Mr. Hans’s bushy, dark gray eyebrows slide up his forehead like caterpillars—figuratively. A simile … I think. “Smart little cookie.”
I bite my lips together and nod. “I’m emptying my suitcase here.”
“Patience, Elvis. Help is on the way.”
I hate feeling like a damsel in distress.
Stupid sand. Why did I think it would be fun to rent a beachfront home?
Nathaniel Hunt, strongest man in a two-house radius, arrives sixty seconds later. Thank god he’s wearing a shirt today. “How can I be of assistance?” He flashes a hero’s smile.
“Elvis didn’t want to let me catch my breath before carrying this suitcase upstairs, so Miss Morgan volunteered you.”
“I can just empty it right here.” My voice carries a tiny edge to it. I’m not mad; I’m just frustrated for … so many reasons.
Death.
My new job.
My new responsibility.
My weak ankle.
My period.
Nathaniel’s gaze sticks to my hair, again. What’s his deal? Has he never seen highlights before? Granted, they are a little chunkier than I expected. I run my fingers through my hair, and his blue-eyed focus lowers to my face.
“Elvis?” His head cocks to the side.
I shoot Mr. Hans the hairy eyeball.
He smirks. “Graceland … Elvis.”
“Oh.” Nathaniel nods at Mr. Hans’s two-word explanation for my nickname.
“Mail!” Morgan and Gabe trek through the entry with two more small boxes and a pile of mail on top of Gabe’s box. “The mail lady has a gold tooth. Gabe said he thinks it’s cool, but I told him it means she lost part of a tooth or it decayed. Dad’s molar cracked in Germany, and he got a crown, but it’s not gold.”
Gabe drops his box at the bottom of the stairs and picks up the mail. “Huge Hands?” He squints at it before handing it to Huge Hands.
Morgan giggles, peering over Gabe’s shoulder at the mail. “It’s Hugh Hans. The G is silent. We met a cliff diver named Hugh when we visited Devil’s Tears in Indonesia. He explored the water and jumped off the highest cliffs while holding a camera on a long pole. He had the darkest tan, hair to his shoulders, and lots of whiskers on his face. His muscles were big like my dad’s, but Hugh had tattoos. So did his girlfriend. She put a million braids in my hair so it looked just like her hair. And she said Hugh is the most handsome man in the world and someday I’d find my own Hugh who kissed me until I fainted. Can you imagine fainting from a kiss?”
I just can’t stop thinking it. This. Girl. Is. Ten!
Nathaniel narrows his gaze at her. “When did you have this conversation, young lady?”
She rolls her eyes. “I told you, when Steffi braided my hair while you jumped off the cliff with Hugh. She also said you probably looked a lot like Hugh when you were younger.”
Fantastic.
My new neighbor resembles a hot cliff diver and Jamie Fraser.
Nathaniel shakes his head. “Morgan. Morgan. Morgan.” He clutches the handle of my suitcase, making the thick veins in his arms pop along with every muscle, and carries it up the stairs.
One slow step at a time, I follow him. Up with the good foot, drag the bad one.
“Which room?” He turns, waiting for me.
“The one at the end.” My stiff snail’s pace gets me to my bedroom just as he sets it on the bed. “Thank you so much.”
He turns, again inspecting my hair.
“Can I ask why you stare at my hair so much?” I end my question with a slight laugh so he doesn’t think I’m offended or upset.
He averts his gaze to the side and shakes his head. “It’s … nothing.”
“Is there something in my hair?” I smooth it with both hands.
“No.” He meets my eyes, and a sadness ghosts along his face. “You just … well, your hair reminds me of someone. That’s all. Sorry. I’m not trying to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“Oh. I’m not really uncomfortable.”
Totally uncomfortable.
“You remind me of someone too,” I say.
“Oh? Who’s that?”
Jamie Fraser, my Outlander crush.
“Just … this guy. He’s not from around here. He’s actually from Scotland.”
Nathaniel nods. “Do you need help with anything else?”
“Nope. I’ve got it.”
He glances at my foot for a few seconds. “Let me rephrase. Is there anything left in the back of your vehicle?”
“Just a few bags and boxes. Gabe and I can get them. You’ve done enough.”
“Dad! Can you help? There’s a really heavy box,” Morgan yells from the bottom of the stairs.
He smirks. “Unpack your stuff. Rest your ankle. I’ve got this.”
I deflate. “I’m sorry. We should have had the moving company haul everything, but the bulk of my things are in storage, and we’re selling the larger items that belonged to my brother and his wife. I just … wasn’t thinking about my ankle.”
“No apologies,” he murmurs as he passes me to head back down the stairs.