Page 24 of Enemies to Lobsters
“Doesn’t compare to what you get in the city, I bet.” If Stevie were here she’d hold up a warning finger like,You'd better watch yourself, boy.“I’ll be honest, this is the last thing I pictured you eating.”
She turns red again. “I don’t like cooking. Usually I eat a lot of takeout.” She clicks a few things on her laptop. “Strangely enough, I couldn’t find a DoorDash driver who would deliver to a lighthouse on a tidal island.” The ghost of a smile curls the corners of her mouth. Is she making a joke? She turns her laptop toward me. She has a thorough spreadsheet pulled up—and I mean thorough.
“Wow.” When did she have time to put all of this together? I’m learning that when the York family wants something, they move quickly. Need power and water and furniture for a house that’s been abandoned for a few decades? Done. Complete plans for a multi-million dollar renovation? Give them forty-eight hours. That’s what money buys, I guess.
I should have them look over the town’s budget, I think with a smirk. I can imagine how that would go.“You need more money,”Richard York would announce. And he would be right.
“I know it’s a lot.” She bites her lip. “But if you look over column A, that’s the main stuff. From what I gathered, the renovation can be done in two phases. The exterior—repairing the trim, painting, reroofing, et cetera. The interior of both the lighthouse and the house can be done concurrently, but we should probably replace the st–staircase first.” She slides her hands down her legs. “And I know it isn’t the top priority, but if we’re going to live here, I’d love to update this place. The sooner the better.”
“You don’t like it?” I pretend to look around. “I think avocado green is your color.” I doubt a color exists that wouldn’t compliment her, I admit to myself grudgingly.
A delicate smile is her only response. “I spent the day reaching out to subcontractors. A few of them are coming tomorrow and Thursday to look at the place so they can put in bids.”
“You don’t want to hire a general contractor? Someone who can take this off of your hands?” Even as I ask the question, I know it’s not happening. Her eyes sparkle when she talks about this stuff. She’s Michaelangelo and this is her Sistine Chapel. And she’s looking at me like I swatted a paintbrush out of her hands.
“I want to do this,” she says with a barely-discernible lift of her chin.
“Okay.” I hold my palms up. “How can I help?” I don’t want to be a deadbeat husband.
Now she’s really biting that bottom lip. “Well…” she trails off, her eyes darting to the spreadsheet.
“Spit it out,” I say, while scanning the screen for whatever terrible job she's hesitant to delegate. Then I see it. A tab for a separate spreadsheet labeled “Ike.” Mysterious. “Is that my list?” I point at the Ike tab.
“Yeah. If you don’t mind…” she trails off again. Why is she so hesitant to ask for help?
“Diana, I want to help. Believe it or not, I built my house. I’m decent at this stuff.” I lean back in my chair. “And I love this lighthouse more than you do. I’m here. I’m invested.”
She sighs heavily and clicks on the tab. I can’t believe what I’m seeing.
Chapter 12
Diana
I’m sitting at a table with Ike Wentworth and he’s being nice. I know how to interact with him when he’s taunting me, but I have no idea how to handle him when he’s kind and his shirt sleeves are rolled up and he smells like pine and something that makes my toes curl. I take a long breath and hold it before I hyperventilate. I can’t believe I showed him my spreadsheet.
You are not going to hyperventilate in front of Ike.
He saw my spreadsheet. So what? I don’t care. Except now he’s looking at it with a grin growing on his face like he can’t wait to tell his buddies about it. Another Diana Yorkfaux pasfor the town lore.
The first few items on the spreadsheet are standard home repair stuff that I figured Ike could handle to keep us within budget—exterior lights, grounds maintenance, and minor plumbing things. Last night I climbed upstairs and into my bed and made this list while Ike’s manipulative cologne was fresh in my nose. Things went off the rails around row fourteen when I added his cologne to the list of things Ike needs to fix if we’re going to live together. Row twenty-five was where I started a deep dive into the rumors he’s spread about me and needs to undo. And row thirty-two was where things really took a turn.Luckily, it’s past the bottom of the page. I snap the laptop shut, holding it closed with white-knuckled fingers. “You get the gist.”
Ike is grinning behind his stupid beard. “Let me see that again, Di.” He reaches for the computer. “I didn’t look at all of it.”
I snatch my laptop off the table, hugging it to my chest. “I’ll email it to you.” I dart for the stairs.
His chair scrapes away from the table. He’s following me. “You’re going to run away?” His voice has the teasing quality I’m accustomed to. There’s the guy I remember. I knew better than to trust the phony civil front he was putting on. “It must’ve gotten spicy. The last thing I saw was something about my cologne, which was interesting.”
I freeze halfway up the creaky steps. I am not running away from this tormenter. We both have to live here. I spin on my bare feet, stomping down the stairs and across the living area until I’m looking up at Ike. “Okay, listen.” Geez, he’s tall. I’m basically having a conversation with his bearded jaw. “I’ll show you the rest of your to-do list line by line and you’re going to agree to it without mockery or complaint. Got it?” I can’t believe I’m offering this, but I’m doing it in the name of clear communication.
He peers down at me, his brown eyes full of amusement. “I’m not going to agree to anything until I know what it is. For all I know you want me to massage your feet every night.”
That’s a good idea and not far off from where things were headed on line thirty-two. “Oh, you’d like that, I bet. Pervert,” I bait him, tightening my arms around my laptop. Okay, I’m rescinding the offer. He can never see that spreadsheet, but I can’t delete it. Making it brought me too much joy, and joy is in short supply these days. So I’ll copy it, delete the incriminating lines, and send the edited version to Ike, the feet guy.
“Big talk from the woman who drools over a man in a firefighting uniform.” Is he moving closer?
“Oh, you got that far? You’re a fast reader. I never would’ve guessed.” I grin at him with confidence I’m not feeling. I can’t believe he got to the line about not wearing his fire uniform in my presence.
He looks like he’s seconds from wrestling this computer out of my arms. And he is definitely moving closer. His cologne and rolled up shirtsleeves are all up in my business. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
