Chapter 10
Zane
The entire village smells like fried dough and wood smoke.
The breeze tugs the scent down the promenade, through banners strung with navy and gold and the seawall’s crowd.
Helena’s arm is tucked into mine, as it has been ever since we left the house, as if she’s afraid she’ll lose her way in the labyrinth of laughing families and tourists.
I try not to overthink the pressure of her bicep against mine or the pattern of her breath: light and a little reckless.
Her hair is up today, a defiant, practical knot, and the wind keeps catching the loose strands and tangling them in the embroidery of her festival blouse.
She looks more like a university girl than high society’s daughter.
It must be deliberate.
At first, I walk beside her like it’s a duty shift.
Watch the crowd. Count possible threats.
Steer her away from open flames and unpredictable terriers.
But it’s a summer festival, and no one in Seamuse Village could recognize Helena in the wild if they tried.
She’s just another face in the crowd—albeit one I can’t stop watching.
We reach the first row of booths, the first of which is a candy-striped tent housing a pyramid of fudge trays. The display is almost military in precision. Helena makes a beeline for the maple pecan samples, and I follow.
The vendor catches us surveying his wares and grins. “Bit early for dessert, isn’t it?”
Helena doesn’t miss a beat. “Never too early for a bribe,” she says, with a look that means to implicate me.
I shake my head. “She skipped breakfast,” I stage-whisper. “I’m trying to keep her upright for at least two more hours.”
The vendor gives a sharp laugh and slices off a wedge of sea salt caramel. “On the house, for the lady. Need the energy to survive the festival.”
Helena takes the sample, but there’s a flicker in her eyes—a glint I’ve started to see more and more since she invited me into the king-sized bed.
It reminds me of the start of my assignment to guard her, when we’d talk until two in the morning in her parents’ kitchen, neither of us admitting we’re awake on purpose.
Helena pushes the sample toward my mouth before I can protest. “Go on, Zane.”
My name sounds lighter on her lips than I ever manage it.
I let her feed me the fudge. It’s good—ridiculously good. It’s short-circuiting my brain. What was I going to say next?
Helena smiles, clearly proud of herself.
I can only nod, mouth full, before I manage, “We’re coming back on the way out.”
We drift from booth to booth. Helena is tireless. She wants to see everything, touch every handknit scarf and ask every potter how long they’ve lived in Cornwall. The sheer curiosity of her makes me forget to scan the rooftops.
There are moments when I almost convince myself we’re on a date.
The single most dangerous thing I can think.
The music starts around noon, from a stage set up on the green at the far end of the promenade.
It’s a local band—average age seventeen, average volume catastrophic.
Helena drags me closer, weaving through the crowd until we’re pressed up against the crash barrier.
I stand behind her, my arms braced on either side so the knot of tipsy teens doesn’t jostle her too much.
For the first few songs, Helena bobs her head in time, self-conscious, but by the third number, she’s outright dancing.
Not a shred of rhythm but plenty of enthusiasm.
I look down and realize I’m smiling, which is not standard protocol for me.
She spins and tugs at my wrist. “You’re allowed to move, you know.”
“I’m a bodyguard, not a backup dancer,” I protest.
Her gaze is skeptical. “You’re both.”
The sun is overhead, and I can feel myself relaxing in increments—until the fifth or sixth song, when Helena’s fingers lace with mine without warning, pulling my hand across her waist. It’s instinct to step closer, to shield her.
But her back is warm against my chest, and all I can think about is how badly I want to rest my chin on her shoulder and forget about the entire concept of professional boundaries.
The song ends. The crowd scatters for more beer, and I’m still holding her hand. Helena lets the moment stretch a few heartbeats before letting go.
She gives me a sly look. “You’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
She grins and keeps walking, but something’s shifted. Maybe it’s the heat. Yes, it’s definitely the heat and not the way the festival is engineered to make you feel like the rules are on hold. But I can’t remember the last time I was this off-balance—and enjoying it.
We duck into a quieter lane, where the aroma of barbecue is so thick, I can taste smoke on my tongue. Helena points at a battered sign reading “CARNIVAL GAMES” with an arrow.
“You’ve never seen me throw a dart,” she warns.
“I’ve been in your house when you cooked,” I say. “I believe you’re dangerous.”
She elbows me, and we arrive at a row of battered stands containing balloon darts, a ring toss, and something involving throwing beanbags at bottles of pop.
The games attendant behind the counter is half-asleep, sunglasses perched on the end of his nose.
Helena pays for a handful of darts and lines up, tongue peeking out in concentration.
I expect her to miss spectacularly. She doesn’t. She pops three balloons in a row. The games attendant gives a low whistle before letting her pick from the wall of prizes.
It’s all the usual—everything from teddy bears to plastic dinosaurs. But Helena scans the wall and then, without hesitation, points at the monstrous blue narwhal the size of a duffel bag.
The games attendant hands it over, and she drops it into my arms.
“Security deposit,” she deadpans.
I roll my eyes, but the stuffed narwhal is even softer than it looks, and it’s impossible not to smile. “I’ll keep it safe.”
She grins, and there’s a rare, unguarded joy in her face. I tuck the narwhal under one arm, and we continue down the line, side by side.
I wait until we’re away from the crowd, tucked into a shady corner with a view of the ocean, before I finally say what’s been burning at the back of my tongue all morning.
“I owe you an apology,” I say.
Helena stops, narrowing her eyes. “For what?”
“For how I acted the other day. For being an ass about Cole and Lucas. For treating you like you were a problem to solve instead of a—” I pause, trying to find the word that doesn’t sound like a confession. “Person who knows what she wants.”
She looks at me, and her expression is soft, curious. “You’re just doing your job.”
“That’s the thing,” I say. “It’s not my job to—I mean, yes, I’m supposed to keep you safe. But I’m not supposed to…” I have no idea how to finish the sentence without sounding pathetic.
“Get jealous?” she supplies quietly.
The word hangs between us, suspended, awkward and bright as a flare.
“I’m sorry,” I nearly whisper.
Helena tugs at a stray lock of hair, twisting it around her finger. “I didn’t mind.”
I snort. “You’re just saying that because you beat me at darts.”
She smacks my shoulder, but I catch her hand before she can pull away. It’s meant to be a joke, a moment of levity, but her fingers curl around mine and suddenly, the air feels thick.
“We’re good?” I ask.
She nods, and for a split second, I consider just pulling her in and kissing her right there, ocean breeze and all. But she lets go, stepping back, and the moment breaks.
“We’re good,” she says.
A bell sounds from the main square, rung by the old guy in the Union Jack hat who MCs every event in Seamuse. It’s the signal for the mid-afternoon parade. The crowd surges toward the center of town.
As we head that way, I spot Lucas threading through the crowd, his stride quick and eyes bright. He waves when he sees us, and his face splits into a massive grin. He’s wearing board shorts and a festival T-shirt, and his hair is sun-bleached from too many shifts on the lifeguard tower.
“Hey, you made it!” Lucas hugs Helena in greeting, and then me, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He pretends not to notice the narwhal, which is already turning heads.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Helena says, breathless from laughing.
A second later, Cole appears holding two iced coffees and looking like he’s spent the morning baking—his arms are dusted with flour and there’s a patch of cinnamon on his jaw.
“Am I late?” Cole asks, panic in his voice.
Helena laughs and hands him one of the extra fudge squares she’d been hoarding.
“Never,” she says. “We were just about to find somewhere to watch the parade.”
The four of us stake out a spot on a low stone wall, facing the street.
The parade is small but earnest. Local primary school kids in papier-maché animal heads lead it off, followed by a pipe band that’s clearly just the same three people switching instruments.
Then there’s a float advertising the annual chili cook-off.
Helena hoots and claps for every single entry, even the ones that are, objectively, tragic.
Lucas leans in. “Are you okay? You look knackered.”
“I’m good.” Better now that I’ve apologized.
Lucas nods, satisfied, and shifts his attention to Helena, who’s trying to get a selfie with the narwhal. He obliges, ducking his head into frame, and they both nearly drop the thing onto the street.
Cole passes me a coffee. I accept it with a nod of thanks.
We sit and watch the parade wind past as the sun drifts lower.
I keep expecting the old tension—the impulse to scan the crowd, the readiness for trouble—but it never materializes.
I’m hyper-aware of the three people next to me, the sounds of their voices, and the way their laughter feels like a secret only I get to keep.
But, blissfully, I’m aware of nothing else.
As the last float goes by, Helena leans onto my shoulder. “Are you still on duty?”
I take a moment, then rest my hand lightly over hers. “I think maybe I’m off the clock.”
She smiles. “Good.”
We wander as a group for the rest of the afternoon. Lucas insists on showing off at the strength test and nearly breaks the bell. Cole leads us to the bakery’s booth for fresh pasties, then spends twenty minutes consulting with an old lady about the merits of lard versus butter.
Helena orchestrates a “group portrait” with the narwhal front and center, and I don’t complain, even when she insists on a second, “silly face” version.
As the sun edges toward the horizon, we find ourselves back by the bandstand, where the local musicians are setting up for the evening show. The four of us sit on the grass as the sounds of tuning guitars and laughing kids blend into the background.
I take a deep breath, then turn to Cole, clearing my throat. “Hey. About before… I should have called you. Or at least not”—I gesture helplessly—“acted like you were the enemy.”
Cole’s brown eyes are warm. He shrugs. “You were doing your job. I’m glad she’s got someone like you in her corner.”
I look down, embarrassed. “Still. I shouldn’t have been such a prick about it.”
Cole grins. “Apology accepted. I’ve got thick skin.” He flexes, mock-serious.
Helena snorts into her lemonade.
We settle in to listen as the band starts up.
Helena nestles against my side. Lucas and Cole sprawl close enough to touch.
The sky bleeds orange and pink, and the harbor lights come on in flickering constellations.
For the first time in ages, I let myself believe this could last longer than a summer. This peace.
When the last song ends and the crowd rises to head home, I linger.
Helena stands and wraps Cole and Lucas in hugs in turn. “It was so great running into you two tonight.”
They both grin like idiots. Lucas gently takes her hand and kisses the back of it. “Hope to see you again soon, Helena.”
She blushes and giggles. “I’ll be back on the beach tomorrow as long as the stormy forecast is incorrect.”
Cole keeps his hands to himself. It comes off as shy, but I catch the tension in his forearms. This isn’t shyness, it’s restraint.
Noted.
Lucas and Cole head off to their own homes while Helena tucks the massive narwhale under her arms.
She turns to me, blue eyes shining in the dusk. “Race you home?” Then she takes off.
It takes me almost a full second to realize my client is running away from me before I hop into action. I could catch up to her easily, but I let her go.
It’s me she’s coming home to.