Page 33 of The Beach Trap

“His name is Daniel-san,” Noah says to the dog. “Little Danny. Such a good little Danny boy. Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are callin’.”

The last part is delivered in an Irish accent that blends into the melody sung by every middle school choir ever. At my school there was always one soprano who ended up crying by the end, which made me roll my eyes, much like I’m doing right now.

“How’ve you been?” I ask. “Enjoying your life of leisure while I bust my ass, as per usual?”

It’s a humid, sunny day, and I shield my eyes with my hand and look up at him as he stands to his full height. Oh my heavens, he issodamn tall.

“Doing my best. It’s easier when I don’t have to worry about being gawked at all day by the housekeeper.” He looks over at the beach house and whistles, rubbing a hand over his shaggy beard as he surveys the place. “This is the place you inherited? It’s—”

“A dump, I know.” I motion to the garage behind me, all the cabinet doors laid out. “But I’m making progress. I was about to get some primer on these babies when I was so rudely interrupted by a dude flirting with my dog.”

The corner of his mouth lifts—or at least I think it does; difficult to tell under all that beard. “Yourdog, eh?” he says.

“Thedog. The dog I am responsible for.” I fold my arms and give him a cheery smile. “Run along now, Noah. I have work to do.”

He raises both hands. “Sorry, sorry. I’ll take my eight delicious shrimp tacos and extra-large order of guac with freshly made chips and head on home.”

My mouth waters. I’ve been living on a diet of peanut butter sandwiches and cold cereal, cheap food I can shovel into my mouth so I can get back to work as quickly as possible.

Also: Did Noah come here specifically to run into me, or was he just passing by? I told him the general area of this house, but I didn’t tell him which one is mine. The thought makes my stomach do another swoop.

“Eight tacos sound like a lot for one person,” I say. “I’d be happy to take some off your hands.”

“Eh, I don’t know if you can handle these tacos. They’re legendary. Probably the closest thing to an orgasm you’ve experienced in a long, long time.”

“Or the closest thing to an orgasm you’vegivenanyone in a long, long time.” The words are out of my mouth so fast they bypass my usual filter.

Noah bursts out laughing, and I can’t help feeling triumphant.

“Well, damn,” he says when he recovers. “You just earned yourself some tacos, Blake O’Neill.”

•••

The tacos arepretty close to orgasmic, and I have to hold myself back from moaning as I take my first bite. We’re sitting on the lawn in the shade of the garage, the dog between us, and when we finish, I stand, feeling a sense of urgency to get back to work.

“Thanks for lunch,” I say. “I owe you one.”

I expect him to head back to the Rooneys’ to spend the afternoon lounging in the shade drinking beer, as is his custom, but he surprises me.

“You want some help with those?” he says, nodding at the cabinet doors on the garage floor.

I give him a skeptical look. “I don’t want to interfere with your afternoon plans. Priming is kind of a miserable task.”

“My baseline is miserable,” he says, giving me a wry look. “I’ll be fine.”

•••

Soon, it’s apparentthat Noah is not a good painter—he’s messy and drippy, and even though I’ve given him the easier task of rolling the flat surfaces while I do the detail work, I have to keep stopping to remind him of proper technique: not too much paint, only a thin layer. Still, it’s nice to have someone to talk to after so many days on my own.

There’s an old eight-track player in the garage, and we take turns choosing music—ABBA, Fleetwood Mac, Aretha Franklin. It takes hours to prime both sides of the cabinet doors, plus the cabinet bases in the kitchen, but we’re finished by dinnertime.

Noah suggests we order pizza, which I insist on paying for because he got lunch—though it makes me cringe when I realize I’m spending an entire week’s worth of grocery money in one fell swoop. But it’s worth it; the pizza is delicious—feta cheese, banana peppers, and red onions—and we eat sitting out on the deck that faces the beach, watching the sun go down.

“So,” Noah says, picking up another piece of pizza. “How did you end up here with a dog you don’t like and a house you don’t want?”

“The dog is easy to explain,” I tell him. “I’ve been a live-in nanny for a family in Minneapolis for a couple years, and he belongs to them. I was supposed to be in France watching their two kids this summer, but at the last minute they hired a French nanny and stuck me with the dog.”

“That sucks,” he says, and takes a bite of pizza, chewing thoughtfully. “Doesn’t explain how you came to be here in Destin, though. You said you inherited this house from a relative?”

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