Chapter 18 #3
I should deflect. Retreat to the safety of engine parts and fuel systems.
Instead, I sit.
‘I don’t know what we’re doing,’ I admit. ‘I don’t think either of us does.’
‘That’s usually how it starts.’ Cassie leans back, hands on her belly. ‘Cal and I had no idea what we were doing either. I thought I was going mad, falling for my patient’s husband while she was dying in the next room. Felt like the worst person alive.’
‘What changed?’
‘Melissa, mostly. She sat me down one day – near the end, when she could barely sit up – and she said, That man is going to need someone to love when I’m gone.
And I think you might need someone to love too.
’ Cassie’s voice softens. ‘She gave us permission. To feel what we were feeling. To not be ashamed of it.’
The words hit somewhere deep.
‘That’s a lot to live up to.’
‘It is. Every day.’ She turns those warm eyes on me. ‘But here’s the thing, Brynn. You can’t control when love shows up. You can’t schedule it or make it convenient. It just happens. Usually at the worst possible time, with the worst possible person, in the worst possible circumstances.’
‘That’s not exactly reassuring.’
‘It’s not meant to be. It’s meant to be honest.’ She smiles. ‘Whatever’s happening with you and Jude, and there is, so don’t bother denying it, you can’t outrun it. Trust me. I tried.’
I look towards the boathouse. Jude’s silhouette through the open door – leaning over paperwork with Cal, focused, competent, in his element even if he’d never call it that.
As if he feels my gaze, he looks up. Our eyes meet across the distance.
He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t smile. Just looks.
And a tightness I’ve been holding onto, like a constant within me, loosens.
‘I’m scared,’ I say, still watching him. ‘Of what happens when this gets complicated.’
Cassie shrugs, one hand rubbing small circles on her bump. ‘Who says it has to be?’
‘I’m a Trelawney. Complicated is our thing.’
‘Nina tells me you’ve been good for her,’ Cassie says, shifting tack in that deliberate way. ‘Showing up at the café when the alarm goes off. Sitting with her. Not everyone would do that.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘It’s not nothing. It’s the kind of thing that makes this village work.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘You’re already part of this place, Brynn. Whether you believe it or not.’
Jude turns back to his paperwork. The moment breaks. But a warmth flickers into life, a warmth that wasn’t there before. A crack in the wall I’ve built so carefully around myself.
Cassie pushes herself up with a grunt. ‘Now, I need to pee for the fourteenth time today, and you need to go back to pretending you’re not completely gone for that man.’
‘I’m not—’
‘Sure you’re not.’ She pats my cheek, maternal despite being only a few years older. ‘Come have dinner with us sometime. Cal’s cooking is top tier and I make excellent company.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘Good. See you around, Brynn Trelawney. And for what it’s worth – I’m glad you came back too.’
She waddles off towards the village, one hand on her back, the other waving without looking.
I sit on the crate for a long moment. Sun high, morning chill burned away, harbour sparkling.
Jude emerges from the boathouse, wiping his hands on his jeans. He walks back, and I watch him come – the easy stride, that strand of sandy hair that seems to twist across his forehead.
‘Rotas are sorted,’ he says.
‘Good.’ I don’t ask if we are on the rota together. I’m softening, not losing my mind.
‘Cassie didn’t scare you off?’
‘She tried. I’m resilient.’
He laughs. ‘Yeah. I’m starting to figure that out.’
‘I should get back to Betty,’ I say, not moving.
‘Probably,’ he agrees, also not moving.
‘The fuel system won’t test itself.’
‘Very responsible.’
‘I’m known for my responsibility.’
‘Are you?’
‘No. Not even a little bit.’
He grins. That real grin, the one that transforms his whole face. ‘Dinner,’ he says. ‘Tomorrow night. Let me cook for you.’
‘You cook?’
‘Adequately. I won’t poison you.’ He winces, scrunching those damn freckles. ‘I think.’
‘That’s a low bar.’
‘It’s the bar I’m offering. Take it or leave it.’
I should leave it. Definitely, definitely leave it.
‘Fine,’ I say, because apparently I’m an idiot. ‘Tomorrow night. But if you give me food poisoning, I’m telling everyone you cried during the inspection.’
‘I didn’t cry during the inspection.’
‘They won’t know that.’
‘You’re a menace, Trelawney.’
‘So I’ve been told.’
He’s still grinning as he turns to go. Then stops. ‘One last thing.’
‘Chickening out already?’
‘Can I cook at yours?’
‘Have you seen my place?’
‘I like a challenge.’ His grin is brighter than the sun. I probably hate it and love it in equal amounts.
‘Fine. But I’m warning you – the wallpaper is peeling and there’s rubble behind the sofa.’
‘I’ll survive.’
Somewhere beneath the certainty of disaster, a small and stubborn kindle of hope flickers to life.
It’s only as I watch him walk away with that easy stride of his, hands in pockets, whistling an off-note tune – that I think about why he wants to cook at mine.
Because he still lives at his dad’s.
And Reuben Harding hates me.