“Good. Because next on your list is that porch roof. It’s hanging like a drunk on a barstool.”
I laugh. “Thanks for the image.”
He plants a hand on the post beside him. “I can help … if you’ve got the time and don’t mind a little sawdust in your hair.”
I narrow my eyes playfully. “You offering handyman services now?”
He shrugs. “Just being neighborly.”
“Right,” I say, brushing past him toward the cabin. “Well, neighborly or not, I’ll take all the help I can get.”
And I don’t even need to look back to know he’s smiling. What even is this between us? Friendly help or something neither of us is ready to say out loud?
Chapter 10
Liam
Saturday Afternoon
The grill’s hot, the air smells like charcoal and burgers, and the sound of teenage boys yelling over each other is echoing across the lake.
Coach’s cookout — it’s an annual tradition. Helps team building, bonding with one another, and figuring out who they are with all the chaos of high school.
Some of the guys toss a football near the slope that leads down to the water, bare feet skimming the grass, shirtsoptional. I man the grill up top, keeping half an eye on them, half an eye on the burgers, and one ear open for the inevitable shouts of how they taunt one another. Sometimes, they vie for my attention by calling out, “Coach, watch this play.”
From up here, I catch Tessa stepping out onto her porch for a moment, paint roller in hand. She looks over, squints, then lifts a hand in a small wave before heading back inside.
It’s just a glimpse, but it’s enough. Apparently, I’m not the only one who noticed.
“Yo, Coach,” one of the seniors calls from the slope, cupping a hand to his mouth. “Who’s the redhead?”
I grunt and flip a burger. “That’s Miss Montgomery. She’s rehabbing her family’s cabin. Wants to sell it before summer’s out.”
“Well, damn,” another says, jogging toward the cooler to grab a soda. “She’s hot. She lives next door?”
“Just for now,” I offer casually, trying not to sound like it matters.
“Lives?” another chimes in. “Like … right next door?”
“Yep.”
“Man, is she single?” he asks, and now I’m officially done with this conversation.
“Don’t worry about her,” I say, flipping another patty. “She’s out here to work, not flirt.”
“Doesn’t mean we can’t admire the view,” one of them says under his breath, and a few of them laugh.
I let it slide. Barely.
A couple hours later, once everyone’s stuffed, I take half the crew out on the pontoon boat. It’s a big one. My dad bought it the year before Logan died. Said it was his “retirement cruiser,” even though he never retired. After my parents moved, I kept it. Feels right using it with the team. Logan would’veliked that.
The engine hums beneath us as I guide us out into open water. The boys lounge on the deck benches with their legs stretched out, tossing jokes, trading stories, and cracking open sodas like they’re on vacation.
Of course, the moment things go quiet for more than thirty seconds…
“Coach,” one of them says, nudging my arm. “Be honest. You hit that yet?”
I don’t react, but I know my jaw tightens.
