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And covered in tattoos.
The length of his arms, his lean legs, a few crawling up the side of his neck.
Archer Vincent was a walking piece of art.
Tea sucked in a breath, holding it as Nan reached through the gap and handed Archer the paper. He took a step back and unfolded it. The mask on his face twitched as he worked his jaw, reading the sheet in his hand.
She tried to examine all of the new features on the boy she once knew. His hair was shorter, but she couldn’t tell how much with the flat-brim on his head. His wardrobe had undergone a serious upgrade, from baseball jerseys to soft, plain cotton T-shirts and smart navy board shorts that showed off his lean thighs—and a sea of tattoos. She couldn’t see his eyes, not with the way he was avoiding hers.
He nodded and folded up the sheet, handing it back to Nan. “All set.”
Before either of them could say anything, Archer spun around and jogged down the porch steps, then made his way toward Cabin A.
“I must have forgotten to tell you…” Nan started. “Archer is now the Wild Pines’s manager. He’s been the one making all of these rules.”
Tea was unconvinced that her grandmother “forgot” to tell her, but she kept her mouth shut, watching as he swung open the door to what was presumably now his cabin, and escaped inside.
She’d had a feeling she might run into him this summer; maybe in passing if he visited his parents. But she had no idea that she would be dealing with him all summer. She wondered if it was possible to go an entire three months avoiding Archer completely.
Chapter 4
Archer
“Archer, please give me something to do, I’m begging you.”
“Six feet, Rhonda.”
Rhonda mumbled an apology and stepped out of the fishing cabin, still holding the door, likely waiting for Archer to step outside. But he was determined to finish cleaning up the inside of it after a still-yet-to-be-identified resident gutted their fish and didn’t bother cleaning up yesterday, leaving the place smelling as lovely as the last four times it happened. Joel Vanderberg was the one to find it—again—and he had no qualms about knocking on Archer’s door early in the morning, reminding him that it was his job to clean it up, and his job to catch the culprit.
It was the first topic of discussion for the owners’ meeting in three weeks.
“Archer,” Rhonda continued, still holding the door. Still not leaving. “Can you get your head out of your ass and please put me to work?”
“My head is not in my ass,” he grumbled, scrubbing the counter raw. The tiny shack was definitely going to need a fresh coat of seal if this kept happening.
“Oh really? A certain resident at Cabin B hasn’t made you all moody?”
“Low blow.”
“I’ll keep dishing them out until you give me a job.”
He swore under his breath, then slapped the rag on the counter and stepped out of the shack. “Why the insistence on helping me today? You were adamant about not moving when I asked for your help cleaning the fire pit four nights ago. And we both know the real culprit behind all of those melted plastic chocolate wrappers.”
Rhonda lifted her cap and scratched her head. “Come on, Arch. My kids insisted it wasn’t them, and if I went and cleaned them up knowing it absolutely was, it would have sent a message.”
“So you sent me to do it?”
She looked ashamed. “Would it make you feel better if I called both of my sons little assholes?”
He forced himself not to smirk. “Maybe.”
She sighed. “Steph wants me to work out with her. I love my wife, Archer, I do. But I would really rather not.”
“And your solution is chores?”
“Sounds better than lifting fifteen pounders.”
Lifting weights sounded a lot more fun than trying to attack his sticky-note wall of hell, but touching a piece of gym equipment was a pipe dream for Archer at this point. The occasional run and his nightly pushup routine was the only exercise he could manage with his chaotic schedule. Or lack of schedule, since he was still struggling to figure out his routine beyond his morning pour-over coffee.
