Chapter 9 #2
Tom hands me a pair of work gloves. ‘You can help us sort. Smaller stones for the pathway restoration, larger ones for the sea wall.’
I get to work, grateful for the physical activity.
My muscles, accustomed to carefully choreographed workout routines with personal trainers, protest at the unfamiliar strain of lifting and carrying.
But there’s something satisfying about the simple labour, the immediate visible progress as the pile shrinks.
‘This weather’s turning to proper mizzle,’ Tom comments after we’ve been working for about an hour.
‘Mizzle?’
‘Not quite mist, not quite drizzle. Mizzle.’ He grins. ‘Cornish speciality.’
I laugh, wiping damp hair from my face. ‘My dialect coach would love that word.’
‘Oh? What’s a dialect coach?’
‘Someone who teaches you how to do this.’ I slip into a perfect Cornish accent, thicker than my natural Sea Salt Bay inflection ever was. ‘Proper job on that rock wall, me ’andsome.’
Tom’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘That’s uncanny.’
‘It’s what they pay me for,’ I say, returning to my normal voice. ‘Or used to, anyway.’
It’s nice just methodically picking up rocks and dropping them again. Strangely satisfying, especially if I consider throwing them onto Marcus Vale’s face.
Boom. Smash.
Yep, very satisfying.
‘You weren’t here before,’ I say, turning to Nina, who is trying to pick up a rock the size of a watermelon. ‘I don’t remember seeing you.’
‘No. My mother is from Sea Salt Bay, dad from Truro, but they moved to Hampshire years ago, when I was a baby. But when my gran died they decided to move back. I came with them even though I was sixteen and about to go to college, so I enrolled in Pencarrow Sixth Form.’
This pulls me up short. ‘And you came with them?’
She shrugs. ‘Well, yeah, why not. Beach, surfers.’ She snorts here. ‘It’s nice. I’m not planning on leaving any time soon.’ She gives me a grin. ‘I think even people who leave come back. Look at Tom here: off he went to university and back he came like a boomerang we can’t outrun.’
I turn to look at Tom, who sticks his tongue out, which seems childishly perfect.
‘Isla,’ Nina says, and I turn back to find her staring at me intently.
‘Yeah?’ I pick another small rock up. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘I just hope you know, whatever you went though, whatever the truth, women will always support you.’
I snort a laugh. ‘Yeah? Tell that to social media.’
She shakes her head. ‘Social media is toxic. Don’t let keyboard warriors who’ve never faced anything worse than a bad latte tell you what’s true.’
‘Not going to argue with you there.’ I chuck the rock, another satisfying crunch against my imaginary Marcus Vale target.
For a moment I see his face above me, his breath on my skin, the beading of sweat across his brow. I feel the ghost of the pat of his hand. That pressured spot as light as a kiss at the base of my spine. Good girl.
Then I lob another rock and it vanishes.
I’m reaching for a larger rock, thinking of the joy I’m going to experience smashing that against Marcus’s imaginary face, when Tom calls, ‘Careful with that one!’
Too late. It slips from my grip, landing with sickening impact directly on my right foot. Pain explodes up my leg, bright and immediate.
‘Fuck!’ The word tears from my throat as I crumple. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’
Nina is beside me instantly. ‘Tom!’
I’m gritting my teeth, folded over, sweat breaking out and sticking to my clothes. I might actually be sick in front of everyone. I become aware of running footsteps, then a familiar voice – deep, authoritative, and definitely not supposed to be here.
‘What happened?’ Kit demands, and I manage to glance up at him. He’s still wearing his thick fishing jumper against the wind, the scent of sea and salt clinging to him as he drops down next to where I’m sprawled in the mud.
‘Rock,’ I manage through gritted teeth. ‘Foot.’
Without hesitation, he kneels beside me, carefully removing my glove to check my fingers. ‘Can you move them?’
I flex my fingers. ‘The rock hit my foot, not my hand.’
His eyes meet mine, a flash of something almost like amusement quickly suppressed. ‘Just checking for shock. Which hand would you use to slap me if I said, “I told you so”?’
‘Both,’ I spit.
Kit is already examining my foot, his touch surprisingly gentle as he eases off Maggie’s boot. I bite my lip against another cry.
‘We need to get that elevated and iced,’ he says after careful prodding. ‘Doesn’t feel broken, but it’ll bruise badly.’
‘I can help her back to the cottage,’ Nina offers, kneeling on my other side. ‘Can you stand?’
Kit shakes his head. ‘That’s three quarters of a mile on uneven ground. She can’t put weight on this.’ He turns to me, expression unreadable. ‘I’ll have to carry you.’
‘I can hop,’ I protest.
‘For nearly a mile? In this?’ He gestures to the increasingly heavy mizzle.
‘You’d fall and break something else.’ Before I can argue further, he’s scooping me up with ridiculous ease, one arm under my knees, the other supporting my back.
I instinctively grab his shoulder to steady myself.
There’s solid muscle beneath the damp of his jumper.
‘I’ve got her,’ Kit tells the others. ‘Tom, can you radio out to Jude and let him know I’m back early from the boat and won’t be there when he docks. I’ll get Cal to help him in.’
‘Honestly, it’s fine—’ I try and cut in, but he just marches us away from the lighthouse, my body cradled against his chest like I weigh nothing.
His pace is steady, his breathing barely affected. The silence stretches uncomfortably between us. My head whirls with a heady mix of Kit Harding scent and excruciating pain.
‘I thought you were out on the boat,’ I finally say, just to break the quiet.
‘I thought you weren’t the type to do manual labour.’ His voice is dry.
‘I thought you weren’t speaking to me.’
‘I thought you’d be gone by now.’
‘I thought fishermen checked weather forecasts.’
‘I thought Hollywood stars had assistants to carry rocks.’
‘I thought small towns were supposed to be friendly.’
Each retort comes quicker than the last, neither of us looking at the other. I can feel the rumble of his words against my side where I’m pressed against his chest.
‘Well,’ I say finally, ‘we were both wrong about a lot of things.’
That silences him for three more steps.
‘Not everything,’ he mutters.
The path narrows, forcing him to adjust his grip. His arms tighten, drawing me closer against him.
‘You can put me down if you need a rest,’ I offer.
‘I’m fine.’ His jaw is set. ‘You’re lighter than you should be.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You’ve lost weight. Too much.’
I bristle. ‘Hollywood does that to you.’
‘Hollywood’s left you half the girl you were,’ he mutters. His eyes remain fixed ahead, but the muscle in his jaw tics.
‘Worried about me, Harding?’ I shoot back.
He merely huffs what could be a laugh.
I turn my face away, watching the sea in the distance rather than the profile I’ve tried so hard to forget. We complete the rest of the journey in silence, the only sounds our breathing and the soft squelch of his boots in the mud.
Salt Cottage appears finally, its windows dark in the grey afternoon light. Kit pushes through the garden gate with his shoulder, navigating the path to the door.
‘Keys?’ he asks.
‘In my pocket.’
He sets me down carefully on the stone bench by the door, keeping one arm around my waist for support while I dig the keys from my jeans. Our faces are close, his beard catching droplets of mizzle that glint like tiny stars. This close, I can see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes.
The lock clicks, and he lifts me again, carrying me inside to the sofa. I sink into the cushions, already missing his warmth despite myself.
Kit kneels before me, carefully examining my foot again. His fingers are calloused but gentle, pressing here and there, watching my reactions.
‘Wiggle your toes,’ he instructs.
I comply, wincing.
‘Good. I really don’t think anything’s broken. But you’re going to have an impressive bruise.’ He looks up at me, still holding my foot. ‘The local hospital is twenty miles away if you want to be sure.’
‘I trust your diagnosis, Dr Harding.’
The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile. ‘Ice. Elevation. Rest. Maybe stay away from manual labour for a while.’
‘Noted.’
His eyes drift towards the ceiling, catching on the water stain that’s grown since my arrival. His expression darkens. ‘That’s getting worse.’
‘It’s on my to-do list.’
‘Right after “drop rocks on foot”.’ The almost-warmth vanishes, replaced by the familiar coolness.
For a moment, I glimpse something raw in his expression before he shutters it away.
His fingers sweep back a lock of my hair and tuck it behind my ear.
There’s a deadly ache settling inside me.
His hand drops and I mourn its loss more than I could have imagined.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. His eyes drop to my mouth.
Then he blinks, steps back. ‘I should go.’ He steps back. ‘Ice. Elevation—’
‘Rest. Yes, doctor. I heard you the first time.’ I try to laugh, but his fingers against my hair have left me on uneven ground.
He nods once, then heads for the door. He pauses with his hand on the knob. ‘The weather will get worse before it clears. Stay off that foot.’
I’m left with the ghost of his touch still clinging to my skin – and the weight of everything we never said pressing heavier than the mizzle outside.