Chapter 26 #2
He doesn’t answer immediately. Just stands there, breathing hard, the holdall slipping from his shoulder to land with a thump on the doorstep.
‘Not under my roof.’ His voice is raw. ‘Not under my roof, he said. Like I’m seventeen and sneaking out to meet a girl, not a grown man who—’ He stops.
Swallows. ‘I told him I’m done hiding. Done pretending.
And he said if I want to shame this family by carrying on with a Trelawney, I can do it somewhere else. ’
‘Jude…’
‘So I left.’ A humourless laugh. ‘Packed a bag and walked out. Nearly thirty years old and I’ve just been kicked out of my childhood home for kissing a girl in public.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Don’t.’ He shakes his head. ‘Don’t apologise for this. He’s the one who—’ Another hard breath. ‘Can I stay? Just for tonight. I’ll figure out other plans tomorrow, but—’
‘Of course you can stay.’ I step back, pulling the door wider. ‘Get inside. I’ll make tea. Or something stronger, if you need it.’
‘Something stronger. Definitely something stronger.’
I find the bottle of whisky I’ve been saving for emergencies – this qualifies – and pour us both generous measures. We end up on the sofa, his thigh pressed against mine, the silence stretching comfortable between us.
‘He’s always been like this,’ Jude says eventually. ‘Controlling. Rigid. But I thought—’ He laughs, bitter. ‘I don’t know what I thought. That he’d come around? That he’d choose me over a stupid grudge?’
‘Maybe he still will. Give him time.’
‘You don’t know him.’ Jude takes a long drink. ‘Once he’s made up his mind, that’s it. Set in stone. He decided years ago that Trelawneys were the enemy, and nothing’s going to change that.’
‘But why?’ The question I’ve been asking since I arrived. ‘What did we actually do? It can’t just be business rivalry – not for this level of hatred.’
Jude shrugs. ‘I’ve asked. Believe me, I’ve asked. He just shuts down. Says I don’t need to know, that some things are better left buried.’
‘My grandad was the same.’ I curl my feet underneath me, leaning into his warmth. ‘Never talked about why we left. Just … packed us up one day and that was it. Twenty years of silence.’
‘Families and their bloody secrets.’
‘Cheers to that.’
We clink glasses. The whisky burns going down, settling warm in my stomach.
‘Are you hungry?’ I ask. ‘I could make something. You know I’m no culinary wizard, but—’
‘I could eat.’ He glances at me sideways, and I don’t think he’s talking about food. ‘But I’m rubbish at cooking, as you are well aware.’
‘I find that hard to believe. You live alone with your dad – someone must cook.’ I’m fascinated by how these two men co-exist.
‘Fish, fish and more fish. The occasional fry-up when we’re feeling ambitious.
’ His mouth twitches. ‘Mum was the cook in our family. After she left, Dad just … stopped trying. Jess taught Kit, although he’s heavy on the garlic, not that he’ll admit it’—he laughs at a memory—‘but me, well, food is fuel, I never got the whole “it’s got to taste good” thing. ’
I stand, heading for the kitchen. ‘Come on then. I’ll teach you.’
‘Teach me what?’
‘We can make that sauce you cooked the night of the rescue. Sorry, I mean, you cooked while following Nina’s step-by-step instructions.’ I grin at him over my shoulder.
Jude’s expression folds into a grimace that makes me laugh, the sound so free it takes me by surprise.
‘It will be fine. It’s all about the tasting while you cook.’
‘Nina did not mention tasting when she was telling me what to make you.’
He follows me, leaning against the counter while I rummage through the fridge. I’ve got onions, garlic, tinned tomatoes, some sad-looking bacon that’s still within date. It’ll do.
‘Chop these,’ I say, handing him the onions. ‘Small pieces. And try not to lose a finger.’
‘Your faith in me is touching.’
But he takes the knife, and I watch him frown in concentration as he attempts to dice an onion. It’s endearing. This capable man who faces down Atlantic storms, undone by root vegetables.
‘Smaller,’ I say.
‘They’re small.’
‘Those are chunks, not diced.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘About three centimetres.’
He mutters under his breath, but adjusts the size of the onion. I hide my smile and start on the garlic.
We work in companionable silence for a while until the kitchen fills with the smell of frying onions, and the sizzle of bacon. I’m feeling warm and oozy and I genuinely think I might be coming down with something.
‘Your mum,’ I say as I stir the sauce. ‘What was she like? I’ve got this vague memory of her – auburn hair, I think? – but I was so young when we left.’
Jude’s quiet for a moment. I don’t push.
‘Helen Harding,’ he says finally. ‘The woman who couldn’t wait to escape small-town life.’
His voice is as bitter as the darkest of chocolate – more like a wound that’s scarred over but never fully healed.
‘That’s what Dad always said, anyway. That she was too good for Sea Salt Bay. Too ambitious. Too restless.’ He reaches past me for his whisky glass, takes a drink ‘One day she was there, making breakfast, and the next…’ He shrugs. ‘Gone.’
‘She didn’t say goodbye?’
‘Not to us.’ His jaw tightens. ‘Dad said she’d found something better. Someone better. That we weren’t enough to make her stay.’
I ache for the nine-year-old boy he was. The one who woke up to find his mother vanished.
‘Do you believe that? That you weren’t enough?’
‘I did. For a long time.’ He sets the glass down, stares at it.
‘Kit still does, I think. It’s why he’s so …
intense. So afraid of people leaving. When Jess got sick – his wife – I watched him fall apart.
Not just because he was losing her, but because it confirmed everything he already believed.
That people leave. That love isn’t enough to make anyone stay. ’
‘But he has Isla now.’
Jude’s face softens. ‘Yeah. He does. And she’s – God, she’s amazing for him.’ A pause. ‘I used to think Kit was the lucky one. Finally got the girl, his first love, got the life. But watching them … I think I understand now. It’s not luck. It’s choosing someone every day. Even when it’s hard.’
‘Is that what you want?’ My voice is barely above a whisper. ‘Someone who chooses you?’
He turns to look at me. Those green eyes, so like the sea outside, are raw and unguarded.
‘I think I’ve already found her.’
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe we both do. But suddenly his mouth is on mine, his hands in my hair, and the pasta sauce is burning and neither of us cares.
‘Stove,’ I manage against his lips.
‘Right.’ He reaches back blindly, turns off the burner. ‘Sorted.’ His words are tiny breaths against my skin and they set me on fire.
‘We should—’
‘Later.’ He’s already steering me toward the stairs. ‘Dinner can wait.’
The house feels different as we climb, like it’s holding its breath with us. My pulse is everywhere, in my throat, my wrists, the hollow just beneath my ribs. His hand is warm at my back, steady, certain, like he’s done this a thousand times, like he knows exactly where I end and he begins.
In the bedroom, the light is low and gold, late evening slipping through the curtains, dust drifting in a half-remembered dance. He stops just long enough to look at me. Really look. And it undoes me more than the kiss ever could.
‘Brynn,’ he says and it’s a promise that makes my heartbeat race.
‘I’m here,’ I whisper, though my voice trembles.
His forehead rests against mine for a second, both of us breathing the same air, and I feel it, that fragile, terrifying edge, the one where this stops being just want and becomes a need. A need that could wreck me.
Then he kisses me again, slower this time, like he’s learning me, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of my mouth.
His tongue is firm and warm, reaching into me, seeking me out, and I tilt my mouth to let him in further.
My hands find the hem of his shirt, the fabric soft, and I tug him closer because I need less space, not more. Always less.
We move together, clumsy at first, laughing under our breath when elbows knock as we strip off each other’s clothes.
His belt from his jeans lands on my big toe, making me jump, and it breaks the tension just enough, lets the air back in.
But the pull between us doesn’t ease. It deepens.
Tightens. My body is needy in a way that I’ve never felt, the burn deep down between my thighs, coiling in heat, is on the verge of pain.
His fingers trace my spine, slow and careful, reading secrets within the spaces of my skin and bones.
While I’m shivering, not from cold but from the way he pays attention.
Like I matter. Like every inch of me is worth noticing.
We shift automatically to the bed, my bra still in place, but his knee pressed up into my core which I shamelessly rub myself against.
‘I don’t think I can wait—’ he starts, voice rough.
‘Me neither,’ I say, angling my hips, reaching for him, anchoring him, because I want this, all of it, the mess and the heat and the risk. I don’t need foreplay. I just need him.
Using his hand, he reaches between us, guiding himself into me, inch by delicious inch, until I’m stretched wide, pointing my toes and revelling in the heaviness of my legs.
He drops his mouth to suck my nipple through the lace of my bra and when I arch into him, his arms come under my shoulders, pinning me to his chest so there’s not a slither of space between us.