Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
ISLA
I’m already breathless when he lifts me, my back slamming the hallway wall with a thud that rattles a picture frame. The sound is half laugh, half moan, caught between my throat and his mouth.
‘God, Kit,’ I gasp, head falling back as his lips scorch a line down my neck. ‘You’re trying to kill me.’
His teeth graze my skin, a bite sharp enough to sting, and he groans against me. ‘That’d be a hell of a way to go.’
We’ve barely stumbled past the front door. My jumper is shoved high above my bra, one sleeve sliding useless down my arm. His hands are everywhere, greedy, punishing, and I’m clawing at his shirt like it’s the only thing standing between me and air. Buttons ping. Fabric tears. I don’t care.
We can’t stop. Can’t breathe. Every kiss is messy, teeth and tongue, every touch a dare.
He’s hard against me, insistent through his jeans, grinding me into the wall until I swear sparks crackle under my skin.
Never – not on a red carpet, not on set, not anywhere – have I felt more wanted than I do pinned beneath Kit Harding’s weight.
He drops me for a second, just long enough to tear his shirt off and fling it aside, then he’s back, hauling me into his arms like I weigh nothing. ‘Mine,’ he mutters against my mouth, raw and unguarded. ‘I’ve got you, Isla. I’ve fucking got you.’
The way he says it – like it’s a promise carved into bone – nearly undoes me.
By the time he gets us to the bedroom, clothes are history.
He lays me down but doesn’t pause, dragging my knickers down with one rough sweep, his mouth following.
He kisses down my stomach, biting my hip like he can’t decide if he wants to worship or devour.
I arch up, hands tangled in his hair as I lift my hips towards his mouth, a plea torn from me when his tongue finds me and swipes across my clit.
I shatter, quick and helpless, his name spilling from my lips like a prayer, like a curse.
He doesn’t give me time to recover. One breath and he’s moving over me, braced above me, the head of him slick and insistent as he pushes into me in one long, devastating thrust. The sound he makes – a guttural groan, low and broken – rips through me.
‘Look at me,’ he demands, forehead pressed to mine. His eyes hold me wide open as his body takes me, slow at first, then harder, deeper, until the bed thuds against the wall and my nails score red lines down his back.
It’s not careful. It’s not clean. It’s years of loss and longing, of everything we never said, colliding in the dark.
And when I finally come undone beneath him, it’s wild, gasping, raw. His name rips out of me, messy and desperate, and he follows with a groan that sounds like surrender, pulsing inside of me, filling me up in the most basic and territorial way.
For a moment, it’s not just sex.
It’s ruin. It’s reclamation. It’s home.
After, we collapse in a sweaty, tangled heap, limbs knotted, chests heaving. I’m grinning like I’ve had too much wine and not enough sleep. Kit’s face is buried in my neck, laughter vibrating against my skin.
‘I can’t feel my legs,’ I mumble.
He lifts his head, eyes gleaming. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘You’d be correct.’ I sigh, stretching, aching in all the right places. ‘Jesus. You should be illegal.’
He chuckles and rolls to his side, pulling me with him, still wrapped around each other like we forgot how to let go.
‘Do you need to get home for Maisie?’ I ask, giving his arms a squeeze so he knows it’s not a negative, only positive.
His head shakes against the pillow, rocking mine too. His arms are steel-tight. ‘No. I’ll message Jude and ask him to stay.’
‘Kit…’
‘I’m staying, Isla.’ He plants kisses on the back of my neck with his words. ‘But I’m on the boat tomorrow morning, so don’t panic when I’m not here when you wake.’
‘Panic? Me?’
Another kiss.
‘And Isla?’
‘Mm.’
‘Think we need to decorate this room. It smells of damp and your dead grandmother.’
I snort a laugh, and turn to kiss his mouth.
For the first time in months, I close my eyes and just be. There’s a silence in my head I’d forgotten could exist.
Eventually, I must have dozed off, because Kit wakes me when he lets me go to reach for his phone, the glow of the screen illuminating the walls. As soon as the phone is down, he pulls me back in, and I kiss his chest, breathing him in.
Calm.
At last.
It’s been three days since our date. Three days of having my phone off, ignoring my old life, while dipping tentative toes into what could be a new one.
Do I feel guilty that I haven’t spoken to Piper in days?
Yes. Do I need this? The silence of just being in here in a place where I’ve found Isla again, found me? Not Isla Quinn, actress? Yes, I do.
Isla laughs. She loves tea with a biscuit dunked in its warmth until it’s about to break.
She loves the wind in her hair, the bare feel of her skin under the elements.
She loves mismatched woollen layers and gardens wild with roses.
She loves counting pebbles and searching for rocks on the beach and running from a crab with pincers the size of a ruler.
She loves a fisherman with a beard whose grin is devilish, whose sea-blue eyes hold pain and loss but unimaginable hope, and who pushes deep inside of her with unrelenting need, making her gasp and cry and want to shout.
Yes, I like being Isla…
Tonight, though, is the first big test. Bigger than quiz night at The Ship Inn.
I’m cooking.
‘You’re going to hate this,’ I warn, watching Kit eye the pile of chopped vegetables like they might stage a revolution. ‘You can still back out. Order fish and chips. Save us all the trauma.’
Kit leans against the counter, arms crossed, looking far too delicious for a man contemplating a vegetarian dinner.
He even went and bought all the ingredients in a bigger town because there is no way the Pendletons will sell any of this in their shop.
‘I’m not backing out. I’m just trying to understand what that is.
’ He points dubiously at the block of tofu.
‘It’s protein. High in amino acids. Very good for you.’
‘It looks like—’
‘Do not finish that sentence,’ I cut him off, pointing my knife at him. ‘Not with your daughter in the next room.’
His lips twitch, those crinkles around his eyes deepening. ‘I was going to say it looks like feta cheese with an identity crisis.’
‘Liar.’
Maisie bounces into the kitchen, circling us like a curious shark. ‘Is dinner ready yet? I’m starving!’
‘Ten more minutes,’ I promise, trying not to panic at her scrutiny. Cooking for Kit is nerve-wracking enough. Cooking for his miniature food critic is downright terrifying. ‘You can help by setting the table.’
‘Are those mushrooms?’ she asks, wrinkling her nose.
‘Yes, and they’re delicious.’
‘They look like tiny umbrellas for fairies.’
Kit chokes on his beer. ‘That’s … actually accurate.’
I hip-check him. ‘You’re not helping.’
‘I wasn’t trying to,’ he grins, stealing a piece of red pepper from the cutting board. ‘I’m here for moral support and emergency pizza ordering.’
‘I’ve cooked for film crews in the Sahara,’ I inform him, wielding my spatula like a weapon. ‘I think I can handle a stir-fry. Both of you, out of the kitchen before I reconsider this whole thing.’
Kit raises his hands in surrender, but not before his fingers brush the small of my back – a casual touch that sends electricity zipping up my spine.
‘Come on, Maisie. Let’s give the chef some space.’ He lowers his voice to a mock whisper. ‘Just in case we need to call for backup.’
‘I can hear you!’ I call as they retreat to the living room.
Alone in the kitchen, I take a deep breath. It’s just dinner. A simple meal. Not a referendum on whether I can fit into their lives. Not a test of my domestic capabilities versus my red-carpet skills. Not me trying to cook in a kitchen that was painted by another woman.
Except it feels like all of those things.
Fifteen minutes later, I place the finished stir-fry on the table with a flourish that’s only slightly undermined by the tea towel I had to use as an oven mitt.
‘Dinner is served,’ I announce. ‘Vegetable stir-fry with tofu and brown rice. Completely meat-free and, I promise, completely delicious.’
Kit and Maisie exchange a look that can only be described as mutual courage-gathering.
‘It smells really good,’ Maisie offers, climbing into her chair.
‘It does,’ Kit agrees, sounding genuinely surprised. ‘Really good.’
I slide into the chair across from him, trying not to look too anxious as they take their first bites.
My stomach knots with more than just nerves – it’s a quiet kind of desperation.
Not just for them to like the food, but for this to work.
For this tiny, ordinary moment to mean something more.
I’ve spent years performing for cameras and critics, but this feels like the most important scene I’ve ever stepped into.
I don’t want to just pass through this time. I want to belong.
Maisie chews thoughtfully, head tilted. ‘It’s … not terrible.’
‘High praise,’ Kit smirks, taking his own bite. His eyebrows lift. ‘Huh.’
‘“Huh, good,” or, “Huh, I’m mentally calculating how long it’ll take for pizza delivery”?’
‘“Huh, this is actually delicious.”’ He takes another bite, bigger this time. ‘What did you put in this?’
‘Secret recipe.’ I wink at Maisie. ‘Involves fairy dust and a tiny bit of magic.’
‘Is that what they teach you in Hollywood? Cooking with magic?’
‘Among other things. You should see what they taught me about turning frogs into princes.’
Maisie giggles, rice spilling off her fork. ‘Did you have to kiss many frogs?’
Kit suddenly becomes very interested in his food.
‘A few,’ I admit. ‘None of them turned into princes, though.’
‘Lily’s mum has all your movies,’ Maisie says with her mouth half-full. ‘Dad said he didn’t wanna watch, but then he sat on the couch the whole time and didn’t even look at his phone.’