Holiday Tides (Wilks Beach Holiday Novella)

9. Nick

nine

Nick

“ W hat do you think you’re— Nick, get out!” I ignore Summer’s protests, resting the window against the chair rail in the small dining room. It’s not any warmer in here than it was on the beach. The idea of Summer shivering throughout the night when I could have helped her sends a flush of heat prickling down my legs.

“I don’t think I will,” I tell her, striding past the central staircase.

All island homes are built on concrete piers going to the bedrock since you can’t build a foundation on sand, meaning they lack basements, and a lot of these old cottages don’t have their heating or cooling units in the attic. The double-shuttered doors at the back of the house look promising. Summer follows me, a sharp tirade—something about audacity and male ego —peppering me as I search.

“Bingo,” I murmur, finding a combination furnace and water heater closet.

It takes me exactly five seconds to determine that the pilot light is out. I chuckle despite the irritation simmering in my veins.

“What? What’s so funny?”

After turning the pilot light to the off position, I punch up from my crouched stance. “What’s funny is if you’d simply mentioned that your house had no heat, I could have fixed this yesterday. But no, you had to be typical, Stubborn Summer.”

I don’t even notice that I’ve crowded her against the back door until she swallows, eyes wide. “Oh.”

“Oh,” I mimic. Everything in me wants to lean forward, to trace a finger down the goosebumps along her neck, but I force myself to step back. “Do you have a long lighter?”

“I—” She blinks rapidly. “I think so. In the kitchen.”

As she scurries past me, I close my eyes and take a slow, steadying breath, reminding myself that Summer has a boyfriend. He might be the wrong boyfriend, but that’s her choice to make, not mine.

The process of relighting the pilot goes smoothly and silently, both of us receding into our thoughts. Once a low humming permeates the quiet house, and I confirm that warm air is coming through the floor vents in a few rooms, I tilt my chin toward her attire. Summer looks like she’s wearing every long-sleeved shirt and pajama pant she owns.

“It will probably take the rest of the day, but you won’t have to wear all of that tonight.”

As she self-consciously tugs at her sleeve, I notice how cold her hands look. All I want is to rub them between my own, but I tug down the brim of her green Fair Isle patterned hat instead.

“Did you sleep in this?” I make sure to keep the words light, teasing.

Summer wrinkles her nose at me, pushing the hat out of her eyes. “What I wear to bed is none of your concern.”

I chuckle. Haughty Summer has returned, ladies and gentlemen.

“I know you’d rather have your toenails pulled off by pliers, but…” I press my lips together, pausing. I wanted to get all of this out under the guise of our usual ribbing repartee, but I can’t. “Please don’t go to bed cold again. I promise I’ll never hold this over your head. I’ll never tease you about needing help. Everyone needs help every once in a while, and I’ve taken my share of it from this community. If you need something, please ask me.”

Summer’s beautiful blue eyes dart to her feet. She’s quiet for so long I wonder if I’ll ever get an answer.

“Why does your wetsuit look like a Santa suit?”

So we’re going to avoid the topic altogether. Okay, then.

I’m disappointed, but I don’t let it show in my tone. “Haven’t you heard the tales of Surfing Santa?”

She raises her face, the corner of her lip lifting before she forces it down. “No.”

“He’s a myth. A legend, really.” I lean my hip against the kitchen counter as Summer rolls her eyes. “He surfs the angry winter waves, bringing joy to locals in the form of sporadic gifts. But since he travels by ocean and doesn’t want to ruin anyone’s flooring with his damp wetsuit boots, he leaves presents on people’s doorsteps. I’ve heard that sometimes the wrapping paper is sprinkled in ocean water, but a wet gift is still a gift.”

A reluctant smile splits her face. It’s the most breathtaking thing I’ve seen in days, and I regularly watch the sunrise break over the ocean.

“I’ll be sure to keep my eye out for this mythical legend.”

“You should.” I tap the side of my nose. “I hear he’s quite a hottie.”

“Okay, time to go,” she says, pushing me out of the kitchen.

I let her strong-arm me all the way to the entry before I remember the displaced window. When I slip to the side to grab it, Summer almost trips since her palms are no longer pressed to my back. She rights herself before I need to intervene, but being prepared to catch her leaves us way too close again.

“You okay?”

A shaky inhale fills her lungs as she nods. I’m about to step out of her personal space when her tongue darts to wet her bottom lip. A beat passes while I’m transfixed by that tiny motion. My brain is screaming at me to back up, but every cell in my body is spiking with potential energy. I drag my gaze back to her eyes to find her watching me in a stunned haze. When her focus falls to my mouth, I barely restrain a groan. It’d be so easy to lean in, to finally feel the softness of those lips against mine.

Summer blinks, briefly catching my eyes before her gaze slips to the scar on my temple. “What happened?”

“Construction accident.” My hands twitch at my sides when her fingertips drift upward as if to trace it.

Her expression turns thoughtful as she drops her hand. “Why didn’t you go to school?”

It’s the perfect proverbial bucket of ice water to bring me back to reality. I lean away, grabbing the window. “Sorry. Personal questions come at a premium price, so unless you’re willing to take me out to brunch at Bayside Table, that’s a no-go.”

Summer crosses her arms. “I can just ask Carol.”

“There’s only so much Carol knows, much to her chagrin.” I laugh dryly. “Let me get some supplies, and I’ll put this back temporarily. I’ll send over Don tomorrow. He’s great with windows and can repair it fully.”

“I work tomorrow.”

“He can lock up when he’s done.”

“I don’t love the idea of—”

“Don’s not going to rifle through your things, Bummer. He’s a professional, just like everyone else I work with.”

The casual use of her decades-old nickname seems to reset us into our typical roles—me smirking at her, Summer scowling at me. It’s good, because I’m conducting a full inspection of this house tomorrow. Anything else in need of repair, I plan on fixing. I just need to figure out ways to pester Summer enough so she’ll let me.

Instead of exiting, I take the frame upstairs, delighted when an annoyed Summer follows me. “Tell me. Does Barnaby really hate Christmas?”

“Who?”

“Your boyfriend.”

I grin at her duct-tape job before moving toward the second casement window. A low-lying bookcase separates the two windows, filled to the brim with aged, colorful paperbacks, while a seascape acrylic painting adorns the wall. I hum, gazing out the window toward my jobsite. There’s a perfect eyeline to the outdoor shower.

“His name isn’t—”

“Nice view.” I flick my gaze to her, pointedly.

The most enchanting flush pinks her cheeks before she storms out of the room. “Just tell me when you’re done.”

I chuckle to myself. My favorite month of the year just got a lot more interesting.