“But you do?” This was the first I’d heard of Brody and Angela worrying about my parents watching the kids.
“Well, when they were tiny it was easy to watch them. They didn’t do much. It was mainly just feeding and changing. But now, they’re starting to crawl and getting into things. They could choke on their food. They could fall off a couch or something if they’re left alone. There are just so many things that could go wrong and they’ve been out of the baby game for a long time. Your mother just said she didn’t know how we do it!” Angela was getting upset and that was the last thing I wanted.
“Hey, it’s all right. Mom and Dad aren’t, like, ancient yet. It hasn’t been too long since they had babies. I’m sure it’s like riding a bicycle.”
The stern glare Angela gave me indicated she didn’t agree with my assessment of parenting.
“Listen, I just know I won’t be able to enjoy myself if I’m worried one of the babies has rolled down the stairs.”
I pulled Raina close to me as that terrible image popped into my mind.
“Okay, well, I’m not sure why we’re even discussing this. It’s not like there’s a plethora of places for me to go.”
“Don’t be a Negative Nancy, Talia. Just because we didn’t stay at the most touristy city on the coast doesn’t mean you get to be bitchy all week.”
There were a million things I wanted to say to her. A million responses I’d carefully planned and said over and over again in my mind. But I was forever a people-pleaser. A peacekeeper. A pushover.
“You’re right.” I said the words as I brushed my hand over the soft downy hairs on little Raina’s head. “I’ll be here.”
“Thank you,” she gushed, leaning over to hug me. Angela wasn’t really a hugger, unless it was my brother she was hugging, so I knew she was truly grateful. And I knew deep down that she and my brother deserved a night away.
“No problem.”
When we made it downstairs, the table was set and it was time for breakfast. Angela and Brody spent the meal talking about all the places they could go that night, and my father only spoke enough to mention he’d had to take a cold shower that morning because someone had used all the hot water. My mother calmly pointed out that perhaps it was just a glitch from the power outage. I didn’t offer any other explanation.
“Talia,” my mother said as we cleared the table. “Help me make some cookies to bring to the nice man next door who lent us that flashlight.”
Briggs immediately flashed through my brain, but it wasn’t the Briggs from last night, it was the Briggs from the beach yesterday afternoon. My eyes automatically wandered to the ocean, wondering if he was going to be surfing at all that day.
“We need to get that flashlight back to him.”
“And his coat,” I said absentmindedly.
Brody’s head snapped up and he looked at me. “You have his coat?”
“By the time I made it to his house last night I was drenched. He loaned me a coat.” I shrugged, hoping he’d drop it.
“That was very sweet of him,” my mother said innocently. “I hope he likes chocolate chip cookies.”
Only my mother would bring everything you would need to make cookies on vacation. My mother’s cookies were knockouts. Any kind of cookie she made was delicious, but her chocolate chip cookies were the best. I had never tasted a chocolate chip cookie that beat my mother’s. She never made just one batch either because she knew they’d never last. She had it down to a science and we managed to make one hundred cookies in just a few hours. I knew my mother’s recipe by heart, but could never replicate the taste no matter how hard I tried, but she did take the opportunity to teach Angela the recipe. It actually ended up being kind of fun. Who knew?
Luckily, the storm had passed and the bad weather seemed to be behind us. The sun was warm on my skin as I walked back over to Briggs’s house, but the wind was blowing and since I had the tray of cookie in my hands I opted to put his jacket on for the walk over. As I walked over the dune in front of his house the sound of the ocean was replaced with the loud rock music coming from inside. As I got closer one song faded out and Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer” started. That song brought back so many high school memories, the smile that spread across my face was unavoidable.
The song was accompanied by the ominous sounds of various power tools. There was obviously a lot of work going on inside the house. When I knocked and no one answered, I wasn’t surprised. There was no way he could hear me knocking over all the noise coming from his house. But, I knocked louder, hoping there’d be a lull in music or construction noise. No dice.
I considered my options. I could just leave the cookies and the coat on his front step, but that didn’t seem like a very friendly way to say thank you. I could walk around the house and hope to grab someone’s attention through a window, but that seemed a little stalkery.
I remembered the way he hadn’t locked the door the night before and my hand instantly reached for the doorknob and gave it a slight twist. Unlocked. With just a little push the door was opened a smidge and I took a deep breath. I edged the door open a little bit more, just far enough to get my head through.
“Hello,” I called out tentatively. I knew there was no way anyone could hear me over the loud music and the sounds of what I thought was an electric saw. I debated with myself for a moment, but then decided to go in, hoping I wasn’t making a mistake. “Briggs?” I called his name out as I walked toward the living room. When I turned the corner I stopped and let my mouth hang open.
Briggs has his back to me, his shirtless back, and was definitely operating a saw. He was bent forward a little, but that didn’t obstruct any view of his muscles. His right arm was moving back and forth while his left was pushing a piece of wood over, and the repetitive motions made every muscle of his back ripple in time. My eyes took their time wandering over his upper body, but then they dropped low and it was possible a groan slipped out of me.
Not only was Briggs shirtless, he was also wearing a tool belt. Now, up until that point in my life, I don’t think I’d been within ten feet of anyone wearing a tool belt. Therefore, I had absolutely no idea how incredibly sexy they were. The belt rested on his trim hips, which were covered in denim, and the view of his ass in that moment made everything in me heat up and turn on. If I’d had a physical switch, Briggs had just flipped it.
I told myself I wasn’t making myself known because I didn’t want to startle him while he was using that saw. I couldn’t have him losing a finger over my mother’s chocolate chip cookies. But the truth was, I was grateful for those thirty seconds where I could openly gawk at him. It was twice in two days I’d been able to admire him without him knowing, and each day I was getting closer to him. It was thrilling.
Suddenly the loud screeching of the saw died down and I was only left with the sounds of Jon Bon Jovi. Briggs stood tall and picked up the last piece of wood he’d cut, and I knew I had to make myself known or else I was simply an intruder. A creepy intruder at that.
“Um, Briggs?” I called out loudly, still competing with an ’80s rock anthem. “Briggs!” I yelled when he clearly hadn’t heard me.
He spun around and wide, chocolate brown eyes landed on me, then softened when he realized who I was. He grabbed what looked like a little remote out of his tool belt, held it in the air, and Bon Jovi slowly faded away.
“Talia?” he asked, pushing the safety goggles up on his head.
“Hi. I’m sorry. The door was unlocked and you couldn’t hear me…”
I couldn’t think of anything else to say in the moment because my brain backfired. Completely went haywire on me. If the view of shirtless Briggs was good from the back, then, holy freaking cow, the view from the front was debilitating. He had lean muscle everywhere. Also, a tattoo on his left arm I hadn’t noticed during my spying session the day before. The black tribal ink encompassed his shoulder and looked delectable against his tanned skin.
I finally managed to tear m
y eyes away from his body, only to turn them to the floor. I cleared my throat, hoping I looked a little less psycho than I felt, but then put a smile on and met his gaze.
“My mom sent me over with some thank-you cookies.” I held the plate up as evidence.
It took him a few seconds to realize what in the hell I was talking about, but eventually I saw realization crash over him, and he gave me a polite smile.
“Oh, uh, thanks.” He reached up and scratched the valley between his pectoral muscles, and then must have remembered he wasn’t wearing a shirt because he immediately blushed and then quickly walked over to a chair, picked up the shirt that lay over the back, and pulled it on.
I was both saddened and relieved. It was a lot of pressure to be in the same room as him with no shirt on and keep my eyes above his neck.
“I brought your coat and flashlight back too.”
“Wow, thanks. Your mom didn’t have to go to all this trouble.” Taking the plate from me, he gave me a polite smile.
“While she really is grateful for the help last night, she actually just appreciates any reason to bake cookies.”
“Well, I’m more than happy to be the lucky recipient.” Turning away from me and walking back into the kitchen, he spoke over his shoulder. “Sorry for the mess. I’m in the middle of a tiny remodel.”
“Tiny?” I asked, looking around at a bottom floor that was practically torn apart. “This looks anything but tiny.”
Hands on his waist, he looked around the house. “You’re right. I’m in way over my head.” He said the words on a sigh and I instantly panicked, fearing I’d offended him.
“It looks like you’ve got it under control, though,” I rambled, trying to save the moment.
“No, seriously, I’m in way over my head. But I’m just trying to get some of the beginning steps out of the way. I’ve got an actual contractor coming out in a couple days to do the real work.”
“Oh, are you flipping it?”
“Um, no.” The words were heavy and suddenly it was clear I’d brought up something uncomfortable, and that made me uncomfortable. “I got this house in my divorce settlement, but I can’t afford it on my own, so I have to sell it.”
Shit.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered immediately. “It’s none of my business.”
“No, it’s fine.”
We stood there, just staring at each other for a moment, the low sounds of another Bon Jovi song coming through his speakers, the air surrounding us so totally filled with awkwardness.
“Well, I should probably get back.” I started to slip the coat off my shoulders and Briggs stepped forward to take it from me.
“You sure you don’t want to stay and help me eat a few of these cookies? If you leave them all here I will eat them all myself and that’s diabetes waiting to happen.”
I had every reason to politely decline and go back to my own house and spend the rest of my vacation peeking through the blinds to steal glances at Briggs, but I couldn’t make myself leave. Even knowing there were eighty more cookies waiting to be eaten at our rental house, I couldn’t say no to him.
“I’d feel guilty for the rest of my life if I was responsible for your diagnosis.”
He laughed, which was great because I wanted him to think I was funny, but not great because the sound of his laughter echoing through the mostly empty house sent shockwaves through me. It wasn’t fair that his laugh and his shirtless body were both sexy. I needed some sort of equalizer. Something to make the blood stop rushing to my face and other various parts of my body.
“I don’t have any milk, unfortunately. Will root beer do?” He pulled his fridge open and waved a can of Barq’s in the air as if he were trying to tempt me.
As if I need to be tempted.
Stepping farther into the kitchen, I said, “Root beer’s great. Milk is overrated as a beverage pairing with cookies.”
He laughed again and my heart rate soared.
“I’m sorry I don’t have any place for us to sit at the moment,” he said, placing the plate of cookies between us on the counter covered in saw dust. He handed me the cold can with a smile and I couldn’t help but reciprocate.
“How long have you lived here?” My mother’s cookies were delicious, but the moment I picked one up and took a bite, I wasn’t paying attention to the familiar taste, I was waiting to hear any tidbit I could about his life. It was sad, really, how badly I wanted to know anything about him.
“My ex-wife and I bought it about eight years ago. It was a vacation home, but we spent a lot of time here. Most of the summers, sporadic weekends throughout the spring and fall.”
He said the words methodically, but there was a twinge of sadness there.
“It looks beautiful from the outside.”
Again, he laughed. “The inside isn’t as impressive?”
“Well, I mean, not everyone is partial to floors, but I sort of am.”
“The floors are coming.” He brought a cookie to his mouth and I tried not to watch as he took a bite, but my willpower was zapped to practically nothing at that point. “Wow,” he said around the bite. “These are amazing.”
“My mom loves baking. That cookie is probably fifteen years’ worth of recipe experimentation and tweaking.”
“Well, if she’s looking for any feedback, tell her they were perfect.” He took another bite and let out a tiny groan, making my breath catch in my lungs. “So, how long are you all staying next door?”
“Just the week. We leave Saturday. We take a family vacation every year, but this is our first summer here.”
“You vacation every year with your family? You said you were with your mother and father, right?”
“Yeah, and my brother and his family. I know it sounds weird, but my parents pay for most of the trip and they kind of insist on it every summer.” I gave a tiny, one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t usually mind.”
“But this time is different?”
I definitely didn’t want to explain my family drama, and I also didn’t want to paint myself as the spinster I sometimes identified as.
“I’m just used to being in bigger towns with more to do.”
“You’re bored?”
“A little,” I replied honestly. “I mean, the beach is nice, but there’s only so much time I can spend sitting in the sun.”
“Well, if you’ve got a steady hand, I could always use some help over here.” He uttered the words and then took another bite of cookie.
Was he inviting me to hang out? To help him work on his house? The offer would have seemed strange in any other context, but the fact of the matter was, ten years ago people met in bars and then went out on dates. Was it strange to be in a man’s house whom I’d only ever spoken to for about ten minutes combined? Yes. But it wasn’t any different, or better really, than getting a message from a complete stranger on a dating app and meeting that person for a drink, right? My whole family knew I was next door. Plus, Briggs gave off absolutely no creepy-murderer vibes.
“I don’t think I’m qualified to do any kind of home improvement projects.”
“Me neither. But here I am.” His tone was a little more morose than I’d heard from him, and I wondered what had happened in his marriage to leave him with a beach house. I’d never been married, but I did know what all went into a committed relationship, and I wondered whether it had been Briggs’s fault, his wife’s, or a combination of both scenarios. Either way, it was none of my business. “A friend of mine, Patrick, his brother-in-law is a contractor and I’ve hired him to do most of the work. What I’m doing is mostly stuff anyone could do with a little YouTube and ambition. For instance, I was just cutting those pieces of molding and then I was going to take them outside and paint them.”
“Just painting?”
“Well, today I’m just painting. Tomorrow there’re other things on the agenda. Have to prep the floors. But the contractor will be here for that.” He popped the rest of the cookie in his mouth and I
tried not to watch his jaw move as he chewed. “Want to help?”
I shrugged. “I can paint.”
Chapter Four
Briggs
The house next door, or down the beach anyway, was rented out often during the summer months. For years I’d watched people move in and out, coming and going, and I’d never paid them much mind. But when I’d seen a redhead in an even redder bikini lounging on the beach, well, that was impossible to ignore.
I’d been out surfing, trying to keep my mind off Cecily and the divorce, attempting to numb my mind with the motion poetry of surfing, when the red flair had caught my eye. Sitting atop my board, moving with the rhythm of the ocean, she was like an exploding firework against the tan-colored sand.
When she’d shown up at my door last night, drenched and asking for a flashlight, I hadn’t thought much about it. I’d given her what she’d been looking for, but I hadn’t connected the dots. Hadn’t pieced together that the sopping wet woman at my door was the firecracker from the beach.
Now, as I watched her slowly drag a paintbrush over the crown molding I’d been cutting all morning, I tried to keep my cool. I’d seen her from afar in the bikini, but up close—and not drenched—it was all I could do to keep myself from imagining her in it again.
When it was obviously time to either tell her goodbye or invite her to stay, I surprised myself by extending the offer. Personable wasn’t a word a lot of people would have used to describe me in the past months. A nasty divorce will do that to a man. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to interact with other people, I just wasn’t sure how to go about it. For so long I was consumed with every emotion imaginable. Hurt, anger, rage, sadness—they all filtered through me at any given moment, and it was hard to be around others because everyone else all seemed so stable. I’d ostracized myself, licking my wounds, cursing women in general.
Talia was hard to curse, though. It was difficult to think anything but good things about her. My eyes kept wandering to her arm, toned and freckled, as she dragged the paintbrush back and forth. She was to my left and just a foot or so in front of me, and I was trying my damnedest to keep my eyes off her ass. The white shorts she was wearing kept creeping up every time she leaned closer to examine her work, then slink back down when she stood up straight. It was the best kind of torture.
Never With You (The Never Series Book 6) Page 3