Page 34 of Sea La Vie
“I’m not there yet!” I say and give his shoulder a playful nudge with mine. “As I was saying,” I narrow my eyes at him playfully and continue. “It was a great morning. I was catching plenty of fish, things were looking up. I thought I might actually have a shot at this, you know? But then, myothermotor goes out.”
Tate grimaces. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” I say, because while I was about to have a pretty great paycheck, those proceeds will now go to cover the cost of repairs for the other motor.
“Lainey…If you ever need to borrow—”
I hold a hand up. “No, absolutely not.” I will never borrow money from Tate or anyone else for that matter. My cottage is paid for, and my living expenses are pretty minimal, so I’m able to get by day-to-day with the cash under the table Huck gives me. I don’t have the energy or desire to get into that with Tate, though.
“Just know the offer stands,” Tate says gently.
I set my jaw in a hard line, then notice the paint buckets in the corner of the room—the reason I’m here. “Let’s get to it,” I say, nodding to them.
“Do you want an old t-shirt?” he asks. His eyes scan up and down my body, and I try not to heat under his gaze, even though I know he’s only looking at my worn jeans and t-shirt.
“Nah,” I tell him.
He carries the buckets into the bedroom and pours the paint into two trays, then hands me a roller.
“I figured I’d do the trim work and you can roll,” he says.
“I thought you weren’t patient enough to paint,” I tease.
Tate grimaces. “I never said I’d be happy about it.”
I dip the roll into the soft blue paint, so light it’s almost white. It’s going to do wonders for this dark room. Tate turns on an old radio in the corner, and beach music plays softly around us while we work in silence. When I have one wall painted, I step back and admire my work.
“Have you thought about the note anymore?” I ask.
Tate scratches his cheek, unaware that he’s just smeared paint all over it. I want to tell him, but I think I’ll revel in how cute it is for a few more minutes before I do.
“Yeah,” he says. “And it doesn’t make sense. Grandpa’s dad built this cottage, and the note wasn’t old enough to be my great-grandpa’s or new enough to be a renter’s.”
“Maybe we can try asking him again,” I suggest.
“Maybe,” Tate says, doubt clouding his face.
“And you haven’t found anything else?” I ask.
Tate shakes his head then walks over to the soft spot in the floor. He pulls it back and digs around with his hand between the joists until pulling it back out, empty handed. His shoulders slump, and he covers the floor again.
“The paint looks great, don’t you think?” he asks, changing the subject.
“It does,” I agree. “It really brightens up the place. I can’t believe your mom managed to rent this place out the way it was.”
Tate chuckles. “In her defense, I think it was only rented every now and then to the random fisherman who wanted to check out the legend of Widow’s Wharf.” He wiggles his eyebrows and makes a spooky ghost noise.
“Stop,” I laugh. I eye the bucket of paint, and Tate’s eyes follow mine.
“What are you—” Tate doesn’t finish his question because I’ve dipped my hand in the blue paint and smeared it all over the front of his shirt. He looks down slowly at the mess I’ve created and then back up to meet my eyes. “You did not just do that,” he growls. The noise makes my stomach dip.
“I did,” I challenge.
Before he has a chance to get me back, I run through the living room to the kitchen. I hear the thud of his footsteps close behind and try to jerk the kitchen door open. It’s stuck, and I hear his laugh envelop me.
“Another thing to add to my to-do list,” he says.
“A new door?” I ask, shielding my face from the paint I’m certain he’s about to slather me in.
