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He was still sleeping on Martin’s living room floor—the couch had won that round. Nick’s—and Kitten’s—continued presence was a daily reminder that work on the cabins wasn’t going as quickly as he’d thought it would. But wasn’t that always the case with construction, especially around the holidays? And Nick Waugh, a man Martin had originally seen as an obstacle and irritant, was slowly morphing into analmostfriend. Even if sometimes Martin’s patience was tested.
This morning was a perfect example. Martin returned from his weekly trip to Aberdeen to find not one, not two, butthreemore of the odd penis carvings sitting smack dab in the middle of the lawn in front of the cabins. It had been the first time he’d seen any since he’d threatened to burn that first one.
Martin was certain Nick resented their enforced intimacy, but they’d gotten to know each other, regardless. It was impossible not to while sharing a seven-hundred-and-ninety-six square-foot living space. Maybe the penises were his way of protesting? Who knew?
Despite the warning signs that were practically highway billboards, Martin was drawn to Nick. Nick reminded him of a wet, grumpy cat—not that he’d ever tell him that—a grumpy, wet cat who was not averse to kindness but also wasn’t going to ask for it. Martin suspected about half of Nick’s attitude was just how he was built and the other half stemmed from a life that had been unkind to Nick again and again.
Martin liked Nick’s broody grumpiness, and he felt he was learning to speak “Nick.” If he was bitching about something, it meant he cared about some aspect of it, and it pleased Martin to try and figure out what that aspect was.
An obvious example was the almost nightly rants about the tiny police department and how “they couldn’t find their way around Cooper Springs with a hand-drawn map.” The reality? Nick was upset that Lizzy Harlow’s killer had, so far, gone unpunished and that Blair Cruz was still missing. No agency had even found a trace of her yet. It was as if she’d walked out of her friend’s front door that Sunday and vanished into thin air.
Nick’s attitude toward Martin had changed—softened—since their shopping trip before Christmas. Maybe it was that Martin believed him about the SUV. Maybe it was his relentless attempts to make Nick laugh by quoting lines fromStarsky and Hutchanytime he could fit some in their conversation. He didn’t know, but he was taking the win regardless.
After four-plus weeks with him around, Martin knew the younger man was intelligent, well-read, and had a rapier-sharp wit that kept Martin on his toes. The only person he had seen Nick soft around was Liam Wright. Liam seemed to have some kind of special power that rendered Nick, if not helpless, at least lessbitey.
As he stood there pondering life—and Nick—a lone firework whistled upward. Seconds later, it exploded into a shower of sparks that fell back toward the earth, creating a fountain of color. From the beach, Martin thought he heard cheering over the pounding of the surf.
Martin wondered where Nick was tonight. Was he down on the beach with the others, or had he decided to forego the celebration altogether? Martin thought Nick Waugh probably didn’t care about New Year’s Eve any more than he did Christmas.
Something irritatingly persistent inside of him wanted to get to know Nick even better—intimatelybetter. Martin had been doing his best to squash these errant tendrils ofwant,but they returned daily, like the rodent in that whack-a-mole game.
He chuckled out loud at the image. “I am such an idiot.”
Martin was curious about Nick’s life, but he wasn’t about to ask. The man did not give up personal information easily. He was gay. Martin was certain of that, in any case.
For Christ’s sake, Martin still didn’t know how or why he’d been shot. Although he did know that Nick was a vegetarian who loathed most vegetables. That he’d say no to an offer of tea or coffee, but if Martin handed it to him, he’d drink it. And that he still refused to give the kitten a name, even though it was obvious to Martin she wasn’t going anywhere.
Stepping off the path, he surveyed his surroundings, looking for the best spot to sit. It was cold enough tonight that Martin’s breath fogged in front of him. The last thing he wanted to do was sit too close to the edge; the fall would likely not be survivable.
Prickly or not, Nick did his part around the house. Made sure the dishes were clean and there was no clutter, even cooked meals once or twice, although those were experiences Martin would prefer not to repeat. And he’d worked just as hard—maybe harder—than the two guys Martin had brought in to work on the cabins.
“Nope, not going there,” Martin said firmly.
Maybe if he said the words aloud, his subconscious would finally hear them and quit making him pause when he noticed the earthy smell of the soap Nick used. When Nick finally moved out, Martin was going to buy a case of it. Maybe two cases.
Even with so much moisture in the air, the odor of damp soil and pine needles was strong. Martin took a deep breath—this was his other new favorite scent. He glanced up to the night sky where a few faint stars were visible despite the misty clouds overhead. The wind was gusting, and it had a bite to it. But there was no rain; that much he would take any day.
“Happy New Year to me,” Martin muttered as he peered around again, still searching for the perfect spot.
A voice floated from the inky darkness to Martin’s left, asking, “You mind company?”
The voice was Nick’s, of course, and not wholly unexpected. But Martin’s heart still banged against his chest. He ignored it; this particular chest pain was nothing to worry about. Better ignored, in fact.
“Of course not,” he replied. “But I only brought the one chair and I’m afraid in this case it’s age before beauty.”
Setting the camp chair down, Martin popped it open with one hand. Under his other arm he had a rolled-up fleece blanket and from his fingers dangled a large flask filled with a lot of whiskey, some hot water, a little bit of honey, and a couple of cinnamon sticks.
Nick stepped out of the shadows, a few stray beams of moonlight illuminating his angular features. He wasn’t beautiful, not by any traditional measure. His face was all sharp corners, one eye was a slightly different shape than the other, and the left side of his mouth lifted slightly higher the rare times he smiled. But Martin, damn himself, was discovering Nick Waugh to be almost irresistible. Who could have predicted his kink was grumpy assholery?
“I don’t need to sit down,” Nick said.
Of course he didn’t. Martin let a smile play across his lips. If Nick wanted to sit down, he’d sit down, when and where he wanted.
“Why aren’t you at the beach with everyone else?” Martin asked, lowering himself into the chair.
“I could ask you the same question,” Nick countered.
Martin shrugged. “Not really my thing. Mostly, I just wanted to see the stars and welcome in the new year.” He held out the blanket he’d been planning to wrap around himself. “It’s fleece with some kind of backing, probably meant for picnics.”
