Page 126 of Pull Me Under

The man grins. My gaze drops to his bare feet, the rolled-up edge of dark jeans.

‘Hell no. Younger, better, infinitely more interesting, and you must be Brynn. I’ve heard all about you.’

He holds out a hand and I place my hand in his, letting him pull me over the threshold.

Chapter Twenty-Five

JUDE

The boat shed is locked.

Why wouldn’t it be? The universe has a sense of humour and I’m the punchline.

I check my phone. Half five. She usually works later than this – I’ve walked past enough times to notice, which isn’t stalking, it’s just … observation. Situational awareness.

A situational awareness thing you can develop when you’re a spineless prick who can’t just walk into The Ship with a woman on his arm and let the village talk.

Christ.

I shove my hands in my pockets and stare at the padlock like if it would only open it might just solve all the problems of the universe. I’m standing at Brynn’s shed like a lovesick teenager, hoping she’ll materialise through the salt-warped doors so I can – what? Apologise for being an emotional disaster? Tell her I’m sorry I kept her hidden away like a dirty secret when the truth is the complete bloody opposite?

The irony isn’t lost on me. I face-down twelve-foot swells in a force 9. I’ve pulled men from the water when the Atlantic was doing its level best to swallow us all. But telling Brynn Trelawney that I want to stop sneaking around?

Terrifying.

I turn away from the shed, kicking at a loose stone. It skitters across the harbour cobbles and disappears into the water with a satisfying plop.

Right. Fine. I’ll go to the cottage. I’ll knock on her door like a normal human being and I’ll say⁠—

‘Jude!’

I turn. Cal’s striding up from the lifeboat station, Tom falling into step beside him. They’re both in civvies – Cal in that ancient, waxed jacket he refuses to retire, Tom in a jacket that screams it should be summer already.

I arrange my face into as close to a neutral expression as I can manage. Which might look like a stuffed turbot. ‘Cal. Tom.’

‘You look cheerful,’ Tom observes. He’s got that glint in his eye that usually precedes mockery.

‘Just thinking.’

‘Dangerous hobby for you,’ Cal says, but there’s warmth underneath it. He stops a few feet away, squinting at the locked boat shed behind me. ‘Looking for someone?’

‘No.’

‘Right.’ Cal’s mouth twitches. ‘You often stand outside locked buildings at sunset?’

‘Fresh air.’

Tom snorts. Cal’s smirk deepens.

I change the subject before this gets worse. ‘You two off somewhere?’

‘Dinner at ours,’ Cal says. ‘Tom’s coming. Morgan’s back from Edinburgh⁠—’

I blink. ‘Morgan’s back?’

‘Got in yesterday. Cassie’s doing a welcome home thing, you know how she is. Mum’s beside herself, obviously – her baby boy home at last.’ Cal rolls his eyes, but fondly. ‘He’s staying a few weeks apparently. Something about reassessing priorities. Quarter-life crisis, I reckon.’

Morgan Morrison. Cal’s younger brother, who swanned off to Edinburgh after uni to work in marine insurance or yacht brokerage or whatever it is posh maritime types do when they don’t actually want to get their hands dirty. I haven’t seen him in – what, two years? Three?