Page 130 of Pull Me Under

The kitchen is warm and bright and full of people. Cal’s at the stove, checking a dish that smells heavily influenced by parsley. Tom’s leaning against the counter with a beer, mid-story.

And there she is: Brynn.

She’s sitting at the table next to Morgan, a glass of wine in her hand and a flush on her cheeks. And she’s wearing a dress.

A dress.

My brain stalls like a flooded engine.

I’ve seen Brynn Trelawney in overalls with grease up to her elbows. In a drysuit hauling me out of the Atlantic. In my stolen flannel shirt and nothing else, padding barefoot across her freezing kitchen at dawn. I’ve seen her soaked in rain, caked in engine oil, covered in fibreglass dust, and once – memorably – with half a fuel injector in her hair.

I have never seen her in a dress.

It’s dark green, soft cotton, and it does things to her curves that I’m not equipped to process. Not revealing, but it follows her in ways her dark blue, grease-covered overalls don’t. I mean, I’m all for the overalls, in fact they’re becoming a kink of mine, but a dress. My brain can’t compute. The cardigan has slipped off one shoulder, showing the line of her collarbone, the freckle at the base of her throat I’ve only ever seen in lamplight. Her hair’s down, still slightly damp, curling at the ends. Make-up? Brynn Trelawney is wearing mascara. I only know because her eyes look darker, wider, and my brain short-circuits like a blown fuse.

She looks like herself. Just a version of herself she’s been keeping hidden, the way I keep everything hidden, and seeing it here – in public, in company, offered casually to a room full of people who aren’t me – catastrophically damages my resolve.

I’m staring like a goddamn freak.

Morgan is leaning in, whispering a line that makes her smile, and I have a brief, vivid fantasy about throwing him in the harbour.

‘Jude!’ Cal turns from the stove, not even bothering to hide his amusement. ‘Decided to take me up on that invitation after all.’

‘Seemed rude not to,’ I manage, which is impressive given that my entire vocabulary has been reduced to green dress, green dress, green dress.

Tom snorts into his beer.

Brynn’s eyes find mine across the room. I watch the surprise flicker through them, and what comes next – I’m going to tell myself it looks a goddamn lot like relief.

Or maybe that’s wishful thinking. Maybe I’m just a sad bastard who showed up uninvited to glare at Cal’s brother.

‘Morgan.’ I nod at him. Civil. Mature. Not at all like I want to drag Brynn out of here by the hand. ‘Heard you were back.’

Morgan stands, easy smile in place, and offers his hand. He’s taller than I remember. Better dressed. He’s put-together in a way that makes me feel like a half-drowned fisherman by comparison.

Which, to be fair, I usually am.

‘Jude, good to see you.’ His handshake is firm. Friendly. Annoyingly likeable. ‘Been a while.’

‘Few years.’

‘Three, I think? That Christmas when Cal dragged us all carol singing and you fell in the harbour.’

‘I was pushed.’ And he knows damn well I was pushed because the bastard was the one to do it.

‘You were drunk.’

‘Same thing.’

Morgan laughs. Even his laugh is charming. I hate him a little bit. Just a little.

‘What are you doing back?’ I ask, not because I really care, but because it’s polite, and I can feel Brynn’s gaze burning through me, and it’s making me want to die.

‘Just heading down to Amber Cove,’ he shrugs with his answer, like it’s no big deal, ‘I’ve got a big deal going down there.’

It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes. Amber Cove is the exact opposite of Sea Salt Bay. The other end of Cornwall, it’s golden sands and money. Lots of money. I don’t know what to say but thankfully I’m relieved of finding words by Cassie.

‘Sit down, sit down,’ she says, bustling past, pressing a beer into my hand. ‘Dinner’s almost ready. Jude, you can go next to—’ She pauses, eyes flicking between me and Brynn and the only empty chair, which is across the table from both of them. ‘Actually, Tom, shift up. Let Jude sit next to Brynn.’