Holiday Tides (Wilks Beach Holiday Novella)

13. Summer

thirteen

Summer

Nick

Now that I’m no longer the villain in your dramatic Lifetime movie, can I please have access to that fireplace?

Nick

Summer.

Nick

Summer, seriously. Just think of the Christmas potential—a crackling fire, a cup of cocoa, Bing Crosby on the Bluetooth speaker. *chef’s kiss emoji*

Nick

Fine. Be that way. But just so you know, it’s YOU that’s ruining Christmas, not me.

These are the text messages I see the following Wednesday, after finally getting a breather from hustling between exam rooms all day. It’s nearly two in the afternoon, and I’m running off fumes from the microwave oatmeal I ate while driving to the office.

Summer

Some of us have jobs that actually require us to be away from our phones. Why are you texting me like a needy teenager?

Almost instantly, he replies.

Nick

Because I NEED to check the status of that chimney flue.

Summer

You know what you should do?

Nick

Find a trench coat, put you on my shoulders, and see if we can pass as one person?

I laugh at the screen, my thumbs flying over the digital keyboard.

Summer

GO. BACK. TO. WORK.

Nick

For a person called Summer, you’re not very fun.

I’m about to type a retort when Loreli, the office manager, stops on her way out of the break room with her third cup of decaf. Her red, reindeer-print blouse has been a source of envy all day, but luckily, Loreli is a giving soul and showed me the website so I could order one for myself. The color won’t complement my pale complexion as well as it does Loreli’s gorgeous brown skin, but ‘tis the season.

“I remember that smile,” she says. “They didn’t have text back then, but in the early days, my husband would call during my lunch break to tell me he was thinking of me. Now, I’m lucky to get grocery requests. That’s what forty years will do.” A hearty laugh escapes her. “What’d your boyfriend say to make you grin like a fool?” The corner of her mouth quirks. “Or is it not safe for work?”

I nearly swallow my tongue. One, because Loreli thinks that I’m texting Cooper when I’m texting Nick—my former-nemesis-turned-temporary-neighbor-turned-tentative-friend. And two, because she seems even more intrigued by the NSFW potential of my conversation.

“No.” I cough, slapping my chest when saliva goes down the wrong pipe. “Nothing like that. We’re just talking about renovating my house.”

“We’re calling it ‘renovating’ now?” She winks as she heads toward her office. “Good to know.”

I place a firm hand on my belly to steady myself. I did not have speaking with our office manager about a topic that would land both of us in HR on my bingo card today.

What’s worse is I don’t think I’ve smiled at a text conversation I’ve had with Cooper in weeks, maybe a month. My empty stomach churns with guilt. I should probably make more of an effort to spend time with him, but there’s so much to be done at the house. Last Saturday, after completely crushing Nick in our impromptu race, I took the world’s longest—and hottest—shower. Then I cranked the Christmas tunes and finally decorated the inside of the cottage. When I ventured outside, a trio of Carolina chickadees sang their four-note song over the— significantly subdued—music emitting from the renovation site. As the jobsite wound down, Nick came over. Even though I shooed him away four times, he ended up helping me finish the exterior lights.

He shared about his job and how his adoptive brother, Aldon, and Jane were enjoying being new parents. I gave him a few entertaining anecdotes about work, hesitating only briefly before recounting the incident with peeing Peter. Nick laughed so hard he made these hilarious and unexpected high-pitched squeaking sounds. They forced me to climb down the shaking ladder lest my own mirth land me in an exam room. After that, Nick gave me a rundown of the various changes to Wilks Beach and anecdotes about locals.

It was…nice.

Friendly.

There weren’t any tense moments like when he had pushed into my house to fix my heater. The memory of those halting seconds in the foyer when Nick’s gaze drifted to my mouth plays automatically. I’d told myself that my goosebumps were from the lack of heat, not how it felt like I’d been sucked into Nick’s magnetism. I’d been frozen, noticing things, like how rugged he looked with dark beard stubble, or how his scar made his face unfathomably more handsome, or how he had a barely noticeable freckle just above his cupid’s bow.

I give myself a good shake, banishing the memory that has been sneaking up on me at the oddest times. It’s time for a pick-me-up in the way of a peanut butter sandwich and an apple before getting back to work.

Two hours later, I receive a text image of a 1990s-style electric range sitting on a cement driveway.

Nick

Do you want this?

I zoom in on the photo. It’s a small unit like the unfunctional one in my house.

Summer

Where did you find that? And how much?

Nick

A different site. They were going to leave it on the curb for someone to grab. It functions. What do you say? Free oven for your Christmas goose, m’lady?

A chuckle escapes my lips before I straighten them. I need to stop being so giggly over texting with Nick.

Summer

That would be great. Thank you.

Friendly. Courteous. Not flirty.

Nick

Text me when you’re home, and Ezra and I can bring it in.

Something sharp twists in my throat. Though I’d tentatively agreed to let Nick help repair things at the cottage, we need to hash out some important details first. I don’t care how much he loves home renovation. If Nick wants to fix things, he’ll be paid fairly. Also, he probably shouldn’t be “working” for me after a full day of manual labor.

Summer

You don’t have to do that after work. Maybe I can get it this weekend?

When he doesn’t reply right away, I see my final three patients.

Nick

I’m afraid this is a limited-time deal. Install tonight in exchange for buying me bourbon bread pudding at Bayside Table. Take it or leave it.

My stomach practically skips with glee at the mention of bread pudding from the only—but incredibly delicious—restaurant in Wilks Beach. Not having to eat my dinner out of a plastic tray would be so luxurious. And with a functioning oven, I’d finally be able to make Gramma’s snickerdoodles. This morning, I found the cinnamon jar atop the broken range instead of in the spice drawer. I stared at it for five seconds, brow furrowed, trying to remember moving it.

As a kid visiting Gramma, strange things like that would occasionally happen. There’d be an extra blanket covering you when you woke up, or you’d find your shoes over a heat vent to be warm for the following day. Simon used to roll his eyes, claiming Gramma was doing all those things, even though she swore she hadn’t. She’d smile and say it was the island’s magic showing up to help. I could have very well been sleepwalking while dreaming about snickerdoodles and set it out myself. That’s how much I want their delicious scent filling Gramma’s small kitchen.

Summer

I’m leaving the office soon. Does anyone from the jobsite need anything from the mainland?

It’s another thing I remember from growing up. My parents would often bring things with them to save Gramma a two-hour round-trip drive.

Nick

Thanks. We’re good. See you soon.

Though I’d planned to call Cooper on my way home, I end up driving in silence, trying to understand why it feels like effervescent energy bursts forward each time my former rival texts me.