’t matter if there was a violent storm raging outside or if you were having a shitty day in general, a fire made it all better.

I settled onto the old couch. The springs were shot, and the fabric was faded, but it was still the most comfortable seat in the house. I wasn’t sure I wanted to get new furniture. I kind of liked the old stuff.

But it was ugly.

I pulled out my phone. I should probably read a book, disconnect for a while, do exactly what I had told Colt I was going to do.

But first, I needed to download something to read. It felt like I had not had the time to read a book in forever. I couldn’t wait to see what smut I could find. Something naughty and juicy.