Chapter 25 #2
The Morrisons’ cottage sits halfway up the hill, windows glowing warm against the darkening sky.
I can hear laughter from inside. Music. The kind of easy domesticity that makes me get this empty draining sensation if I think about it too long.
Like I used to when I was with Kit and Jess, after they had Maisie and I’d stand there on the outside, always stuck like the odd man out.
Don’t think about it.
I knock before I can lose my nerve.
Cassie opens the door, her bump preceding her by a good few inches now. She takes one look at me – clean shirt, damp hair, expression that probably screams desperate – and her face breaks into a knowing grin.
‘Jude Harding. What a surprise.’
‘Cal said there was room for one more.’
‘Did he now.’ She steps back, waving me in. ‘Kitchen’s through the back. You know the way.’
I do know the way. I’ve been here a hundred times. But tonight my feet feel clumsy, my pulse too fast.
The kitchen is warm and bright and full of people. Cal’s at the stove, checking a dish that smells heavily influenced by parsley. Tom’s leaning against the counter with a beer, mid-story.
And there she is: Brynn.
She’s sitting at the table next to Morgan, a glass of wine in her hand and a flush on her cheeks. And she’s wearing a dress.
A dress.
My brain stalls like a flooded engine.
I’ve seen Brynn Trelawney in overalls with grease up to her elbows.
In a drysuit hauling me out of the Atlantic.
In my stolen flannel shirt and nothing else, padding barefoot across her freezing kitchen at dawn.
I’ve seen her soaked in rain, caked in engine oil, covered in fibreglass dust, and once – memorably – with half a fuel injector in her hair.
I have never seen her in a dress.
It’s dark green, soft cotton, and it does things to her curves that I’m not equipped to process.
Not revealing, but it follows her in ways her dark blue, grease-covered overalls don’t.
I mean, I’m all for the overalls, in fact they’re becoming a kink of mine, but a dress.
My brain can’t compute. The cardigan has slipped off one shoulder, showing the line of her collarbone, the freckle at the base of her throat I’ve only ever seen in lamplight.
Her hair’s down, still slightly damp, curling at the ends.
Make-up? Brynn Trelawney is wearing mascara.
I only know because her eyes look darker, wider, and my brain short-circuits like a blown fuse.
She looks like herself. Just a version of herself she’s been keeping hidden, the way I keep everything hidden, and seeing it here – in public, in company, offered casually to a room full of people who aren’t me – catastrophically damages my resolve.
I’m staring like a goddamn freak.
Morgan is leaning in, whispering a line that makes her smile, and I have a brief, vivid fantasy about throwing him in the harbour.
‘Jude!’ Cal turns from the stove, not even bothering to hide his amusement. ‘Decided to take me up on that invitation after all.’
‘Seemed rude not to,’ I manage, which is impressive given that my entire vocabulary has been reduced to green dress, green dress, green dress.
Tom snorts into his beer.
Brynn’s eyes find mine across the room. I watch the surprise flicker through them, and what comes next – I’m going to tell myself it looks a goddamn lot like relief.
Or maybe that’s wishful thinking. Maybe I’m just a sad bastard who showed up uninvited to glare at Cal’s brother.
‘Morgan.’ I nod at him. Civil. Mature. Not at all like I want to drag Brynn out of here by the hand. ‘Heard you were back.’
Morgan stands, easy smile in place, and offers his hand. He’s taller than I remember. Better dressed. He’s put-together in a way that makes me feel like a half-drowned fisherman by comparison.
Which, to be fair, I usually am.
‘Jude, good to see you.’ His handshake is firm. Friendly. Annoyingly likeable. ‘Been a while.’
‘Few years.’
‘Three, I think? That Christmas when Cal dragged us all carol singing and you fell in the harbour.’
‘I was pushed.’ And he knows damn well I was pushed because the bastard was the one to do it.
‘You were drunk.’
‘Same thing.’
Morgan laughs. Even his laugh is charming. I hate him a little bit. Just a little.
‘What are you doing back?’ I ask, not because I really care, but because it’s polite, and I can feel Brynn’s gaze burning through me, and it’s making me want to die.
‘Just heading down to Amber Cove,’ he shrugs with his answer, like it’s no big deal, ‘I’ve got a big deal going down there.’
It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes. Amber Cove is the exact opposite of Sea Salt Bay. The other end of Cornwall, it’s golden sands and money. Lots of money. I don’t know what to say but thankfully I’m relieved of finding words by Cassie.
‘Sit down, sit down,’ she says, bustling past, pressing a beer into my hand.
‘Dinner’s almost ready. Jude, you can go next to—’ She pauses, eyes flicking between me and Brynn and the only empty chair, which is across the table from both of them.
‘Actually, Tom, shift up. Let Jude sit next to Brynn.’
Tom raises an eyebrow but moves without comment. Traitor. He knows exactly what Cassie’s doing, and he’s enjoying every second of it.
I lower myself into the chair beside her. Close enough to catch her scent – floral with hints of layers I’m too dumb to label. Close enough that our elbows almost brush.
‘Hi,’ she says, gaze slightly shadowed so I can’t get a read on her.
‘Hi.’
‘Didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘Makes two of us.’
Her mouth twitches. ‘Spontaneous decision?’
‘Something like that.’
Under the table, her knee presses against mine. Just for a second. A question.
I press back. I’m here. I came.
Morgan leans forward, completely oblivious to the silent conversation happening six inches from him. ‘So, Brynn, you were saying about the restoration project? I’d love to hear more.’
‘Oh.’ Brynn blinks, turning back to him. ‘Right. Yes. The original clinker design – I’m trying to preserve as much as possible, but some of the planking is beyond saving, so it’s about finding the balance between authenticity and…’
She keeps talking. Morgan keeps nodding, asking intelligent questions, being genuinely bloody interested. Because of course he is. Morgan Morrison doesn’t have a jealous bone in his body, because Morgan Morrison has never had to fight for anything in his life.
I stare at my beer. Take a long drink. Try not to look like I’m counting every time Morgan makes her laugh.
‘You all right there, Jude?’ Tom asks from across the table, shit-eating grin firmly in place.
‘Fine.’
‘You’re holding that bottle like you’re trying to strangle it.’
I loosen my grip. Slightly.
Cal serves dinner – fish pie, golden and bubbling – and the conversation shifts. Easier topics. Village gossip. The upcoming regatta. Whether Ayo’s going to retire or whether he’ll have to be carried out of The Ship feet first.
But I’m only half listening. I’m watching Brynn push food around her plate. Watching the way her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes when Morgan compliments the restoration work. Watching her steal glances at me when she thinks no one’s looking.
She’s not interested in him.
The realisation hits me somewhere under my ribs. She’s being polite, being friendly, but she’s not interested.
My heart thuds.
She’s here because she was invited, because she’s trying to build a life in this village.
‘So, Jude.’ Morgan’s voice cuts through my thoughts. ‘Cal says you’re acting deputy while Kit’s away. Must be a lot of pressure.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘He’s being modest,’ Brynn says, and I puff up at the defence in her voice. ‘He’s brilliant at it. The whole crew trusts him.’
Morgan nods, impressed. ‘And you two work together? On the lifeboat?’
There’s a pause. A loaded one.
‘We do,’ Brynn says carefully.
‘Must be intense. All those rescues, life-or-death situations.’ Morgan takes a sip of wine, thoughtful. ‘Creates a bond, I imagine.’
‘You could say that,’ Tom mutters, and Cassie kicks him under the table.
I speak. This is the moment. The door is right there, wide open, and all I have to do is walk through it.
But the words stick in my throat. Years of family history. Dad’s face when I asked about the Trelawneys. The way he still can’t say my name half the time.
Brynn’s knee presses against mine again. Harder this time. Almost impatient.
Say something, that pressure says. I’m right here. Just say it.