the price of her building had attested. Sophie and her mother had debated the location for a long time, and the boardwalk had been their preferred spot. When the old house-turned-boutique became available shortly before her mother’s death, she encouraged Sophie to jump on it.
“I’ve never been to this part of town,” Aiden said. “It’s nice. Quaint.”
“It’s pretty busy on summer days.”
“A great location for your bookshop.”
Sophie observed the entrance of her store with fresh eyes. The two-story building sported weathered, white clapboard siding. A large gray-blue canopy protruded from the building and would shade the entryway on sunny days. Empty flower boxes awaited a flat of fresh petunias, and the spacious porch cried out for Adirondack chairs. The shingled sign, bearing the name of her store, hung from the eaves, unreadable in the dark.
Sophie slipped the key from her purse and unlocked the door. Despite the painkiller in her system, her ankle throbbed from the short walk. Aiden had been right about keeping it elevated.
She opened the door and pushed inside, a musty smell assaulting her nose. The place needed airing out. The beam of Aiden’s flashlight cut across the front two rooms, previously the house’s living room and dining room. Worn beige carpet covered the floors, and walls the color of Pepto Bismol surrounded them.
“Yikes,” Aiden said. “I see why you’re so adamant about painting.”
“It used to be a boutique. The carpet needs to go too. The original wood floor is under it, and from what I’ve seen it looks pretty good. I’ll have to give it a couple coats of polyurethane, but I need to get the walls painted first.” Or rather, he did.
“It’s a nice space, though. Perfect for a bookshop.” He shone the beam at the hallway, which led to two additional rooms on opposite sides. Farther down the hall were a half bath, an office, and the stairwell leading to her living quarters.
“The supplies are over here.” She hobbled to the corner where she’d dropped a heap of hardware store bags and the five-gallon buckets of primer and paint.
“All right.” Aiden opened the deck chair he’d carried in and set it in the middle of the room, then dragged over a five-gallon bucket of paint. “Take a seat and prop up your foot. You can hold the flashlight for me. I’ll have this taped off in no time.”
Pain caused Sophie to stir. She opened her eyes to the sucking sound of a roller laying on paint. The smell of paint fumes hung heavily in the air. The flashlight she’d been holding had been turned off and now lay on her lap. Blue tape outlined all the woodwork in the room. Aiden had propped three flashlights, aimed at the wall he was currently rolling with primer.
She’d fallen asleep again. She checked her phone for the time, ignoring the notifications. It was after midnight.
She must’ve made a sound because Aiden turned around. “Did I wake you?”
She shifted in her chair, finding her muscles stiff. The movement made her ankle throb. “I’m not taking any more of those meds. They knock me out.”
“It’s probably time for more.”
“I’ll take ibuprofen. I can’t afford to sleep my life away.” Her gaze skittered around the room, buoyed by his progress. “You got a lot done. It’s late, though. You must be getting tired.”
“Let me finish rolling the primer. Shouldn’t take but a half hour or so. The hallway and other two rooms are done. Are you good till then?”
“Sure.” Sophie dug in her purse for ibuprofen and popped three of them. Then she got up and hobbled around on her crutches, needing to move her stiff limbs. She noted the gap of paint between the primer and baseboards, an idea forming. Spirits lifting a little, she limped to the bags in the corner, finding a narrow paintbrush.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’ll cut in around the baseboard while you finish rolling.”
She could feel his look of disapproval. “Sophie . . .”
“I’ll scoot along the floor. I’ll be fine.”
“I can see there’s no reasoning with you.”
She lifted her chin. “Nope.”
She set herself up with a flashlight and a pan of primer, then went to work. Her ankle did hurt, but she didn’t have her weight on it, and the pills would kick in soon.
The sound of her brushstrokes joined the slurping of paint being rolled onto the walls, making a satisfying symphony. It felt good to be making progress on her dream. To get on with the work and know they