Page 75 of The Summer Show

“Voluntold?”

“It’s when someone tells you you’re volunteering to do something. A lot like your family and all their home improvement projects that happen to coincide with your visits.”

His expression was shifting like he was trying to bite back laughter. “What I’m hearing is that you think us having sex would be like a home improvement project.”

“I’m trying not to make a joke about how you’re good with screwing and nailing.”

“Won’t deny I’ve got my talents.”

“I know, I’ve seen you swing a hammer.”

He shook his head and laughed. “I’m trying to think of a clever comeback, but the heat baked my brain. Want to go for a swim? Beach or pool, your choice.”

“Pool. There’s less of a chance I’ll stand on an octopus.”

twenty-eight

By morning, my phone was a quivering mess of alerts. During the night, my retort about having sex with Nick for me and not the show had predictably leaked out of the confines of Hotel Ble and into the faces of the gossip-loving public.

I compensated by vowing not to show up for today’s roofing adventure. If Nick and I weren’t together, then the cameras would have to find other rumors to spread.

That plan went to hell when Nick’s text arrived.

Where are you?

He needed me.

As soon as I located shorts and a clean shirt, I was out the door without so much as a cup of coffee. I couldn’t say why, only that there was a note of desperation in Nick’s words that wasn’t present in the words themselves. A subtext, if you will.

Waving as I went, acutely aware that Ana would be judged if her houseguest wasn’t friendly to the locals, I practically jogged to Irini One’s house. By the time I arrived, I had lost a quart of liquid and my clothes were drenched.

“Nick?” I called out, using my hands as the world’s worst megaphone.

Nothing.

That’s when I spotted an object in the middle of the steps leading up to the roof. On closer inspection, I discovered Nick’s toolbox, upside down, lid open, tools scattered across the first floor landing as if it had fallen from the roof.

The sense of wrongness formed a fist in the pit of my stomach.

I gathered up the tools, placed them back inside the box, and hauled it up the rest of the steps, not caring that my muscles were singing a protest song.

Hot sun ricocheted off the white roof and into my eyes. Behind my dark lenses, my eyes struggled to adjust. When they did, I found Nick.

In a patch of shade, cast by drying sheets, he was sitting with his eyes closed so tightly that his forehead was a parched and cracked riverbed. His fists were balled in his lap.

Whatever was happening inside his head, it couldn’t be good.

With adrenaline leading the charge through my veins, I set down the toolbox and sprinted across the roof. I crouched in front of him. “Nick?”

He raised his head. His eyes were vacant and terrified. “You came.”

“Of course I did.”

His phone was sitting beside him. I picked it up and moved it aside so I could plop down beside him. The screen came on and our conversation—brief though it was—was right there.

I was the person Nick contacted when he was struggling. Me. A woman he had met days ago. Right now wasn’t the time to analyze what that signified, if anything at all. For now, I just scooted closer and rubbed his back. Although my mother had been the type to hand me my own Band-Aid when I skinned my knee or inevitably scored some other type of boo-boo, I knew what to do. Or at least I hoped I did, given that Nick was an adult. Kids were easier to comfort. At elementary level their wounds were quickly and easily fixed most of the time.

But Nick?

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