Once I’m in bed, I try to distract my mind. I check my emails one last time and then set my phone on the nightstand next to the antique lamp that sits on the doily. It makes me wonder about Ethan and his decorating style. Clearly, the person who decorated and painted this house wasn’t born in this century. It makes me think of when Ethan acquired the house. Did he buy it? If so, when? Was it handed down to him from a family member? From what Alex has mentioned, the Casey twins grew up in Granite Harbor. I guess we didn’t get to that the night we met in LA.
I don’t hate Ethan. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. He just left that morning. Didn’t ask for my phone number—a strong indication that he was clearly not interested. And I didn’t hear from him again until I make the trek out to Granite Harbor to visit Alex a while back. But what’s more is, he didn’t even acknowledge my existence, and he hasn’t until now. Until we’re alone and we’re in each other’s faces, up close and personal. And he has the audacity to tell me that I shouldn’t wear yoga pants in public.
Asshole.
I listen to the adjustments the old house makes as it settles in for the late evening. A foghorn down by the harbor sounds every seven minutes. It gives me some peace. As if maybe I’m supposed to be right here, lying in bed, waiting for the next horn.
I reach for my phone again. I open up the email he sent earlier. You know what? I’m going to respond.
You just left. You didn’t say a word. You just left that night. At first, it didn’t bother me. It didn’t. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not a booty call. But the more I got to thinking about it, the more I realized we worked. We fit. We’d had a great evening of conversation, wine, and sex. I woke up, and you were gone. And WTF? Then, I find you live in Granite Harbor and are best friends with Eli. You don’t say a word to me. You don’t look at me for two fucking years, and then, once again, stupid call-it-whatever-you-want has ME renting YOUR house. And the first words you have to say to me after almost two years is, “You shouldn’t wear those pants in public.”
Fuck you, Ethan. Fuck you and your stupid ego.
I wish you all the best.
No, no, wait. I don’t wish you all the best. I hope you’re chased by geese and roosters for the rest of your life.
P.S. You shouldn’t have had sex with me if you weren’t going to stay the next morning—or at least, you could have given me your phone number, so I could return your belt.
P.P.S. And, for the record, I don’t even like you anymore. I just felt like I needed to send this email.
Have a nice life.
Bryce
I read the email.
I reread the email.
The foghorn sounds.
House creaks.
I hit Send.
Take that, Ethan Casey.
I hastily set my phone back on the nightstand and roll over on my side. Part of me wants a response from him. Maybe an apology with a litany of excuses. Maybe he’s in a Witness Protection Program, and he’s not allowed to date. He was in the military—something he briefly touched on that night we were together—so it’s possible. Maybe he’s really an undercover agent for the FBI, and he doesn’t want to commit because of travel.
Unlikely, Bryce. And maybe he’s just not interested. Maybe he’s hung up on someone else.
This thought causes an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach.
My phone chimes.
My stomach drops.
Look.
No, don’t look. It doesn’t matter anyway.
Look.
I grab my phone from the nightstand, my heart pounding.
Ethan responds.
Geese and roosters?
I reply.
Yeah, because they’re mean as hell.
He replies.
They’re fowl. Their intent isn’t to be mean.
I reply.
Of course. You’re a game warden. You’ll always side with the animals. And, just my luck, they’ll flock to you—no pun intended—like you’re a god.
I wait for his response, but it doesn’t come. My eyelids grow heavy with the darkness around me, and I let them close, setting my phone down next to me. My last thought before I drift to sleep is of my brother. I’m not sure why, but I at least hope he has a warm bed to sleep in.
Light comes through the handmade curtains, which consist of a piece of fabric that’s thick enough where people can’t see in but thin enough to let unwanted light in, which shines in my eyes.
The scent of fresh coffee brewing drifts through my open bedroom door.
I don’t remember presetting the coffeemaker last night, I think to myself, wondering if an appliance with modern-ish science fits this well-worn house.
I push the homemade quilt and sheets from my body, bunching them at my feet. My silk nightgown clings to my body like sand to the shore, filling in the spots that need touching.
“Good morning,” a deep voice sounds from the doorway.
“Jesus Christ!” I jump, and a million tiny needles sting the surface of my skin. My eyes dart to the doorway of my bedroom, of my rental, of my personal space.
Ethan Casey is standing in my doorway, a cup of coffee in hand. “Good news. I wasn’t followed by a single rooster or a goose on the way here this morning.”
“You can’t just barge in the damn house whenever you feel like it, Ethan. I’m a renter, a paying customer.” I try not to smile at the rooster comment, and then I look down and realize I barely have anything on, and I grab at the sheet balled up at my feet.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have barged in like this.” Ethan sets the coffee down on my bedside table. Looks at me, almost embarrassed, confused by his actions. “For the morning I didn’t bring you coffee in bed. For the morning I left,” he whispers.
I feel his words vibrate in my chest and ricochet off my heart. Don’t give him the satisfaction of a smile, Bryce. Make him work for it.
My eyes meet his, and it seems as though there are so many words that he wants to say but can’t. There are flecks of darkness but also flecks of light.
I keep the sheet close to my chest, as it serves as a layer of protection against the world, against him, for my heart.
He goes to leave.
“I didn’t tell you?” I deflect. “I’m buying a rooster tomorrow. To keep the early birds out.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Hayes, but roosters aren’t allowed in the city limits of Granite Harbor. You must have ample space for them to roam,” he calls behind himself as he makes his way from my doorway, and I can no longer see him.
Shit.
I hear the front door shut quietly.
A warm feeling seated deeply in my body pushes to my face. My heart picks up pace. I smile.
Dear God, help me.
Seven
Bryce
I decide to stick around, maybe look for a new place tomorrow, and even though I hate to admit it, this is all because Ethan Casey is outside this house, on a ladder, painting, where I can steal glances of his arms and his stomach when he reaches the high spots.
He hasn’t said two words to me since he brought me coffee in bed this morning. But I also haven’t made an attempt to go outside and ask him if he needs anything.
Should I offer him water? Should I make him lunch?
It’s well past four o’ clock in the afternoon now, and surely, he’s hungry—unless, of course, he brought his own lunch. My mind spins as I sit at the kitchen table, trying to get some work done on Shane’s manuscript.
Fuck it.
I walk outside, and he’s on the side of the house that faces Main Street, up on the ladder.
Placing my hands on my hips, I ask, “Can I bring you some water or lunch or something?”
“Water would be great,” he says without making eye contact as he paints a soft gray over the primer, the pink still barely visible.
I go inside and come out with his water just as he’s coming down off the ladder. Ethan pulls at the bottom of his shirt and uses
it to clean the glistening sweat that’s formed on his face. It exposes his hard stomach and the dark trail that leads to places covered. My face grows flush as I try to distract myself.
Breathe, Bryce.
“I was going to walk downtown to grab a sandwich. Since you’re painting the house, I figured you could use one, too.”
He drops his shirt, and I can breathe again.
“Yeah, thank you.” He stands there. Stares down at me.
Even though we’ve slept together, I feel like this is all so brand-new. As if he hasn’t tasted the inside of me. As if he hasn’t put his fingers in places that make me blush.
I stop thinking about his hands, and I look at him. “What kind of sandwich would you like?”
“Turkey.” He almost smiles, and his white teeth barely stand out against his golden skin. “Thought I’d stay in line with your poultry references.”
I laugh out loud.
More of his smile shows. Though he doesn’t laugh, he watches me, thinking.
“Special requests?” I ask.
Ethan places one hand on his hip, the roller in the other hand. “How much time you got?”
I feel the weight of his words, and the intent of his stare settles around me and inside me. I stare back. “I was thinking along the lines of mayonnaise and mustard.”
When Ethan Casey smiles—which is not often because, usually, he’s got a scowl or a pensive look about him, like he’s constantly deep in thought—you’d better remember it or take a picture. A smile tips at the corners of his mouth.
That night in Los Angeles, after we made love for the first time, I asked him what his biggest regret in life was.
His answer was simple. “Regrets are for those who refuse change.”
Maybe that’s what he was doing by making coffee for me this morning—changing.
“I’ll take whatever you bring home.” He takes the water from my hand and drinks it down, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow. Ethan hands me the empty glass. “Thank you.” His eyes rest heavily on mine.
As if everyone in Granite Harbor has taken lunch, a break, the world around us pauses, quietly and neatly folding into itself, and all that surrounds Ethan and me is just space.
I breathe. In and out, Bryce. It isn’t difficult.
I know what this man looks like after he’s just made love to a woman. I know what his strong jawline looks like as he kisses a woman’s body. I know what self-control it takes for him to pull out right before he orgasms, so he can watch the woman first.
I wonder if he gives other women this look, the look of fear and love.
Breaking free of his stare, I nod, turn, and walk back in the house to grab my debit card. I push away the feelings that start to stir in my stomach and ignore that my heart is now fluttering against my chest.
He made you fucking coffee, Bryce. He didn’t buy you a ring.
When I walk back outside, Ethan is on the ladder now, painting, and I quickly make my way past him without a word.
Granite Harbor is everything you’d want in a small town. The people are magnetic and kind. And you have a little bit of everything here. Granite Harbor Opera House, mostly for the tourists and the Bostonians who want a break from city life. Granite Harbor Cuts and More, Harbor Theater. The newish sandwich shop, Oceanside Deli. Rain All Day Books, where I spent countless hours with Lydia, the store owner and a transplant from New Hampshire. Many inns sit on the ocean’s coast, including one of my favorites, The Harbor Inn. Rick’s Pharmacy. Of course, Granite Harbor Grocery and Level Grounds Coffee Shop.
I peek in the front window and wave to Lyn, who’s at the cash register. She waves back.
Maybe making all those trips from the West Coast to Granite Harbor really wasn’t for Alex; maybe it was for me. Maybe it was because this little town had grown on me. And, if I’m being really honest with myself, maybe half of those trips were to see Ethan. Check up on him.
“Bryce?” I hear my name from behind.
I turn to see Ryan and Merit and their daughter, Hope, who’s fast asleep in a stroller. Ryan’s dressed in uniform, which means he’s probably on the clock, taking a quick break with his girls.
“Hey, you two!” I walk to Merit and give her a quick hug, and then I do the same with Ryan. I peek in at Hope. “Look at that sweet nugget, just sleeping the world away.”
“I heard you were coming back into town but wasn’t sure when. Where are you staying this time?” Merit asks.
“Magnolia Road.”
“Oh, the Caseys’ house,” Merit says.
“That’s the one.”
“See Ethan’s doing some painting today.” Ryan looks back toward the house.
“Yeah, just running downtown to get some lunch …” I don’t finish the sentence as my voice dies down. I don’t want to say for us or him because I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea. But what idea would they possibly get that’s wrong? Man. Woman. That’s it.
“Let’s get together for lunch or dinner soon?” Merit says as she pulls me in for another hug.
“Absolutely,” I say.
Ryan reaches in for a small hug. “Looks like E’s got it pretty well handled, but if you need anything, don’t hesitate to reach out.”
“Will do.”
They go their way, and I continue down to Oceanside Deli where I order two turkey sandwiches with everything. I also grab Ethan three different kinds of chips because I don’t know which one he likes best. I’m not sure if he’s a soda drinker, so I buy a Coca-Cola and an apple juice.
The sun has retreated back behind the clouds, and the wind picks up on my quick walk home. It is October. The weather is gearing up for a change.
“Gonna be a cold winter.” Rick, the pharmacist, takes down an American flag from the front of his pharmacy.
“I haven’t been here yet for the winter,” I say.
“You’re in for an experience that can be both magical and cold as hell.” Rick laughs. “See you, Bryce.”
“Sounds wonderfully chilling. Thanks, Rick.” I have learned though, some businesses close during the winter because it gets so cold, and people really don’t go out unless it’s absolutely necessary.
Though you can guarantee Warden Young, Warden Taylor, and the Casey wardens will be out and about, saving people’s lives, pulling cars from ditches, and being ruggedly handsome, all at the same time.
When I approach the house, Ethan is down off the ladder, cleaning his hands, and my stomach flips inside out and upside down. It’s the way he’s cleaning his hands, the way he pulls the towel from each finger. Like he’s a pro painter, painter extraordinaire, and he’s just finished his own personal Starry Night.
“Here’s your sandwich. Turkey with the works and a few other things.” I hand him his bag of food.
“What’s all the other stuff?” He grabs the Doritos.
“Wasn’t sure what you liked. What I gave you, Ethan, were options.” I walk to the porch and take my seat, embracing the wind against my face. I take my sandwich out of the bag.
Ethan wanders over to me and sits down next to me, about two feet away.
A good, safe distance for both of us, I agree.
The wind begins to pick up. Tendrils of my hair flick around my face.
I take a bite of my turkey sandwich. Chew. Swallow. “Not bad.”
Ethan sticks his hand in the bag of Doritos. Chews, swallows, and says, “Oceanside has a mean turkey.”
I laugh. “Maybe one that chases you around town, only to catch you and gouge your eyes out.”
There’s a still silence around us. The wind stops momentarily, as if waiting for his response.
“Sorry about that,” I say and take another bite.
“Never be intimidated to eat in front of a man. Men like women who eat food,” my brother used to say—until the drugs dictated when he woke up. If he slept. If he went to work. If he lived.
Ethan is still eating the chips, his sandwich untouched.
; “You eat the chips first?”
Ethan nods, his fingertips cheesy and orange, at his side. “I was wondering why you don’t actually.”
“Who eats their chips first? That’s like a side dish to a meal. You always start with the main course.” I take the last bite of my sandwich.
“Not how we do it in Maine.” He shrugs, cleaning his hands with his napkin now and then opening the wrapper to his sandwich.
“So, wait, you guys eat the chips first, sandwich second?” I grapple with this idea.
A smile begins at the corners of his mouth, and his lips part; he almost, almost laughs.
“Pulling your leg, Hayes.” He looks out across the street.
I look down the street as the wind begins to pick up once more and notice the black sedan again. I think better of saying something to Ethan. I don’t need a man anyway to keep me safe. Last minute, when I packed, I shoved the Mace my brother had given me into my suitcase.
The wind howls.
“Hell of a storm moving in,” he says before he takes the last bite of his sandwich.
Somehow, I have a feeling the black sedan is up to no good.
Eight
Ethan
When I put my tools away outside, she’s standing at the doorway on the porch.
You should go, Ethan.
“Do you want to come in and wash your hands before you go?” Bryce asks.
No, I should go, Bryce. I should.
I nod and follow her in as she shuts the door behind us.
The wind kicks up, and I casually use my fingers to pull back my grandmother’s old curtains and look outside, trying to distract myself.
My hands are sweaty, and my heart is pounding out of my chest. I see Bryce walk to the kitchen and dump our trash.
“So,” she calls from the kitchen, “when did you buy this place?”
I let go of the curtains and walk back into the kitchen, leaning in the same doorway I’ve stood in since Aaron and I could walk.
“Few years go.” I put my hands in my pockets, so I don’t reach out and touch her.
Go, Ethan. Leave.
Magnolia Road: A Contemporary Romance Novel (The Granite Harbor Series Book Book 3) Page 5
