Page 17 of Holiday Tides

“Hopefully,” Nick says, taking the door from my stunned fingers and widening it so Erik can sail through. “I think the heating element needs to be replaced. It’s one of those old systems that has only one. I’d love to replace the whole thing, but one step at a time.” He leads Erik to the same closet we stood in front of last weekend. “Any chance I could get that done at cost?”

The older man grimaces at my unit before smiling at Nick. “You send a few referrals my way, and I’ll even wave labor.”

My rival waggles his finger at Erik. “You’re too good to me. Too good.”

He chortles, pulling on his belt loops before squatting in front of the heater. “Give me an hour.”

My feet numbly follow Nick to the front door as I’m lost in thought. I tuck my hands into the sleeves of my shirt, prepared to thank him. I know I’m the one that called the plumber and coordinated this repair, but Nick just saved me a hundred dollars, if not more.

But then he turns to me with that smirk. “Admit it, Summer. You need me.”

Of all the chauvinistic, self-aggrandizing—

“I have never, nor will I ever need you, Nick Watson,” I say, heat blooming in my belly.

Nick has the audacity to wink at me as he lets himself out. “You keep telling yourself that.”

That tiny flicker of muscle spurs a rage monster within me. My hands fist as I stare at the closed door before remembering the gift on the stairs. I race down my front walkway, box in my arms, fully intent on tossing it at Nick’s back, but the devil is alreadyin his truck, pulling away. His hearty laugh through the closed passenger window makes me growl.

I stomp over to the construction site and shove the box in the hands of a skinny young-twenties man who’d just dropped an armful of splintered wood in the dumpster. “Tell Nick I don’t want this.”

He shoves it back like we’re in a life-or-death game of hot potato. “Oh, no. I need this job.”

I make three more attempts and am met with similar responses before I’m forced to trudge back to my house with the gift still in hand. Setting it in the far corner of the dining room, I vow not to open it. Then I head to the kitchen to make my crappy cup of instant coffee and think of a way to even the score.

twelve

Nick

Here’s what I expected when returning to my jobsite after driving to the mainland to retrieve the custom cabinet pulls for the kitchen and picking up sandwiches for everyone: my crew doing their jobs. Instead, I find everyone but Dina standing around the newly renovated kitchen as Summer removes drywall from a dividing wall between the kitchen and the living room that the homeowners asked to have removed after yesterday’s walk-through. I also don’t anticipate what a vision Summer makes in her snug green sweater pushed up at the forearms, dark jeans dusted with gypsum, and her green Fair Isle snow cap.

“You really don’t use sledgehammers?” She has a flat bar in her hands, prying the edge into the waist-high saw cut made horizontally along the drywall.

“No, ma’am,” Don answers, eyes on her progress. “That’s just a stupid thing they do for television.”

“I keep waiting for some idiot to whack right into a 220V line or something.” Ezra chuckles from his position, leaning against the original farmhouse sink we decided to keep.

“That’s good,” Don says. “Just pull it away from the framing. We’ll see if she’ll come down in one piece for you.”

The segment has wallpaper on it, so though Summer got the left side to lift away in one piece, the drywall breaks on the right side, folding in on itself.

“Sorry,” she murmurs. The remorse in her soft word is the sweetest and most unnecessary thing I’ve ever heard.

“Not to worry,” Don reassures her. “We’re throwing it away anyway.”

“Oh, yeah.” Summer brightens and rips the rest of the piece away in one large slab. “Now I do the top?”

Don nods, sliding a mini step ladder over to her with his boot. Looks like they’ve already used a handsaw to bisect the top portion.

“Go ahead, honey.”

My shoulders tighten at the endearment, even though I know Don didn’t mean anything by it. Some possessive part of me wants to be the only one to call her nicknames, even though the one I use causes Summer’s face to flare with irritation.

I lean against the entryway, crossing one boot over the other while keeping the two large to-go bags in my hands. “Isn’t this cozy?”

The rest of my crew has the decency to look chastened, but Don simply gives me an upward nod. “Summer wants to talk to you.”

“Does she?”

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