Page 115 of One for the Road
The word on his lips was beautiful, but – “Too far away.”
He laughed and our matching grins tangled as he kissed me again. This was quick. No less deep. “I promise to break every speed limit. Here, tread water for a second.” He set my hands on his shoulders, then strained around me to flip the kayak back into place.
And just like that, I realised we’d drifted, the paddle floating at least a hundred yards away. The Lego people on the beach no more than specks in the distance.
“Alistair,” I whispered around the small knot of panic in my throat. “Is this a bad time to admit I can’t swim?”
30
Isla
Isla: Any news?
Alistair: He’s stable. We’re waiting for the medivac helicopter to arrive and fly him to Inverness.
Alistair: I’m so sorry, I’ll be as quick as I can.
Isla: Did I mention Teddy is staying at Heather’s tonight?
Alistair: Even more reason to hurry.
The rest of the morning went like this: a blood vessel almost burst in Alistair’s eye at the revelation of my lack of aquatic proficiency, to which I’d replied he should blame my parents for always saying, “Who needs to swim in Surrey?”
After he’d hauled me back to shore like I was a survivor from theTitanic, we hadn’t even paused to dress before racing to his Land Rover, damp bodies sticking to his leather seats.
True to his word, he’d broken every speed limit . . . by a full two miles per hour. BecauseI can’t fuck you if we’re dead, Lang.
That promise had set off a series of fireworks in my chest.
I’d never been so turned on in my life. I don’t think he had either, if theimpressivelength still straining his wet shorts when we got home was anything to go by.
He’d just parked haphazardly across his immaculate lawn, reaching across the gear stick to give me a savage kiss, when his phone had blared through the cabin.
“Fuck, it’s the emergency line,” he said. “I’m sorry, I have to take it.”
“Of course.”
Then I’d watched his face pale with every passing second.
A farmer had been pinned to a gate by a panicked bull over in Drumfearn. He was in bad shape but conscious when Alistair had left me on my cottage doorstep, promising, “I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“Don’t even worry about me.” I’d batted a hand. “I’ll spend the afternoon baking. Consider it a low-effort attempt to lure you back.”
“Apple pie?”
“If you like.”
“You’re a goddess,” he’d groaned giving me a final kiss, filled with sexual promise.
That washoursago.
What was the saying? A watched pot never boiled. I wondered if that applied to phones too.
I’d distracted myself by taking a shower at Alistair’s, then I’d started cooking an early dinner.
A fifth variation of our apple pie now sat beside the pasta I’d made. The pasta had long cooled, the layer of cheese starting to wrinkle, like a pensioner’s skin before the extensive research on the importance of SPF. The salad I’d thrown together was wilted, the lettuce leaves unable to stand the acidic weight of the lemon and olive oil I’d tossed it in.Trying to impress Alistair as though he didn’t already know I ate microwave meals five nights out of seven.
By seven p.m., my niggle of worry had grown hands and legs and started crawling, stalking me down the hallway as I changed my outfit for the third time.
