Chapter 19 #3
‘Some days,’ she says. ‘When the light comes through the kitchen window and I can hear the sea from the bedroom and the list has one more thing crossed off.’ A pause.
‘Other days I’m waiting for someone to tell me I don’t belong here.
That it was a mistake. That the cottage was meant for someone else and they’d like me to leave now. ’
‘Nobody’s going to tell you that.’
‘Your father would. In a heartbeat.’
I can’t argue. So I don’t.
‘This is heavy,’ she says, with a small laugh. ‘Weren’t you supposed to be impressing me with your culinary skills?’
‘Right. Yes. Prepare to be moderately impressed.’
‘Such confidence.’
‘I contain multitudes.’
She laughs. Real. It’s the best fucking sound.
I add wine to the pan – it hisses and steams. Basil goes in last, torn rather than cut, and the kitchen fills with the smell of food that might, just might, be edible.
‘That smells amazing,’ Brynn admits.
‘Don’t sound so surprised.’ Although frankly I’m as surprised as hell. If this turns out well, I’m buying Nina a bouquet of flowers.
I drain the pasta – fresh, not dried, because I listened to Nina – and toss it with the sauce. Divide it between two plates. Not pretty. But real.
A squeeze of lemon at the end. For brightness. For Peter.
‘Moment of truth.’
She twirls pasta, takes a bite. Chews slowly. I hold my breath.
‘Well?’
‘It’s…’ Pause. Deliberately torturing me. ‘Actually good. Really good.’
‘You don’t have to sound so shocked.’
‘I’m recalibrating my entire understanding of you, Harding. Give me a moment.’
We eat. We talk. Easy things first – Cassie’s baby preparations, Cal’s obsessive kit checks, Dot’s crossword empire.
Then harder things. I tell her about the Truro run – the new account, Mira’s face when she tasted the mackerel, the comparison sheets I make at the kitchen table every Sunday night – and she listens with an attention that makes my throat tight.
‘You’re good at it,’ she says. ‘The business side. You know that, right?’
I huff a snort, while at the same time trying not to preen for more titbits of approval like a sad desperate fuck. ‘It’s just numbers.’
‘It’s not just numbers and you know it. It’s relationships. It’s knowing what people need before they ask. It’s—’ She gestures with her fork. ‘It’s the same thing you do with everyone. You read people. You pay attention.’
I don’t know what to say. Nobody’s ever framed it as a strength.
I reach across the table. Take her hand. Her fingers are cold, and they tremble slightly against mine.
‘Brynn—’
‘Don’t.’ She shakes her head. ‘Don’t say meaningful shit. I can’t handle meaningful right now.’
‘What can you handle?’
She looks at our hands. Then up at me. Those dark eyes catching the lamplight, warm and gold-flecked and seeing everything.
‘This,’ she says. ‘Just this. For now.’
I stand. Move around the table. She turns on her chair, tilting her head back as I step between her knees.
‘This is a bad idea,’ she murmurs.
‘Probably.’
‘Our families—’
‘I know.’
‘I have – there are things I haven’t told you. Things that could—’
‘I know.’
‘You don’t know.’ Her voice cracks. ‘You can’t—’
‘Brynn.’ I cup her face in my hands. Her skin is warm, flushed. ‘I know there’s history. I know there are things we haven’t dealt with. But right now, I don’t care about any of that. Right now I just—’
‘Just what?’
‘Just want to kiss you. Properly. Not because we’re fighting, or angry, or trying to prove right from wrong, or up from down or black from white. Just because—’
‘Because?’
‘Because you’re the first person who’s ever made the boring bits sound like they matter.’
She kisses me.
Not like before. Not that desperate crash of mouths and teeth and anger. This is slow. Deliberate. Her hands fisting in my jumper, pulling me closer. My fingers sliding into her hair, still damp, still smelling of whatever grows on the cliff path.
She tastes like wine and tomatoes, warmth and sweetness.
I could drown in this. In her.
She pulls back just enough to breathe. ‘Jude—’
My pager goes off.
No. No, no, no—
I fumble for it, already knowing, already hating what I’m going to see.
Weather warning. All crew to station. Storm incoming. Possible vessel in distress off Pencarrow Point.
I stare at her. Frozen. The planes of her face, the curve of her cheek, the upturn of her nose, the scattering of faint freckles along her cheekbones.
I stare at her.
Brynn’s pager buzzes a second later. She checks it, and her expression shifts from soft to focused in a heartbeat.
‘We’re both being called out,’ she says.
‘You don’t have to—’
‘I’m crew.’ She’s already standing, already moving towards the door. ‘That’s how it works.’
‘Brynn—’
She stops. Turns. Looks at me with those fierce, complicated eyes.
‘We’ll finish this,’ she says. ‘After. When we get back.’
‘Promise?’
She crosses back in three quick strides. Kisses me once, hard and fast, her hand gripping the back of my neck.
‘Promise,’ she breathes against my mouth.
And then we’re both running out the door, into the night, towards the boathouse and the waiting boat and whatever the sea has for us.