Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
“I’m not going,” I said to Rick over speakerphone a week later, while packing my room into boxes. A typed list of cleaning jobs, courtesy of my landlady Roma, lay across my duvet.
She’d hated having people live in her flat, but cost-of-living crisis and all that. It affected the retired too.
No job meant no money for rent, and a swift eviction for me.
“You are,” he replied. “Plus, you kind of have no choice, Miss Unhoused.”
I cringed. I hated that word. And I had a choice. Trouble was, the ￡501 left in my bank account would soon be required for something more important than Roma’s come-and-go-prison.
Like food. Or my dignity.
“Then you have to come with me.”
“I’ve got back-to-back meetings and I’m drowning in deadlines like a baby who can’t swim.”
“Ew. Not a good visual.”
“Sorry, Ry. I’d be there if I could. But you’ve got this. Maybe it’s the new beginning you’ve been waiting for. A step in the right direction?”
“Or the punchline to a sick joke.”
“Also possible,” Rick agreed. “But still. You might as well find out, right? No harm done.”
I didn’t know whether I could agree with that.
Plenty of harm had already been done where 6 Bellamy Lane was concerned—the home I still couldn’t say out loud without tasting metal.
But it felt like an itch I needed to scratch.
Call it sick curiosity, but I wanted to know who the hell orchestrated the whole thing.
“It’s all good. I’ve called in reinforcements.”
“Reinforcements? Who?” His voice sharpened.
“Jealous? If you weren’t so busy being a corporate sellout… but you’re clearly too good for me now.”
“Who?” he repeated, urgency level ten.
“None of your business.”
“You don’t have any other friends but me,” he teased.
The spare jab hit me between the ribs. I had some friends. The maintenance of friendships, however, was not my forte.
“Well, now I’m really not going to tell you.”
“I’m sorry,” he groaned. “Tell me. My anxiety needs reassurance you don’t have another BFF.”
“June,” I muttered.
His exhale was pure relief. “June! Man, I thought you meant someone cool.”
“Hey! I’m telling her you said that, and she’s going to—”
“Kick my ass?” Rick interrupted. “All five foot nothing of her. Maybe if she stood on your shoulders…”
Asshole.
I stabbed the red button like my three-year-old niece ending a FaceTime tantrum.
My phone buzzed.
RICK: Still friends?
ME: Course. Just finished talking.
RICK: Sweet.
ME: Dick.
RICK: You love it.
ME: I do.
ME: I can’t do this…
RICK: You can. Now go do it!
ME: Fine. But I still hate you.
RICK: Fine, but I still love you.
ME: Gross. Take it back.
RICK: Never.
ME: Fine. Love you too. Now bugger off.
I caught my reflection in the gold-framed mirror and did the—always denied, but every woman does it—automatic butt-check. Milestone-wise I was a walking disaster, but at least my ass still looked thirty-five going on twenty-five.
Small mercies.
My heart was still racing as I pulled into the petrol station on my way back from Burnish Lawyers’ Wills & Estates Office.
The three-hour drive from London to Glades Bay had done nothing to dispel my anxiety, and the meeting had only increased the frequency of my heart palpitations.
Trevor, the lawyer, had been a stick thin man with hair pulled into a low ponytail.
He wore a black suit at least two sizes too big.
He’d been genuinely excited to walk me through the paperwork, and his unwelcome clapping of my back said that he thought this a splendid gift to celebrate.
“Do you have any idea who would have left it to you? I couldn’t say if I wanted to,” he’d added quickly. “But any ideas?”
His eyebrows rose, and he spoke speedily like he couldn’t wait to hear all of my eager guesses. Well, he was going to be sorely disappointed.
“None. I was actually hoping you could tell me,” I’d said, swivelling side to side on his green office chair.
“Oh, I couldn’t. Confidentiality is the foundation of my entire career.” He gripped the lapels of his jacket and flashed the same cheesy grin from his website photo. His gold tooth caught the light. “You’ve seriously got no clue?”
“Not one,” I said, my lips pursing as I felt a fresh wave of regret for letting Rick talk me into this. “Especially for that address.”
“It is strange, yes,” he said, stroking the greying beard on his chin. I studied him and realised he must dye his hair black. “That’s why I was hoping you knew. You know, the backstory. The angle.” He perched on the long wooden table that filled the middle of his office.
My eyebrows bunched together, and I studied him, silently searching for his intention like I did with everyone I met. I couldn’t read it, so I settled on Trevor being nosy as fuck.
“There were rumours about that place around here,” he added, waving his arms around to show the town. He looked at my blank stare. “After it got shut down, a couple of staff started talking. Pretty bad from the sounds of it. You know anything about it?”
Umm, no thank-you.
This felt like the most unwanted invitation to a trauma confession I’d ever received.
“Nope. Key?” I asked curtly. I wasn’t in the mood for gossip or sentiment.
“The key? Oh! Yes, of course,” he said, running his fingers across his chin again. “Here.”
He fumbled around the piles of now-signed paperwork on his table, his cheeks a darker shade of red.
“Congratulations,” he added and handed me a brown envelope that contained everything I needed.
I half expected it to burn my hand as I accepted it.
Or for its weight to tug me to the ground like the fire of Hades.
Or better still, for a bunch of people to jump out from behind the curtains screaming ‘punked!’ then we’d all laugh and cheer as I punched them in the face.
“Thanks,” I said with the same enthusiasm I gave the gynaecologist.
Trevor tugged at the collar of his shirt. “I hope it all works out for you,” he said, holding the door open. “And if you need anything, don’t be afraid to stop by.”
I nodded at him, got in my crappy old yellow Vitz and somehow ended up at the gas station down the road. By somehow I mean that my oil light lit up and my car demanded its weekly drink.
Anxiety balls clanged around my stomach, banging against each other as I poured another litre of oil into the engine.
The appointment to fix its leak would have to wait now.
Who was I kidding? It was way down the list. Somewhere behind replacing my holey underwear, and paying a qualified human to cut my suffocatingly thick mane of waist-length chestnut hair.
Someone cleared their throat behind me, and my pulse spiked.
I didn’t turn. One hand was braced against the inside of the bonnet, the other steadying the oil bottle as best I could.
I was still wired from the meeting with Trevor, but I really needed every drop of oil to get in.
Men approaching happened every time I stood in front of my car with my bonnet raised—whether I looked capable of what I was doing or not.
I’m still not sure whether I considered it sexism or chivalry.
“Need some help?” a deep baritone asked.
The vibration made something low in my stomach shift. At another time, I might have let him swoop in and feel heroic. Today, I just wanted to get the hell out of this town. I aimed for polite but firm.
“I’m good, thanks,” I replied, still facing the engine.
The wind picked up and blew the back of my green shirt, exposing the tan skin of my lower back. What was with the weather here? It was unseasonably warm for spring, and far hotter than home.
I nearly snorted at the thought. Home. Where was that now?
“How about with that?” the voice asked again as the wind continued to blow up the back of my shirt. The mischief was obvious in his tone.
Creep or hottie, creep or hottie?
I turned around, ready to start a slog of words that in my experience made men run for the nearest exit. These included questioning their masculinity and comparing them to my ex’s.
His brown eyes looked at me through hooded eyelids.
Ooh hottie! Tact change initiated.
I flashed him a smile.
He was wearing fitted black jeans and a black singlet that sat tightly enough to see that he had something pretty impressive to look at underneath. His shaved head made him look tough, but the laugh lines around his chocolate eyes told me otherwise.
Okay, I’ll play.
I sat back on the still-open bonnet of my car, my arms folded under my breasts, pushing them up.
“What makes you think you can help me?” I asked, channelling my best Jessica Rabbit impression. He shrugged effortlessly, the kind of gesture that made my hips twitch.
“Just a guess.”
He looked relaxed, like someone who didn’t try too hard, which was a turn on in my books.
And it had been way too long since I’d let off steam.
His boots stayed planted, his gaze held mine, and his hands rested low in his pockets.
I tried not to follow them but failed miserably.
The corners of his mouth pricked up wider, and two deep dimples appeared in his pale skin.
I forced myself to look back up at his face.
Damn, this dude was steamy.
“Do you live around here?” I asked, gesturing my arm around like Trevor had in the office. This move also worked to let the front of my shirt untuck itself and expose my tan stomach—another genetic thank-you that I never needed to visit a sunbed.
Nothing erased the static in my brain like a stranger’s hands on my naked skin, for exactly as long as I let them stay there.
“Right here,” he said, jerking a thumb behind him.
He took his hands out of his pockets, and I noticed the small two-storey workshop beside the gas station, which I assumed housed an apartment on top.
Okay, that was a little too close. Something about it screamed desperate sex addict, when what I liked my pursuits to scream was empowered sex goddess. And oh god Riley, yes!
“You live there?” I asked as one of his oil-smeared hands rubbed the back of his neck, pulling his singlet up at the front. That was one, two visible abs. Touché.
And yum.
“Yeah. Well, I own it,” he shrugged, seeming less interested in this part of the conversation.
I was a hit it and quit it kind of gal, that ghosted as quick as my last boyfriend.
Perks of living in a big city were anonymity and not having to feel guilty about it. Something in my gut told me that in this small town I’d be running into the owner of the only repair shop again.
I let my eyes sweep over his arms, thick-veined and dusted with oil. Clearly, hands that knew their way around tight corners. I chuckled quietly to myself and made a mental note to text that to Rick later.
“Something funny?” he asked, eyes drifting over me in return. My breath caught.
“Not at all,” I said, letting my eyes do another round of his physique.
Give me strength.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” he asked, stepping towards me now, and I allowed his frame to fill my space. He was closer than a stranger ought to stand.
I looked up at him through my eyelashes, knowing how well the move worked.
“I'm in town on business,” I replied. Then, taking advantage of my earlier thought, I added. “On my way out, do you think you could take a look at my engine?”
Okay, that was totally cringe, but it hit as intended.
He barked a short laugh, dimples flashing. “Love to. Doors open day and night.”
“Good.” I stepped closer and let out a breath, close enough now to smell the oil on his skin. His gaze held mine for a few seconds before he stepped away and turned towards the shop.
“Name’s Jono, by the way,” he called as he walked off.
I dipped my chin in acknowledgement, keeping my name to myself, and slammed the bonnet shut.
“Can you point me towards Bellamy Lane?” I called out, realising I didn’t have enough data for maps.
His smile faltered. Just for a second.
“Two blocks that way, off Main Road.”
“Thanks,” I said, adding a wink he didn’t return.