by Jenny Hale
A tapping noise interrupted the cries of seagulls and the sound of the crashing waves from Callie’s open window. She rolled over on the portable air mattress she’d been using until the furniture was delivered, her mouth dry and her head slightly pulsing.
Tap, tap, tap.
She put the pillow over her head and tried to focus on the sound of the waves but from under her pillow, the tapping became more of a loud knocking, and she worried that whatever it was would wake Olivia and Wyatt, so she sat up. She spent a second getting oriented and peered at her watch that was on the floor—six oh-two.
Knock, knock, knock.
Callie sprung out of bed and padded quickly down the stairs to the front door, her energy depleting from just that little burst of activity. She opened it and only then did she remember she was in nothing but a long T-shirt, the weather too hot for anything else. She hid behind the door and peeked around it.
“You said you started early. I figured we’d want a little breakfast first.”
She blinked over and over to make sure she was seeing correctly. Luke was in the doorway, holding a cardboard tray with three coffees in one hand and a large paper sack in the other. He held it up. “Breakfast,” he said with smirk. “May I come in?”
“I’m not presentable,” Callie said, as heat crept into her face and slid down her neck. She wanted to look nice, to feel good about herself, but she also wanted to see that smile of his again.
“You’re plenty presentable,” he said, walking in past her. “You don’t need a bit of make-up and you’re wearing more clothing than most of the people I hang out with. We’re at the beach. No biggie. Where’s the kitchen?” He carried on into the room and down the hallway.
Callie shut the door and followed behind him, unsuccessfully tugging on her T-shirt to try to make it longer. “Do you always just burst into other people’s houses?” she asked quietly as they entered the kitchen.
She had no idea about the state of her hair but she couldn’t comb it with her fingers or her T-shirt would ride up. When he turned to look at her, she squared her shoulders proudly as if she didn’t care a thing about how she looked. Why should she anyway? But then she wondered if anyone had followed him. The paparazzi might be taking photos of them right now through the window. She’d be the scandalous Other Woman in a feature about that actress girlfriend of his or something. She yanked her shirt down again.
“I didn’t burst in,” he said. “I knocked. You opened the door.” He handed her a paper cup of coffee. “It’s a caramel macchiato.” He started rooting around in the bag that he’d set in the only clear area on the counter, paint supplies and extra floor tiles taking nearly all of the space.
“How do you know I like caramel macchiatos?” She did, but she wasn’t going to let him have the satisfaction of knowing that right away. He was too smug.
He didn’t look up. “All girls like caramel macchiatos.”
She gasped in disbelief at his generalization. Just because all the girls he knew liked them—
But before she could say anything, he redeemed himself a little. “But if you didn’t like it, I was going to offer my vanilla latte.” He handed her a breakfast sandwich wrapped in paper. “This is a buttermilk biscuit with eggs, cheese, and bacon. Is it safe to say that you like this?”
“Yes.” She took it from him and allowed herself a little smile.
“And just so you know, the barista told me that all women like caramel macchiatos. I’ve never been to the coffee shop before. I have someone who cooks for me usually. I went there because I thought you’d like it.”
She stood still for just a tick, letting his gesture sink in. “What made you think I’d like it?” she asked, trying to will the flutter from her chest. He’d surprised her.
“Because I asked a few people on the street to tell me where to get the best breakfast in town, and they said it was the best. And when I got there, I saw their lunch menu had crab cake sandwiches, so I thought it was a good sign.” He grinned at her, his smugness now taking on a new light. He wasn’t being arrogant, he was proud of himself for following a hunch and getting it right. She had to drink her coffee to keep the silly smile off her face. He was thoughtful.
“Do I smell coffee?” Olivia said from down the hallway. She entered the kitchen in her thin nightgown. “Oh!” She crossed her arms, her panic-stricken gaze flying over to Callie’s bare legs and then back to Luke before questions filled her eyes.
Luke handed her the other caramel macchiato.
Clutching her coffee to her chest, still trying to cover herself, Olivia smiled nervously. “Thank you for the coffee.”
“It’s a caramel macchiato,” he said with a nod.
“Oh, that’s my favorite!”
Luke and Callie shared a glance and she shook her head with a grin.
“So he just… came over?” Olivia whispered to Callie as they finished getting dressed.
Callie nodded. “He seems to do what he wants, doesn’t he?”
“I’m sure he doesn’t mean any harm. Maybe he really wants to help out.”
Callie squinted her eyes at Olivia in doubt. She led the way downstairs, her long hair pulled up into a high ponytail, no make-up on purpose. She wasn’t going to do anything special just for Luke Sullivan. In fact, she wanted him to see how average folks got things done when they didn’t have a staff to do it for them.
Callie grabbed Olivia’s arm, stopping her as they entered the large living room. They hung back, Callie watching to see how Luke handled himself. Wyatt—still in his Spider-Man pajamas, his red curls in a tangle on top of his head—was going through his Matchbox car collection. Luke, holding one of the cars in his hand, was smiling and had squatted down to Wyatt’s level.
“I made a ramp outside yesterday,” Wyatt said. “It’s still there. Wanna see it? We could try it out.”
“Absolutely.”
“Wyatt, honey, Luke brought breakfast,” Olivia said as she and Callie came into the room. “Maybe you can show him after.”
Callie took Luke outside through the back door while Olivia got Wyatt the breakfast he’d brought. She stood, facing the view, her hands on her hips, wondering why he’d come today but not wanting to ask. It was early still, and the sun had just risen over the horizon—a glorious bright orange orb floating above the glistening sea as the waves crept ashore, the powdery sand soaking up their foam. The wind tickled her face with wisps of hair that had fallen loose from her ponytail. She pushed them behind her ear. Callie was glad that most of the work on the front of the house was nearly done. She wouldn’t mind working with this breeze at all.
Luke looked over at her and smiled before turning back toward the shore. “There’s nothing better than this, is there?” he asked.
“It is a great view,” she agreed. “We’re going to have porches that stretch across the back of the house here.” She pointed to the top of the cottage where the construction had begun. “Each level will have its own double doors that open on to it.”
“That sounds nice.” His shirt rippled in the wind, pressing against his body, revealing the shape of his chest, and erasing any doubt about whether or not he worked out. She noticed the round of his bicep as he lifted his arm to run his hand through his blowing hair.
Callie dragged her eyes away and focused on the house. “I’m going to paint the trim on the side of the house over there.” She pointed to a small section with a bay window allowing a view of Wyatt and Olivia in the kitchen. “I figured I could do that first before it gets too hot, then I’ve got a little bit of sanding and painting to do where I took wallpaper off in the living room. Since you’re here, I might as well put you to work.”
“Sounds good.” He had his game-face on, that air of challenge returning, but a flirty look in his eye. She ignored it. He was easy to like, and while he hadn’t listened when she’d told him not to come, she admired his perseverance. Maybe he really did want to get to know her better.
“Why don’t you
go around front and get the ladders. They’re leaning on the house by the porch. I’ll pour the paint for the trim.”
Luke nodded and headed around the house. She tipped three gallon-sized cans of white exterior paint into a large bucket she’d bought at the home improvement store and grabbed two brushes from the nearby plastic carrier bag that still had supplies from her last shopping trip. Luke brought the first ladder over and set it against the house, disappearing around the corner again as he retrieved the second.
When he returned, he leaned the other ladder next to the first, side by side against the old “shakes” as they were called—the shingles that covered the house. Since they were made of cedar, the newer ones offered a spicy, wooden smell up close. Used for ages along the coast here, they were popular because they were naturally resistant to rot, and they could withstand storms as well as wind and sand abrasion. They always started out a light tan but as they aged, they turned the most gorgeous dark brown color, and the white paint on the trim acted as a defining outline, leaving the blue of the sea and sky to paint the landscape while the house sat quietly behind.
Callie climbed up the ladder, awkwardly holding the heavy bucket, her arms working overtime to steady herself with the weight of it. Luke had looked as though he was going to extend a hand to help, but she kept climbing until she’d nearly reached the top. She hooked the bucket on the ladder hook. No damsel in distress here, Luke Sullivan, she thought. Luke grabbed his brush and climbed up beside her, the bucket swinging between them.
With confidence in her actions, Callie dipped her brush into the bucket. “You want to get the brush full enough with paint that it can last you a few strokes, but not too much or it will drip on the siding and that’s difficult to get off.”
She scraped her brush gently on the side of the bucket and held it up to demonstrate as a couple of seagulls flew overhead, pulling Luke’s attention their way. She had to stifle a huff. Was he going to pay attention or not? He was supposedly there to help, and he needed to realize that life wasn’t all bikinis and yachts. If he didn’t focus, he could mess up the coat of paint.
“Leaning against a stilted house makes me feel like I’m swaying,” Luke said, applying paint to his brush as she watched anxiously. He observed her strokes for a moment politely before he started painting. Then, surprisingly, he painted a seamless coat onto the trim, and once he got going he was meticulous, the paint a perfect thickness on the old wood.
“You’re good at this,” she said, trying to hide her shock. He’d surprised her again.
He grinned but didn’t say anything.
As she painted quietly beside him, she wondered if she’d been so worried about him making assumptions about her that she’d failed to notice she was doing the same. Maybe it was because she was broken in some way, unable to give herself wholeheartedly to someone else, always worried about the intentions of others and closing up. She had opened up completely with Olivia and Gladys. But then again, she’d known them her whole life. She’d met her friend during the innocence of childhood, when every human being is naturally untainted by life, just before her father had left. In the back of Callie’s mind, she’d always wondered if she’d inherited her mother’s guardedness. It just felt a whole lot safer that way.
Her father’s leaving had blindsided both Callie and her mother. Callie’s mother wasn’t great after he left, becoming distant at times. She wondered now if she’d just been overwhelmed. Her mother had tried to make an effort, but by that time Callie was already in high school, and too hurt to accept her mother’s late response. Callie’s father passed away before she ever had a chance to find him and ask him why he’d left. So she was left to wonder.
She moved her arm back and forth, the brush gliding along the wet surface. “Have you ever painted before?” she asked.
Luke was quiet as he worked. Finally, not taking his eyes off the house, he said, “A little.” The hesitation in his response made her wonder if there was more behind those words than he was letting on. Already feeling pretty awful for having judged him, she didn’t press him on it.
“Have you always lived in Waves?” she asked.
He smiled at her, sending her heart pattering. The sun, now at its spot high in the sky, was hidden behind a cloud, offering some much-needed relief from the heat.
“I’ve lived here and at my house in Florida. I also have an apartment in New York, but I tend to stay around the coast.”
“Which is your favorite?” A breeze blew against her neck, cooling her briefly. She put more paint on her brush while steadying herself against the ladder.
“The Outer Banks is my favorite.” He reached his arm out to paint a spot further down the trim.
Callie continued to apply the next coat. “I loved coming here as kid—I waited all year for it.” She caught a runaway drip with her finger and wiped it on her shorts. “I came here every year with Olivia and her family. I spent so much time with them that I feel more like a Dixon than a Weaver,” she said.
“So you’ve known them since you all were kids?” He picked at his brush, removing a piece of dirt before continuing.
“Yeah. Olivia’s my best friend. She’s the first person I call when I need to talk, and the one who knows everything about me—the good and the bad.”
He nodded. “I know that kind of friend. I grew up with a guy named Todd Crowder. He’s moved away now; he and his family live in Portland. I fly out to see him once a year. He and I did everything together growing up. We worked at an ice cream parlor one summer just for fun. We wanted a reason to get out of the house.”
She smiled. “Were you any good at scooping ice cream?”
“I could swirl the soft serve ice cream about a foot high without it toppling off the cone. We used to make those for our friends until the manager found out we were giving extra large ice creams for the price of a single.” He looked over at her and chuckled. “We gave that manager quite a time that summer. Todd and I would write ‘Secret Concoction’ on the menu—the day’s flavors were written new every morning with chalk. Then we’d come up with a recipe based on the person ordering, changing it depending on what we thought the person might be like. The manager had a fit when he noticed that the topping selection had dwindled to barely anything by Wednesday when it was supposed to last until the weekend. He almost fired us, but he liked the idea so much that he let us continue.”
“So what would you make for me?”
Luke eyed her, that smile returning before he pursed his lips, squinting his eyes in thought. “Nothing too fussy—maybe a nice vanilla—but sweet and warm, so perhaps a hot fudge drizzle with homemade mint chocolate bark sprinkled on top.”
“That actually sounds perfect. My favorite ice cream flavor is mint chocolate chip.”
His eyebrows shot up in surprise, causing three lines on his forehead. “Mine too,” he said with another grin.
“Whenever I had a bad day, my grandmother would take me out for ice cream,” she said. “I used to want to just get chocolate, but she’d say, ‘The fun in life comes from risking doing something new. That’s how you grow. Look at all the flavors! Pick one you’d like to try. If you hate it, I’ll buy you a chocolate one. The point is to try it.’ That’s how I ended up liking mint chocolate chip.”
“I like your grandmother.”
“I miss her.”
When they’d finished, they were both speckled with paint.
“The hose is here,” she said. “If you want to wash up.” She noticed Luke’s shirt, after he’d carried the paint bucket over to rinse it, and pursed in her lips, trying not to show concern.
“What?” He dropped the brush with a plop into the nearly empty bucket and turned on the water.
Callie ran her hands under the stream and lathered with the old bar of soap she’d left on top of the hose reel since they’d started painting the exterior last week. It had just been easier to leave it outside.
“Look at your shirt,” she said. It was covered in st
icky, white paint.
He looked down.
“Couldn’t you feel that? It’s soaked all the way through!” Callie unwound the hose a little more to get the entirety of her arms wet, the cool water refreshing in the intense heat. “For such a neat painter, I’d expect you to be a little cleaner at the end,” she teased. She felt the zing of nervous energy, taking a chance by joking with him. “I barely have any on me.” Which was good since she hadn’t done laundry and this was the last clean outfit.
With a devious gleam in his eye, Luke held out his arms, confusing her. “Thank you for letting me help today. It was fun.” He started walking toward her.
“What are you doing?” she said, backing up and putting the spraying hose in between them.
“I just thought I’d give you a hug…” His face was alight with mischief.
“Don’t you dare,” she said, jabbing the hose in his direction. “I’ll spray you!” She put her thumb over the end of the hose, forcing the water out in a hard stream in his direction. He ducked it, darting to the side, quick on his feet. She slung the stream toward him, but he was too fast and she missed, his arms still outstretched an enormous smile on his face.
“Come here,” he taunted her.
She backed up again, nearly stumbling over some loose patio tiles.
Luke put down his arms, that grin still present. “Okay,” he said in surrender. “I won’t get paint on you. But I had to try! May I have the hose to wash up?”
With a dubious look, she handed him the hose, still leaning back, her arm outstretched as far as it would go. “The water feels wonderful in this heat,” she said.
“It does feel good,” he said, putting his thumb on the end like she had and shooting a geyser into the air above them, the water falling down on them like a rainstorm.
Callie squealed and jumped out of the way, only getting the spray on half her body. “You’ve got me all wet!” she giggled, unable to be annoyed.
“You’re not all wet,” he said. “This would be all wet.” He sprayed her again.
“Oh, you are in so much trouble now,” she said, completely forgetting she’d just met him and pawing for the hose, but he held it above her, out of reach, drenching them both, the water puddling at their feet in milky, paint-filled pools. Callie jumped for it, missing and stumbling on the uneven pavers again. Luke caught her with his free hand and scooped her up, pulling her close. She felt the thin, wet fabric of their shirts between them, the way his muscle contracted in his bicep as he caught her, the lightness of his fingers at her waist.