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“Thanks,” I say, quickly wrapping the towel around my waist. Now that I’m free, the embarrassment and shame have set in. I have to face this guy and thank him properly. I shake the sand out of my hair, rinse my hands in the shower, then unlock the door.
His back is turned, being polite I’d imagine. It’s a nice broad, muscular back. He’s wearing work pants, the ones that make men’s butts look amazing, a white tank top, and a backwards baseball hat with some initials on it. His dark hair is long and curls around the hat and his ears. He’s a few inches taller than my 5’ 8” and his shoulders are a little sunburned.
“My hero,” I say trying to keep it light with someone who may or may not have seen my lady bits.
He chuckles that manly chuckle again and turns.
Shit.
Turns out this man has seen my lady bits, several times, years ago.
That face isn’t one I can easily forget. Deep blue eyes, strong jaw, covered in a salt and pepper beard, one deep dimple on the right cheek. Phew, even with glasses on he’s the most handsome man I’ve seen.
“Owen,” I say on a sigh.
“Hatchet?” he asks, squinting at me while using a nickname I never thought I’d hear again.
CHAPTER 2
UNSTUCK
OWEN NOW
Being here reminds me of her. As I run the piece of driftwood through the table saw, I think back to the best summer of my life. It’s one of the reasons why I decided to come here last spring.
Was I trying to run away from my life? Maybe I was. Now I’m seeing what my life could be, putting my physical and mental health first, removing myself from a job that was slowly killing me.
My dad always wanted me to be a lawyer and I thought I did too. Ten years working in a criminal defense firm has changed my mind. I’m too sensitive, too idealistic, my father says. These traits do not belong anywhere near a firm that defends the indefensible.
Client after client getting next to no punishment, or completely off was the norm. That’s the job, you say? Of course it is, but my soul couldn’t take it anymore. There weren’t enough pro-bono cases defending the people who really needed defending to make up for what we did.
This last case put me over the edge and I just gave it all up. Since then, I’ve been making driftwood tables and some sculptures. I make tiny charms out of driftwood and sell them to a local gift shop. I don’t need the money but it gives me something to do.
When I arrived at my Aunt Lucy’s house I was flooded with memories. I spent a few summers here until I stopped. My Aunt Lucy is in Paris and let me take over care of the house. She’s a very young 60 and wanted to travel, so she left me in charge of the beach house and took off.
The beach house. It’s a sweet little cedar shake cape with a roof deck and a big yard. It’s the third house from the ocean and it’s within walking distance of restaurants and mini golf. The important stuff. When I arrived in April, it was the first time I’d stepped foot in the place in over 15 years.
Lucy invested in renovations and the house is lovely, open concept, all ceramic tile flooring that looks like wood. It’s fresh, airy, and lacks the classic dark wood paneling of my youth since she had it painted white years ago.
It rented well and was taken care of by a reputable management company. The agent’s face was disappointed when I told him I was moving in and voiding any rentals for the summer. It was a dick move since we had six weeks booked already but I had to leave the city, I needed this place.
I bought a shed for my tools and started collecting small pieces of driftwood here and there. One day I walked the length of the island which is about 17 miles and found some amazing things. I had a small bucket I filled up but some things I hid and went back for later with my truck.
Right now, I’m working on a custom side table that will have a driftwood base and a solid walnut top. Working with my hands again has been a revelation, as well as a stress relief.
I stop the saw to get another 2x4 when I hear a woman’s voice. It takes me a minute but I realize she is calling for help.
“Help, please!” I hear her yell. I walk to the fence where I think the sound is coming from and hear her cry out again. “Can someone please help me?”
It’s coming from the house next door and as much as I’ve tried to ignore it, it is a house after all and hard to miss. The house next to mine, second to the ocean is a place I’ve spent more time than I’d like thinking about. The house, and the person who was once in the house.
Not one to ignore a damsel in distress, I take my gloves off, wipe my sweaty brow on my shirt, and walk around to the neighbor’s backyard. Once there, I’m met with an amusing sight. A long gorgeous pair of legs are sticking out from under the outdoor shower door. The woman’s bikini bottom is snagged on the door and she is clearly stuck.
I kneel down to help her and I freeze. On the rise of her hip sits a small tattoo of a lifeguard buoy that I recognize. I recognize it because I was there the day she got it.
We manage to get her loose, but when she shimmies under, her bottoms come clean off. I grab a beach towel she must have thrown on a nearby chair and give her the bad news about her suit, while passing the towel under the door.
I turn my back to her in case she can’t get the towel situated. I hear her curse to herself and unlatch the lock.
