Page 16 of Holiday Tides

I’m icing my face with a bag of frozen peas minutes later when the ancient doorbell makes a sound akin to a dying cat. Glancing down at myDon’t Stop Believinglong-sleeve shirt and Santa pajama pants, I shrug. People go to the grocery store in their pajamas nowadays, and the sooner Erik can determine what’s wrong and fix it, the sooner I can cry in my own shower rather than the one at the YMCA. My ribs tighten as my inhales become shorter. I lay my hand on my stomach and take a slow breath.

I’m fine. This is fine. Everything is fine.

I answer the door to a red-bowed present. Somewhere beneath the giant box are a pair of jeans and boots. When Nick’s earnest smile peeks from the side of the gift, my lower lip wobbles. The last thing I need is Nick seeing me this fragile. Although there’s no shame in needing help, I don’t want him having a front-row seatevery single timeit happens. His face falls immediately, but before I can come up with some cover-up, Nick pushes me into the house, shuts the door, and sets the gift on the staircase.

“What’s wrong?”

His thumbs brush my temples as if he’s examining my face for wounds, not just the minor swelling from excessive wallowing. I want to quip ‘Like I’d tell you’and pull us back into our verbal sparring, but the warmth of his rough thumbs on my skin feels like sunshine. Despite the roaring heater and snuggly pajamas, I still feel cold. Instead of sliding away, my traitorous body leans into his touch, my eyes falling closed as a tear escapes.

“Summer,” he whispers in my hair while gathering me to his chest. “You’re killing me here. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing. I’m fine.” My words croak against his cedarwood-scented chest. It’s stupid, but I nuzzle a little deeper, taking a surreptitious sniff. Why does he always have to smell so good?

Nick’s exaggerated inhale brings my cheek along with it. He’s quiet long enough for rational thought to return in a deluge. I’m about to free myself from his soothing grip—when did he start rubbing my back?—when Nick speaks.

“Is it because your Rumford fireplace is non-functional or because the rise on the top two stairs is six-and-a-quarter when the rest are seven-even?” He seems to delight in my baffled expression, his smile widening. “It’s because your pantry door isn’t plumb, isn’t it?”

Nick takes my hand and all but drags me into the kitchen. He twists the handle on the small pantry door, stepping back to allow it to wildly swing open. But…Nick shouldn’t know to do that. All of us kids knew to either hold the frame or hop back lest our toes get jammed.

“This is a quick fix,” he tells me, tapping the wood door twice before setting it into its frame and pulling me into the living room.

“This beauty”—Nick releases my fingers to move the metal grate and fake logs that’ve been there my whole life—“with the gorgeous brickwork…” The groan coming from him sends unexpected sparks sliding down my spine. “What I wouldn’t give to see it roaring to life.”

He reverently smooths a palm over the back of the scorched fireplace before pushing to stand. “Now, the stairs—”

“Wait.” I step in front of him, forehead so pinched it’s giving me a headache. “Why do you know all of this?”

The corner of his mouth quirks as he tilts his head. A tangle of dark locks free-falls over his brows. “You didn’t think I’d resist looking around while Don was over here, did you?”

Nick examining the structural issues in my home feels too close to him noticing all the messy, unorderly parts of me.

“Jerk.” My hands plant on his chest, shoving him back, before I even register the motion. “That’s an invasion of privacy. You said you were a professional.”

“I saidDonwas a professional.” His large hands catch my wrists, keeping me from storming off. “Look, you helped me once upon a time, and it’s clear this home is overdue for some love.”

Nick pauses, uncertainty skirting across his strong features. It’s unexpected and altogether captivating, like an intricate frost pattern.

“It would make me really happy to complete a few projects on this property.”

“Good thing I’ve always been so concerned with your happiness,” I snap.

He chuckles, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing the inside of my wrist. “There she is.”

I yank my hands back, crossing them over my chest to quell the effect of his affectionate gaze. “It’s time you le—”

A loud knock interrupts us, and Nick’s intrigued eyebrows have me racing to the front door, just to beat him to it.

“Good morning, ma’am. I’m from Baker Plumb— Nick! Good to see you. It’s been an age.” The older gentleman sets down his well-worn toolbag to clasp Nick’s outstretched hand.

“Erik, how are the grandbabies?”

The man gives Nick a toothy grin, his lower left canine missing. “Annabell is walking, if you can believe it, and Dax will start kindergarten in the fall.”

“They grow up so fast.”

I have no context for the beaming, sociable,genuinelykindNick in front of me. In high school, if your family didn’t belong to a specific tax bracket, Nick couldn’t be bothered to know your name, let alone anything about your family. I’d been theonly exception, but I’m pretty sure that was because I’d been an implement to boost his ego.

“Too true.” Erik sets his thumbs in his belt loops before remembering himself. “Is this one of your renos?”

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