Chapter 14 #2
I keep my body limp, keep my eyes closed, keep pretending I’m unconscious while my heart hammers against my ribs because her hand is on my chest and the last time she touched me like this we were both considerably less clothed and I need to think about fish quotas immediately.
Wave dynamics. Eight-second period. Amplitude modulation. The thermocline boundary between—
‘Securing casualty for extraction,’ she calls out, and then she’s hauling me up – using leverage and the platform edge, exactly the way she’s supposed to – and I’m out of the water, on my back, staring up at the clouds hanging low in the sky while she kneels beside me and starts the mock assessment.
‘Airway clear. Breathing normal. Checking for—’
‘You can stop.’ Cal’s voice cuts in. ‘That’s sufficient.’
Brynn sits back on her heels, breathing hard. Water drips from her hair onto my chest.
Her eyes meet mine.
For a moment – just a moment – neither of us moves.
‘Nice form,’ I say, and immediately want to drown myself. Nice form? What am I, a gymnastics judge?
But she just blinks, and the moment breaks.
‘Told you.’ She stands, offers me a hand. ‘Grandfather taught me.’
I take her hand. Her grip is strong, her palm calloused from work, and she pulls me to my feet with enough force that I end up closer to her than strictly necessary.
We stand there, both dripping, neither stepping back.
‘So,’ she says, voice carefully neutral. ‘Did I pass?’
‘You passed.’
‘Was there ever any doubt?’
‘Plenty.’
‘Liar.’
She’s smirking now, that infuriating half-smile that makes me want to either kiss her or throw her back in the pool.
‘Cal,’ I call out, not breaking eye contact. ‘She’s qualified. I’m signing off.’
‘Good.’ Cal’s already making notes on his clipboard. ‘Welcome to the crew, Trelawney. First training session’s Monday evening, six o’clock. Don’t be late.’
‘I won’t.’
She turns away, heading for the locker room, and I absolutely do not watch her go.
I do. Of course I do.
Cal appears beside me, following my gaze with an expression that’s far too knowing.
‘Professional assessment?’ he asks mildly.
‘Completely professional.’
‘Mm.’ He doesn’t sound convinced. ‘Get changed. You look like you’re about to catch pneumonia.’
By the time I’ve showered and changed, Brynn’s already back outside, standing by the harbour wall with her bag over her shoulder and her wet hair starting to curl in the salt air. She’s looking out at the water, arms crossed.
I should walk past. Should nod, keep it civil, go home to deal with whatever mood Dad’s in.
Instead, I stop.
‘Monday, then.’
She turns. ‘Monday.’
‘Training is intense. Cal doesn’t go easy on new recruits.’
‘I can handle it.’
‘I know.’ The words come out before I can think better of them. ‘You’re good. With the knots, the rescue drill – all of it. You’re good.’
She blinks, clearly not expecting a compliment. For a moment, the hard edges around her eyes soften. Then she shutters it away.
‘Thanks.’
‘Don’t let it go to your head.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ She tilts her head. ‘Was that hard for you? Admitting I’m competent?’
‘Agonising. I may need therapy.’
‘I’m sure the village has a support group for men whose egos have been bruised by women who are better at their jobs.’
‘It meets Tuesdays. Dot runs it. Very cathartic.’
She laughs – short, surprised, like I’ve caught her off guard. It transforms her face completely, softens all those sharp edges, and I know I’m in huge trouble.
Don’t. Don’t do this.
‘You should laugh more,’ I say, because apparently I’ve lost all control of my mouth.
She goes still. ‘Should I.’
Beautiful. Disarming. The kind of sound I could get addicted to.
‘Forget it.’
The silence that follows is heavy. We’re standing too close – when did that happen? – and the wind off the harbour carries salt and diesel and, underneath it, cedar.
‘About what happened,’ I start.
‘It didn’t happen.’ Her voice is firm. Final. But there’s a hitch in it. ‘Whatever you think happened in that shed – it didn’t. We’re colleagues now. That’s all.’
‘Right. Colleagues.’
Neither of us moves.
She’s close enough that I can see the pulse jumping in her throat. Can see the way her breath has gone slightly shallow.
‘This can’t happen,’ she says, but she hasn’t moved away.
‘I know.’
‘Your father would—’
‘Let’s not talk about my father.’
‘Jude—’
‘I know.’ I force myself to step back. To put distance between us before I do close the gap and slip into catastrophically stupid. ‘Colleagues. That’s all.’
The loss of proximity feels physical. She wraps her arms around herself – cold now, or missing the heat. I don’t ask.
‘Get some sleep,’ I say. ‘Training’s brutal when you’re exhausted.’
‘Speaking from experience?’
‘I haven’t slept properly in the best part of two weeks.’
The admission hangs between us. Nearly three weeks. Since she drove back into Sea Salt Bay with a holdall and a Land Rover and a chip on her shoulder the size of Cornwall. I watch her do the maths.
‘That’s not my problem,’ she says quietly.
‘I know.’
‘Whatever’s keeping you up at night—’
‘Is definitely not thoughts of you. Obviously.’
She stares at me. I stare back.
‘Obviously,’ she echoes, and her voice cracks.
‘Go home, Trelawney.’
‘Stop telling me what to do, Harding.’
‘Colleagues don’t boss each other around?’
‘Not unless they want a spanner to the head.’
‘Noted.’ I almost smile. ‘See you Monday.’
She nods once, sharp, and walks away. I watch her until she rounds the corner towards the shed – her shed, Peter’s shed, the shed where I lost every rational thought I’ve ever had – and then I turn for home.
I make it about twenty steps before I glance back.
She’s glancing back too.
We both look away at the same time. Like teenagers. Like idiots.
Colleagues.
Right.
My phone buzzes. Kit.
How’s everything? Dad okay? Business surviving without me?
I stare at the message. Think about Dad this morning, calling me by the wrong name, reaching for Kit even when Kit’s not there.
Think about the crew being understaffed and the business accounts I need to reconcile and the woman I can’t stop wanting walking away from me like she’s running from a fire.
Then I type back: All fine. Stop worrying. Go enjoy Broadway.
One major lie in seven words. A new personal record.
I pocket the phone and walk faster.
Behind me, somewhere in the village, Brynn Trelawney is probably telling herself the same lies I am. That it meant nothing. That we can work together without combusting. That the heat between us is just friction from old grudges and proximity.
Maybe if we both keep saying it, it’ll become true.
I guess we’ll find out Monday.