A Change Of View (Northern Lights Book 2) Read online

David had bought me out of the marital home, and I rented a place these past years, so a large chunk of that money was left. Plus, I sold off most of my belongings before I came up here, so I had what I thought was enough to fix up the place and sustain myself until I could start making some money, but at the rate it’s flying out the door, I’m not sure I’ll manage.

  Can’t rent out a room that doesn’t have a roof, though. I’ll just have to suck it up, along with the extra ninety-five dollars he’s charging me to deliver the stuff tomorrow, since there’s no way I can make it fit.

  I scowl at Travis’ smiling mug in my rearview mirror as I drive off the parking lot, my Jeep as empty as my wallet.

  The sign of the liquor store beckons me when I turn onto Broadway, and who am I to ignore its call? I’m in dire need of some liquid courage so I can get myself back on that roof tomorrow. I have no choice now. There’s no money left in the budget to hire out the work.

  Besides, a little buzz might help me forget the embarrassing episode from yesterday.

  I pretended to be asleep when he walked into my living room. My saviour; the Neanderthal. Only words out of his mouth were either barked or grunted—and the man called me woman. Who the fuck does that? Does he think he’s the bad boy hero in an HBO feature? Ridiculous.

  Although, I have to admit, despite my mild hysteria at the time, the feel of his big body behind mine, and his hands on my hips coming down that ladder, stirred something. He’s not bad to look at either, what I could see in that downpour and with that sopping beanie pulled down over his eyes. Reminded me a little of that old Brawny commercial, the lumberjack guy. He was large. Big-boned and a little ruddy looking, but that could’ve been the cold rain beating down on us. It was running down a largish nose that looked like it had seen a round or two and dripped from the heavy beard covering the bottom half of his face. I have no clue who this man is and frankly, after the vile stuff coming out of his mouth, I don’t care to know—but for a moment there, I might’ve been curious.

  Anyway, I’d heard him come in when I was still curled up in a fetal position on the couch, and I feigned sleep so I didn’t have to talk to or face him. The experience was embarrassing enough without adding insult to injury.

  Armed with a brown paper bag, hiding two bottles on the seat beside me, I head home. Moscato for lighter days and a bottle of scotch for those days when total obliteration is required—like maybe today.

  -

  “Erm, excuse me?”

  I yell up at who is fast becoming the bane of my existence, crawling over my roof, but not before taking a long hard look at that firm ass, clearly outlined in a pair of well-worn jeans. He probably has abs to match, the kind you can bounce quarters off of. Try and do that off mine and you’d need heavy equipment to excavate it.

  The moment I pulled onto the property, I recognized the monster-sized pickup truck parked outside number seven. I glance over at the brown paper bag, deciding on the spot that it’s definitely a scotch day.

  “Hello! What are you doing on my roof?” I try again. This time there is movement.

  A head peeks over the side, a familiar beanie pulled low over deep-set eyes. The heavy beard I thought was dark brown is actually more of a rusty colour in the bright midday sun.

  “Fixin’ a hole,” he rumbles in a deep baritone, with a barely distinguishable roll of his eyes. But it’s there, in his voice.

  “I admit I might have been a bit out of it yesterday, but I’m pretty sure I would’ve remembered contracting out a job I have every intention of doing myself.”

  If I wasn’t irritated enough by the big lug’s mere presence, he really puts a target between his eyes when he barks out a laugh.

  “I’m pretty sure I can manage, I’ve ordered everything I need. They’re delivering tomorrow,” I throw out there, planting my hands on my hips for emphasis, as I watch him swing his legs over the side and climb down.

  “Cancel it,” he snaps, stepping off the ladder and into my space. I lift my eyes and instantly bring up my hand to shield them when I’m nearly blinded by the bright sun backlighting his bulk.

  “I will do no such thing.”

  I try hard not to be intimidated by this stranger giving me orders. This is my property, and I don’t have to listen to anyone, especially not some random stranger.

  “Your call,” he says, pulling off his beanie with one hand, while wiping the sweat of his wide forehead with a dirty rag he plucks from his back pocket. “You wanna waste your money, that’s your business. Be stupid, though, given I’ve already got everything you need here.”

  I’m half registering what he says, too mesmerized by the copper mop of hair, laced with grey, which popped out from under his hat like a damn white rabbit. Luscious, shiny hair that gleams like a new penny in the sun.

  “I don’t even know who you are,” I mutter lamely.

  I realize I’m staring when he bends forward to bring his face close and his eyes level to mine.

  “Doyle,” he rumbles.

  Hazel. His eyes are hazel; that blend of brown, gold and green, that looks fucking amazing against the tan and freckled skin of his face.

  “Own Jackson’s Point. Fishing lodge up on the north shore. Our properties share a border along the northeast side of your land. Consider me your closest neighbour.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah...”

  His drawn out response shakes me out of my stupor.

  “Well, Doyle, nice to meet you and all, but still don’t really get what you’re doing here?”

  “Starting to ask myself that,” he mumbles in his beard, as he covers those gorgeous tresses with the dull grey knit beanie again.

  “Then perhaps you should go,” I snap in response. “I don’t have the money to spend on labour anyway.”

  The low growl coming from his chest area has me move back a few steps, but instead of attacking me, he turns around and starts back up the damn ladder.

  “Hey!” I call after him. “Did you not hear me?”

  “Had some materials left over from a renovation on one of my cabins last fall,” he throws at me over his shoulder. “Call Travis, tell him to cancel the order and refund you the money.” Without another look he disappears over the edge of the roof.

  I’m about to protest again when his head pops back over the side.

  “A beer’d be nice. I’m frying like a turkey on Thanksgiving up here.”

  The gall!

  It takes me a minute to will my blood pressure down to manageable levels, before I turn back to my Jeep and snatch the brown paper bag off the passenger seat. With my version of a Xanax clutched in my arms, I march around the side of the bar and into the house, where I first call Travis to cancel my order and have him refund the money to my credit card, and then I sit down at the kitchen counter to pour myself a stiff glass.

  Definitely a scotch kind of day.

  Roar

  She never brought me that beer.

  I’ve been up here in the baking sun for three hours, doing my goddamn neighbourly duty, and not even a bottle of water. Piece of work she is, throwing attitude when I’m saving her from fucking killing herself. I haven’t seen her since she stomped her jiggly ass inside the house. I watched it move all the way around the corner.

  What the hell is she thinking? She’s clearly a city girl, with those tattoos and that hair. Sticks out here like a sore thumb. And getting this damn place up and running again? By herself? She’s obviously deranged.

  Next time I feel a nudge of chivalry, I’m gonna eradicate it by the root.

  I pull the rag from my back pocket and wipe the sweat off my face and neck. It’s not even June and the sun is hotter than Hades. One benefit is that the bugs don’t like the heat either, not that they bother me much; I’ve developed thick skin over the years, or maybe they’ve just gotten sick of the taste of me.

  I toss the last of the old shingles she had piled up in the parking lot in the back of my truck and get behind the wheel. One final
look in the direction she disappeared, and then I resolutely put her out of my head. I start the truck and turn up the road, where a cold beer and a lazy afternoon of fishing is waiting for me.

  Except, when I finally get back to the lodge, after dropping off my truckload at the dump, Patti comes tearing out of the office waving her arms.

  “We’ve got a problem,” she says breathlessly when I get out from behind the wheel. “Your guests have stranded their boat on a rock on the far shore.” She points out over the water, where I can only just make out the aluminum hull of one of my rentals and one person appearing to stand on the water, waving their arms frantically. I know the rock he’s standing on. I had a near encounter with it when I first moved out here. It’s large, about ten feet across, and almost invisible, just under the surface when the water is high with the spring runoff. It’s the reason I dropped three buoys to mark the spot. Buoys I can usually spot from here, but that for some reason I can’t find them now.

  “Why didn’t you call?”

  “I tried, but it went to voicemail,” she replies, irritated.

  My hand automatically reaches for the phone in my pocket when I remember I left it in the truck while I was on the roof. I reach through the window and snatch it off the console, looking at the screen. Five missed calls, all from my own office.

  For some reason that makes me even more annoyed with my new neighbour. Business before anything else, and already that woman is messing with my otherwise good judgement.

  I immediately start walking in the direction of the small dock, where my own boat is tied off, Patti trying her best to keep up.

  “I couldn’t get your boat started,” she pants.

  “You couldn’t steer a boat in the open ocean; what the hell were you thinking? You better not have flooded the engine.”

  “You’re an asshole, Riordan Doyle. A class A asshole.”

  She’s right. I am an asshole, taking it out on her. I’m pissed at myself for dropping the ball, for getting distracted by a blue-haired, blue-eyed city girl with endless curves, who has no goddamn place being up here by herself in the wilderness. Playing the goddamn knight in shining armour to a damsel who seems to favour distress. No gratitude either, so I’m done with that.

  Patti doesn’t do boats, unless someone else is driving and it’s moving at trolling speed. I know that.

  “Sorry, girl,” I mutter, as I climb aboard and mentally cross my fingers she hasn’t drowned the engine with her attempts to get it running, but Patti’s already stomping off. Luckily the engine kicks right up.

  About an hour later, after I plucked Bishop Junior and Senior off the rock, flipped and bailed their boat, and towed it back to the lodge, I go in search of Patti and the first aid kit. Bishop Senior, Adam, cut his leg when he was tossed on impact, and both men are soaked to the core and shivering. The sun is hot, but the water is still freezing. It’ll take until July for it to warm up a bit.

  “We’ll pay for the damage to your boat,” the older Bishop says once he’s patched up, covered with a blanket and warming up in the sun outside the office.

  “Like hell we will,” the younger one argues. “That rock should’ve been marked. We should get you checked out in a hospital.”

  He turns from his father to me, looking at me accusingly.

  “I’m a lawyer. I could sue you for damages,” he spouts, and I have to work hard to keep a straight face.

  “Oh be quiet, Jamie. You’re barely a lawyer, you just spent your first month articling at my firm,” Adam scoffs at his son. “Besides, I’m perfectly fine, it’s just a cut, and if I recall correctly, I warned you to stay away from any flat spots on the water. You’re the one who insisted you wanted to get under the cover of the shoreline there. Now sit your ass down, have a beer, and consider it a lesson learned.”

  “I’ll get the beer,” I offer, trying not to chuckle at the way young Jamie is put in his place. I didn’t even have to lift a finger.

  Patti is waiting for me in the kitchen.

  “Do you have any idea where those buoys have gone?” I ask her, as I dive into the fridge for some cold ones.

  “Not a clue. I never even noticed they were gone until I saw those two on the rock.”

  I grab four bottles, close the door, and turn to find Patti standing much closer. I hand her one of the beers.

  “You didn’t notice anyone out there earlier?”

  She takes a swig of her beer and tilts her head. “Nope. I wasn’t really paying attention.”

  I respond with a grunt and move to step around her when her hand on my arm stops me.

  “Want me to stick around tonight?”

  Fuck.

  I knew it wouldn’t be easy. Even with her assurances after one lapse in judgement at the end of last season. We’d winter prepped the cabins and cleaned the lodge, and had been shooting the shit over a beer by a bonfire, when once again, even though I’d promised myself not to go there anymore, I didn’t put the brakes on. I was mellow, I was looking forward to yet another lonely winter, and I let my dick do the talking. It was a mistake. Especially after seeing her reaction the first time I suggested the occasional benefits that came with our friendship might not be a good idea.

  I immediately tried to do damage control the next morning, by carefully suggesting this had been a one-off, and that our friendship was too valuable to risk. However, I knew from the brief flash of hurt on her face, that it might not be that simple. During the winter I didn’t see Patti that much, only bumped into her a few times in town, but it had been awkward.

  Then when she showed up a few weeks ago, ready to get the lodge ready for season, things had felt pretty normal again.

  Until now.

  “Patti...” I caution as gently as I can. “I just don’t think...”

  “You know what? You’re right,” she chirps with a big fake smile on her face, making me feel like an ass. “I’ve got shit to do at home anyway.”

  Without another word, she slams her bottle on the counter and rushes past me, out the door.

  Son of a bitch.

  I seem to be doing well with the ladies today.

  FOUR

  Both bashful and brass; a walking, talking, tempting contradiction.

  Leelo

  Drunk is not a good state to be in when you’re painting.

  I never heard Doyle leave yesterday, because by that time I was blotto on my back on the floor. Thank God for drop cloths because I never would’ve gotten the paint stain out. As it is, my tee and cargo pants are relegated to work clothing only, given they were drenched in the slate grey paint I’d been in the process of rolling on my living room wall when I passed out.

  Hungover is really no better.

  Today I’m working on room three, and every time I bend down to dip my roller in the paint tray, I feel like my head’s going burst open like an overripe melon. But I have a dwindling savings account, which is why I’m scrambling to get at least one room half-decent so I can generate some income, and there is no one but me to do the work. Hence, I am working hard to ignore the pounding headache.

  I’m also ignoring the fact that a complete stranger fixed my roof yesterday, and while he was being a typical redneck, male chauvinist pig jerkwad, he also saved me a thousand bucks. And I never thanked him.

  I’m rethinking my decision to steer away from coffee this morning. It’s supposed to be dehydrating, and so I chose a large bottle of water instead, but the lack of caffeine is not helping. I step back, look at what I’ve done so far, and am disappointingly unimpressed with my work thus far. Resolutely dropping the roller in the tray, I move toward the open door to get a pot of coffee going, when I’m startled by a man leaning against a car parked right outside.

  This is the real estate guy. The one who accosted me in the parking lot of the grocery store in town a couple of days ago, in much the same way. Once again, the guy’s hair is almost as shiny as his car and he’s wearing that much too bright smile. This morning, the total effect i
s almost too much for my delicate senses and I involuntarily squint my eyes against the glean.

  “Morning!” he calls out, a little too loud, when I take a tentative step out the door. I flinch at the sound of his voice, but don’t stop moving, my attention now focused on the cardboard tray holding two large coffees in his hand.

  I mumble an unintelligible response as I bring the cup I snatched from his hand to my lips. My foggy brain is trying to remember his name as I enjoy the first jolt of that warm nectar.

  “I have milk and sugar here,” he says, pointing at the tray he set down on the hood of his car. “Figured I’d let you doctor your own.”

  I’m good. I prefer mine black and strong enough to put hair on my chest, so I just wave my hand at him dismissively.

  “Kyle Thompson.”

  My brain finally produces the name he gave me then, along with his business card that probably still lived in the deep recesses of my purse. At the time, he seemed to know I was the new owner of the Whitefish Motel. He even knew my name, which had been a little disconcerting, and I couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable.

  “Ah wonderful,” he smiles even bigger. “I see I’ve left an impression. Good.”

  He seems very pleased with himself and I don’t have the heart to tell him otherwise. Besides, I should at least be civil to the man who brings me coffee in my hour of need.

  Yet I was far from civil with my neighbour, who not only rescued me from the roof in the middle of a thunderstorm, but was back here yesterday fixing said roof. Guilt dulls the enjoyment of the black nectar that is just now hitting my bloodstream.

  “What brings you here?” I ask, shuffling over to the lone picnic table I discovered in the back and dragged to the front, so I could sit in the sun to take my breaks.

  Kyle follows me and I almost laugh out loud when he pulls an actual handkerchief out of his pocket and tries to wipe the dirt from the bench before he sits down across from me.

  “Just checking in with a new neighbour, Lilith.” Again with the neighbour. Apparently once you get north of Sudbury, everyone within a fifty kilometre radius becomes one. “Making sure there’s nothing you need—nothing you need help with?”