Because of You

Prologue

Skye walked along the coast path and pulled in a deep breath of salt air, the scent of the sea mingling with that of the peaty earth below her. If it were possible, Skye would bottle that scent, and keep it on hand to sniff whenever she needed to be transported to Eastercraig.

Far below the steep cliffs and tumbling rocks came the whoosh of the tide rolling in and out. It was the only sound, save for the occasional high-pitched call of an oystercatcher. Out in the open air, Skye felt freer, better than she had all day. Her jaw unclenched, her shoulders dropped, the fog in her head cleared.

Almost immediately, thoughts of that morning began to press themselves against her hard-fought serenity. She halted, balling up her fingers and toes, forcing all thoughts of what had happened that morning to the back of her mind. She was heading to the rock. Once she was there, she would feel much better.

She began to walk again, more briskly now, her tread light on the grass beneath her shoes. A few more ups and downs of the coast path, and a sharp right turn, and she would be there.

The rock was really rocks, plural, the uppermost point in a collection of huge crags that jagged their way into the sea. When she used to visit Eastercraig as a teenager, this was where Skye would come to shake off the ringing of her father’s voice in her ears, the disappointment in his tone. The rock was far away from the troubles of home, a place of safety. At her lowest points, she would stand on it, close her eyes and scream at the ocean. Scream out the frustration, the anger and fear.

Off the main path forked a less well-trodden track, and Skye now took that. It was less beaten underfoot, but she knew every dip in the ground, each stony lump and bump. She slowed her pace as she headed downhill, her body singing with the anticipation of getting there. But as the rock came in sight, she stopped dead.

Somebody was already there.

Skye stared at the man sitting on her rock. Her rock. She’d spent so much time on it in years gone by, she considered it almost as her possession. Yet the saying went that possession was nine-tenths of the law (although studying law had taught her this wasn’t strictly true), and this man looked unlikely to move.

He was sitting statue-like, almost Rodin’s The Thinker , with his spine curled over and his chin resting on his fist, taking up her favourite hiding place.

A fierce gust pushed past Skye, whipping her hair up until it stood on end, chilling her face and bringing up goosebumps on her arms. Not that she cared. Skye didn’t come to this spot for the weather. She came here to be alone. She had laced up her trainers and walked over a mile from Eastercraig to enjoy this splendid isolation, where only the most intrepid dog walker, runner or hiker disturbed your solitude.

This guy must have had the same idea and beaten her to it.

Standing watching him felt voyeuristic, and Skye was uncomfortably aware that he had no idea she was there. She wasn’t certain how to introduce her presence, or whether if she should at all. He was clearly trying to avoid contact with other people as much as she was. Perhaps it was best if she headed back to town and come back later.

She was already turning, when the man unclenched his hand and moved it up his face so his forehead rested in it, then let out a huge growl, which crescendoed to a roar.

Blimey! The sound echoed in Skye’s heart. She tried to take a step back, but she couldn’t. She was transfixed. Growl over, the man turned around. His eyes widened briefly, then hardened, and Skye’s cheeks burned under his glare.

He stood stock still. Skye had to stop herself from gasping out loud. She was no longer aware of the awkwardness of the situation, distracted in so many ways by the sight of him. Even though his irritation was obvious, he was good-looking to the point of . . . well, distraction.

Tall, and of a slim build, he had a tanned, oval face with an aquiline nose and defined cheekbones. Eyes: an unreal icy-blue. Hair: flaxen. Flaxen? When was the last time she’d used that word? Had she ever used that word? And smartly dressed, in dark jeans and a grey henley top, beneath which she could detect the outline of strong shoulders.

She moved her eyes back up to his face, where his scowl snapped her out of her reverie. And yet, she couldn’t help but keep staring at him.

‘Hi,’ she managed, unable to articulate herself further.

He looked at her for a moment longer, the piercing intensity of his gaze making Skye’s pulse beat loud and fast — before sidestepping her and storming back towards the coast path.

Frozen to the spot, Skye gaped at the empty space where he had stood.

‘Wow,’ she whispered.