Page 82 of The Treasure House

“Um, sure,” I stumbled. “You mean out, or…?”

“I mean at my place,” he said, his voice still slow and careful, like he was worried about spooking me.

“At your place?” I sounded like a parrot.

“Yeah. I don’t like to leave Hazel alone. She tends to chew on everything in reach and then she keeps me up all night checking I’m still there.”

I couldn’t break away from his gaze. It was hypnotic. My fingers and toes were tingling.

“I’ll cook,” he said, gathering Hazel’s leash. “Okay if I leave the tools here till tomorrow? Oh, and I secured the tent. Should be okay through the storm.”

“Ah, thanks.” I followed him out to the porch.

“Was that a yes to dinner at my place?” he asked nonchalantly as he prepared to duck out into the rainy cold night.

“Ah…” I shouldn’t. It would complicate things. But then I thought of Flo next to Tim on that plane; Tim getting married; me eating alone in my kitchen tomorrow; Flo calling me lonely… “Yes,” I blurted impulsively.

His blue-green eyes twinkled. “Good.”

Hazel barked in agreement.

“What can I bring?” I rubbed my hands on my jeans nervously.

“Your appetite.” There was that twinkle again.

Oh God. What was I doing?

Nineteen

On Sunday morning I slept in, stretching luxuriously in bed. Flo had messaged late that she’d gotten to Cincinnati okay, and then I’d finally been able to sleep. It was unsettling being without her but, oh, I’d forgotten how nice it was to sleep in. I’d only woken up because my phone vibrated with Flo demanding a proof-of-life photo of her cats.

The sweet little things were gamboling around the stairs, their mother watching over them from the landing. Mac was a fluffy tabby with intelligent yellow eyes. She meowed good morning as I shuffled out to take the photograph. I sent the photo off to Flo, then fed the tumbling little fluff balls, made coffee, and went back to bed with my book. From my pillowy bed I could see the rain lashing the windows and the ocean roiling in the bay. It was a perfect day to do nothing at all.

My phone vibrated again, and my heart kicked up a notch when I saw it was Jake. But his message was a prosaic one. See the weather report? Best get those windows up sooner, rather than later.

It was no wonder I’d thought he was an old fisherman when I’d only had his messages to go on. He texted like an old man, with punctuation and everything, and of course on the day of our date, his message was about the weather.

I frowned at my phone screen. Then I punched open my weather app and winced. Gale-force winds and heavy rain were predicted by evening. Possible thunderstorms. My phone buzzed for a third time.

I’ll be up at your place in an hour. I’ll bring my ladder.

I groaned. But I didn’t say no, because my stupid pulse was racing at the thought of seeing him again. Instead of luxuriating in bed with a book on my Flo-less Sunday, I raced to the bathroom and quickly showered so I could shave my legs and make sure I was, uh, prepared, in case anything happened. There was no harm in an abundance of caution.

“Do you have a rain slicker?” Jake asked, when he turned up at my door. He was dressed like a fisherman for real now, in a bright yellow rain jacket and fishing pants, with a beanie on under the hood. It should have looked ridiculous, but actually it looked stupidly hot. He was the kind of guy I could imagine at the wheel of a trawler in high seas. My gaze flicked to his big, strong hands.

“Zoe? You’ll need a rain slicker.”

I flushed and tried to focus on the task at hand. I did indeed have a rain slicker. It was, however, bright cerulean blue with white polka dots, and not terribly functional. I dug it out while he waited on the porch. It barely covered my butt, I thought ruefully, as I buttoned it up to the chin. He gave me a dubious look when I emerged, which I completely understood. I did not belong on a fishing trawler in any way, shape, or form.

I was drenched in two minutes flat.

“The storm windows are out in here,” Jake told me, leading me through the sodden garden to the stone outbuilding. He wrenched open the splintered old door to reveal stacks of storm windows under sheets. “Sorry, I should have reminded you to do this before now,” he said, as we carried the heavy things out.

“It’s not really your job,” I pointed out.

It took us about half an hour per window, a bit longer with the complicated ones like the portholes and the dormers, so most of my Flo-less Sunday was spent out in the weather. Not that I did more than help carry windows and hold the ladder. There was absolutely no way I would ever be able do it myself. Jake’s offer to “show me” so I could do it in the future had surely been facetious.

When we finished the final window, we collapsed on the front porch swing, both wet and tired.