Page 14 of Fire Island (Fire Island #2)

Thirteen

EVIE

T he sounds of tinkering echo from the now-open shed near the tree line. Cal’s been in there for days. With no lamp to polish to a shine every other day and his lighthouse first responder duties on hold for the next few months, I’m pretty sure he’s bored to death.

The chance to restore his Indian is a very welcome blessing.

Selfishly, I can’t wait to see him on it.

Maybe he’ll let me ride with him sometime... But I understand the connection the bike has to Ava. So I won’t get my hopes up about it.

I wander the greenhouse every day under his strict instruction, harvesting what I can.

It takes everything I have to pretend I’m learning all this grow-your-own-food knowledge for the first time.

I listen as he talks about the lighthouse duties and how, as a first responder, he has daily maintenance and checks.

That on top of his chores, he’s usually kept busy.

Now, not so much.

He’s counting down the days until Emmett comes back.

I’m not. I’m perfectly content in my delusional bubble.

The rest of the world can stay the hell away.

Gravel moves behind me, and I turn back from watering the long row of summer crop salad varieties.

“Can you give me a hand?” Cal says.

I place the water can on the edge of the bed and turn back.

He’s covered in grease, a cloth tucked into the waistband at the hip of his jeans.

The faded, old blue T-shirt he’s wearing highlights his toned chest and bulky arms. His hair is messed up, and a streak of grease covers his cheek. He takes my breath away.

I compose myself before closing the distance between us.

“May I?” I ask, searching those gorgeous blues for any sign of recognition.

He swipes at his face with a hand, smudging the grease. “Shit.”

“Here, let me,” I offer, pulling the rag from his hip.

His lips part like he’s about to object. I rub the cloth over the grease, getting most of it off. “Better, but still not clean.”

He stands stunned, hands hanging by his sides.

I pray the frozen moment means memories have started piling up in his head. And this is him viewing each, one after the other, realizing who is standing right in front of him.

He shakes his head and diverts his eyes. “Sorry. Could you help me with the bike? Need smaller hands.”

My hope dies in my throat, my gut plummeting like it did the moment Iris told me Cal had lost three years.

“O-of course, um, just let me...” I walk outside and suck back the emotion burning the bridge of my nose. Heavy footsteps catch up with me, and I lose a breath.

I can do this.

I can.

Hell, I lived through days of thinking the man behind me was dead.

Nothing will ever compare to the devastation that brought.

“Over at the shed. I need small hands to tighten a bolt,” he says to my back.

Small hands.

Huge stupid damn heart.

I spin on my heels and smile up at him. “Sure. How’s it coming along?”

“Slow.” He pads across the grass at my side.

The wind plays with my hair, the sunshine warms my skin, and my lungs fill with life-affirming fresh air as my hand brushes his.

I try not to let the way the small touch spreads like lightning through my entire body affect me. The way my breath hitches at the tiniest contact.

He doesn’t seem to notice. As we reach the bike now standing on the grass with tools littering the ground around her, he squats.

I kneel close to his side and follow his hand as he points out the task I’m assigned.

“This bolt here. If I hold the nut with the wrench on the other side, can you tighten it all the way?”

He passes me a tool I’m sure is a socket driver or something.

“Yep, I’ll do my best.”

He rounds the bike and secures the head of the wrench to the nut. “Okay, tighten her up.”

I slide the socket over the head and turn it to the right.

Righty tighty, lefty loosey.

I learned it from my dad, I think?

Not that I spent a lot of time fixing stuff with him.

I was always inside with my head in a book.

This one I remember, most likely because it rhymes.

The bolt turns, revolving its way into the hole it was built for.

Cal’s grip on the wrench hardens when I reach the last bit.

Each turn is tougher than the last, and the tool slips in my hand.

The small spot I had to slide my hand into doesn’t allow for much visibility.

I reaffirm the head of the socket on the bolt and drop to my seat, squaring up with the task like it’s my opponent. I send the socket around once more. With it as tight as I can get it, I stretch up to look over the seat of the bike. Cal’s messy hair is all I see. “That’s as tight as I can get it.”

“Good. Thanks.” He looks up, removing the tool from the bike, and for a moment we stare at each other over the worn and cracked leather of the bike seat.

Neither of us speaks, so I return the tool to its grassy bed and push to my feet. “Let me know if you need any more help,” I offer with a smile.

“Thanks, Eve.”

“Sure thing.” I shove my hands in my back pockets, wishing this awkwardness between us would simply disappear.

Knowing it won’t until his memories return, I wander back to the greenhouse to finish up my chores. Watering, weeding, and then collecting anything ready for harvest for tonight’s dinner. It’s just like before. But at the same time, it’s not like before at all.

With a basket full of wonderfully fragrant produce, I pad to the house and into the kitchen. I start the process of washing and sorting the food in the refrigerator. Bending over, I replace the container with tomatoes and shift the root vegetable container to one side.

“You’re finding your way around well enough, then?”

I startle, rising and hitting my head on the inside of the refrigerator. “Shit.”

I rub my head and turn back to find a shirtless Cal leaning on the counter, sipping from an enamel cup. He wasn’t there when I came in.

“Damn, you scared me.” I push my glasses up my nose and pull my T-shirt down as his gaze travels my body.

His jaw feathers, but he doesn’t say a word.

“Dinner plans?” I ask.

He raises an eyebrow.

“I mean, what did you want to cook for dinner? I’ll leave the veggies out.” I wave to the basket behind me, still half full of produce.

“Anything’s fine. You cooking?”

I stare at him. “I?—”

“Don’t cook?”

“Not very well.”

He chuckles. “Some live-in caregiver, hey.”

I would take offense, but he has a point. “I’m usually writing, not doing... this.” I look around the house as if something more sensible to say will present itself. Nothing does.

“Well, I’ll cook, you clean. Deal?”

I can’t help the smile that blooms. “Deal.”

“Anything you can’t eat I should know about?” He places the mug on the island counter.

“Nope, all good.”

“Good, we don’t do fussy here.”

“I know,” I say, thinking back to the first days I arrived on Fire Island.

I know.

Like I’ve been here before.

Crap.

“I mean, I guessed that would be the case.”

“Okay...” he drawls, giving me a strange, confused look.

Shit. Iris is going to kill me. I can survive this McCreary. Not sure about the other one, though.

“I have words to write.” I scurry from the house and bust through the shack door in a flurry of self-deprecation. “Dammit. I will not screw this up.”

There is far too much at stake.

Too much.

I’ve never been so happy to see Firefly as I am this morning.

Em waves from the cabin as the trawler closes in on the jetty.

I stand beside Cal, waiting for the boat to slow enough that we can board.

Cal has a scan scheduled today, and I have time to kill with Iris.

Hopefully she won’t murder me for the many slipups I feel I’ve had in a mere seven days of being on the island with her brother.

“Hey, Miss Evie.” Em wraps me in a hug, and I can’t help but return the gesture.

Callum clears his throat behind us, and Emmett releases me, saying, “You want a hug too, bud?”

“Fuck off, Bradford.”

Em chuckles and we board the boat. I sit on the bench seat the way I did on the way out here. Em starts Firefly up as Cal moves to stand by the console. “Handing over control today?” he asks.

“Sure, she’s all yours.”

Emmett turns back and sits with me as Cal powers the old girl up and sends her out over the blue water.

Hands on the wheel, the rumble of the engine under our feet, he looks good in his element.

The rock of the boat as she charges over the chop sinks into my soul.

It’s so good to have the dynamic somewhat recovered.

But it’s not back to normal by any means.

“How’s things?” Em asks, not taking his focus off his friend.

“So far, so good. No developments yet.” I hope he gets my meaning, because I can’t say it outright.

“He’ll come back, Evie. I know he will.”

I smile, but it’s sad. Wistful, like the type of smile you give when someone is sorry for your loss. It doesn’t feel very dissimilar, despite the man in front of us being alive and mostly well.

Em slides an arm around my shoulders and hugs me into his side. “He’ll come back, I promise,” he whispers.

I lean my head on his shoulder at the moment Cal glances back.

He takes in his best friend cozy with his live-in caregiver.

God knows what’s going through his mind at the sight.

I move out of Em’s hold, and he gives my shoulder a squeeze before removing his arm.

We don’t want to create any new narratives in Cal’s head, and this one would be so far off the mark.

“Running to your standards, Cal?” Em says, rising and heading to the console.

“Fine,” he grunts, shifting on his feet.

“You know, you could say thanks for all the hard work and hours we poured into your old tub.” Em winks at him.

Cal’s face is stone as his jaw feathers. “Thanks.”

He returns his face to the water. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Callum McCreary is jealous of his best friend. Em shoots me a cheeky grin over his shoulder. He totally set us up.

Who’d have thought . . .