Holiday Tides (Wilks Beach Holiday Novella)

8. Summer

eight

Summer

“ I used to love this house so much.” My words are a frosty plume as I collapse onto the faded, paisley wingback chair in Gramma’s upstairs reading room .

Since this is the smallest room in the house, I figured it’d be the best place to eat my sad breakfast—a granola bar and an apple. I’d planned on making myself sunny-side eggs like Gramma used to when I visited, but that was before the whole smoking stove fiasco yesterday. Eggs were always something special. With six voracious kids, we ate bargain-brand cereal most mornings. On the weekends I was lucky to visit, Gramma would fry the eggs in butter and serve them with fat slices of toast. My mouth waters even as I resentfully bite into my cold apple.

I can’t turn to my parents for help restoring this house. Money has always been tight, and even though they no longer have to pay for us, Dad’s on-the-job injury years ago means he’s only receiving disability, and Mom is back at the grocery store. They’ve got enough for themselves, but not for the repairs this house needs. Thank goodness it was paid off before we inherited it, and whoever resides here only needs to pay the annual property taxes.

The space heater hums in the corner as I gaze out of the casement windows. This is the only room with an ocean view, albeit a sliver between the massive seaside homes. Beyond the beach access walkway cutting through the grassy dunes, the stormy sea toils, whitecaps prominent. The pervasive gray-out from yesterday is still subduing the sunlight, worsening my already gloomy mood. I’d woken to Cooper’s apology text, condoning his behavior last night while blaming it on a difficult work week, but I can’t dismiss the niggling sensation that something is still off.

My gaze slips to the bare branches of the crepe myrtle beside the house when a muted-red cardinal lands near the trunk, seeking shelter from the wind. It’s almost as if I can smell warm snickerdoodles as my mind replays the memory of that first Christmas after my grandfather passed.

“You know, that cardinal isn’t just a bird.” Gramma points with her spatula at the bright-red cardinal outside. “That’s your grandpa here with us in spirit. He taps on my window every morning, reminding me there are still things to do and people to love.”

Sophia wrinkles her nose. “Flying dead people? Gross.”

Three more birds join the first one, knocking bits of bark out of the tree.

“Watch out!” Simon tosses a pinch of flour at Sophia. “Dead people everywhere!”

My sister chases Simon out of the kitchen as Gramma sighs, bracing both palms on the cracked tile counter.

“I believe you,” I tell her, resting my fingers over hers.

Gramma winks, her blue eyes sparkling or misting. I’m not sure. “That’s why you’re my favorite,” she says, dropping a kiss on my head.

A figure walking up the boardwalk snags my attention away from the female cardinal. It’s a surfer, board under his arm, but his wetsuit isn’t black. It’s a deep red with white trim around the waist like…a Santa suit. I laugh, standing to get a better view. The man pulls a matching wetsuit hood from his head, and my heart stops. I’d know that messy tumble of brunette waves anywhere.

Nick props the board against the side of the house he’s renovating, stepping into an outdoor shower stall and turning on the water. It’s sheer jealousy over the steamy spray of hot water that keeps my eyes glued to the scene before me— nothing else. Besides, Nick is fully dressed, covered from head to black wetsuit boots.

A punchy exhale leaves my parted lips when Nick reaches for the zipper leash, and his muscled back slowly comes into view. I should look away. Give him some privacy. Gramma would pinch the back of my arm if she saw me ogling a man like this, but then Nick slides his arms free of the neoprene and goodness . He’d been fit in high school, but those sculpted shoulders and trim tapered waist are all man. Nick bends his head forward, the steamy rivulets cascading reverently down his spine.

The cardinal flutters close to the window, almost flicking the glass with its wings. I press my palm to the window, leaning close to follow the bird’s upward swoop, and…the glass pane falls out. It just pops out of its frame like it’d been held there by spider silk. A stunned cry leaves my mouth as it plummets to the ground. By some miracle, the window falls atop a robust American holly shrub and stops—a glass stuntman lying on a crash mat. The tension in my forearms eases a fraction. At least I won’t have to buy another window. I just need to figure out how to get this one back where it belongs.

My momentary reprieve shatters when I glance up and find Nick watching me with a curious expression, water pelting his back. I mutter a few choice words that definitely would have gotten me pinched before tromping downstairs. The last thing I need is another house project. Grabbing some trash bags and duct tape, I cover the hole as best as I can. Nick and his surfboard are gone when I get back upstairs, thankfully. Though it’s unlike him to witness my failures without rubbing it in my face, I’ll take any win I can get.

The hole is sealed by the time I hear insistent knocking—so much for Nick leaving me alone. I tilt my head back with a groan before racing down the stairs to fling my front door open. Nick is holding the windowpane, dressed in jeans and a henley, his wet hair tousled, and darn him , he smells incredible.

“I don’t want to hear it, Nick,” I start before he can smirk at me and say something snappy. “I don’t want to hear a word about the hole in my house or whatever witty retort you’ve got primed and ready. I’ve wanted to live here for years— years . And now that I get my chance, everything is…”

I pause, realizing that I don’t want to be talking to Nick about this. All I want is to have this conversation with my best friend, to hash out every minute detail like we’d done dozens of times. Kayla would understand how infuriating Nick is and commiserate about Sam’s irresponsibility. Then I could complain about the lack of hot water, the window base-jumping into the bushes, and how freaking freezing I am, knowing she’d reassure me.

Only, Kayla made it very clear in July that she never wanted to speak to me again.

My stomach seizes, almost doubling me in half.

“All I want,” I amend, knowing I can’t have my relationship back, “is to sleep in a heated home that isn’t falling apart and drink crappy instant coffee in my pajamas.” My voice cracks even though I really thought I was holding it together.

Nick’s green eyes dart around my face, his chest rising with a large inhale. A decision is made. I can almost see the cogs clicking into place, but before he can say anything, I continue.

“I also want you to leave me alone. Don’t pop over to check on me when you’re really here to gloat. I don’t need anything from you.”

I don’t need anything from anyone . According to the developmental psychology classes I took in med school, being the youngest sibling usually means you’re given more leniency, attention, and protection, but that wasn’t the case in my household. I was almost always an afterthought, left to fend for myself. Sage, my middle sister, looked after me as much as she could, but she herself had been a child. I’d been taking care of myself long before residency training taught me how to thrive—okay, survive—in the face of adversity and exhaustion.

His dark brows raise. “Are you done?”

I give a curt nod, biting the inside of my cheek to keep my lips from wobbling.

“Good.”

Then Nick uses his broad shoulders to push past me into my house.