Page 134 of Pull Me Under

So I do.

Chapter Twenty-Six

BRYNN

Iwake to an empty bed and a body that feels like it’s been thoroughly, deliciously used.

The sheets smell like him. Salt and soap with delicious hints of warmth underneath – skin, sleep, Jude. I stretch, feeling the pleasant ache in muscles I’d forgotten I had, and press my face into the pillow where his head was.

God. Look at yourself, Trelawney. You’re hugging a pillow like a lovesick teenager.

But I’m smiling. Can’t help it. It’s a smile that is starting deep inside and spreading outwards until my whole damn face is aching with it.

Last night. The dinner. Morgan’s confused face when Jude walked in looking like he was ready to commit murder over fish pie. The way Jude’s hand found mine under the table and didn’t let go.

I’m not scared of an old rivalry.

I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. The cottage is quiet – and I can’t stop staring at the ceiling and grinning. I’m actually embarrassing myself.

Jude’s already at sea. He mentioned it last night, somewhere between the third kiss and the moment we stopped talking altogether. Early start. The Mary Jane needed to go out with the tide.

I should be annoyed that he left without waking me. Instead, I’m picturing him trying to extract himself from my bed without disturbing me, probably stubbing his toe on the doorframe and swearing under his breath.

The thought makes me laugh out loud. Jude Harding, jealous of Morgan Morrison. Jude Harding, who crashed a family dinner because he couldn’t stand the thought of someone else charming me over Cal’s cooking.

As if Morgan ever stood a chance.

I lie there for another few minutes, luxuriating in the unfamiliar feeling of … what is this? Happiness? Contentment? Hope?

Don’t get ahead of yourself. One dinner declaration doesn’t make everything rosy.

But it’s a start. It’s more than I had yesterday.

Eventually, the guilt of wasting daylight gets me moving. I shower – trying not to think too hard about the marks Jude left on my collarbone, failing spectacularly – and pad downstairs in yesterday’s jumper and a pair of ancient leggings.

Tea first. Then the boat shed.

But my eyes catch on the box in the corner of the sitting room. Grandad’s things. The letters I’ve been slowly working through, trying to piece together a picture of the man my father was before he became a ghost.

The boat shed can wait.

I settle into the armchair with my tea, pulling the box onto my lap. The familiar smell rises up – old paper, dust, an old floral scent that could be aged lavender or might just be memory.

These letters have become a strange type of comfort. Not because they paint my father in a flattering light – they don’t. He was weak in ways I’m only beginning to understand. But they’re a connection. A thread back to a man I barely knew, who was lost long before he actually died.

I pull out the bundle I’ve been working through. His handwriting is cramped, difficult to read. Half-finished thoughts. Apologies that never quite land.

I know I failed you, one says. I know I wasn’t the father you deserved. But please believe me when I say I loved her. I loved her more than I’ve ever loved anything, and losing her broke something in me that I couldn’t fix.

Her. Always her. Never a name.

Who was she?

I shake my head, setting the letters aside. This is a puzzle for another day. Right now, I have a boat to work on and a man to see when he gets back from the sea.

The walk to the harbour is golden. Late morning light slanting across the water, the air carrying that particular Cornish clarity that makes everything feel sharper, more real. The clocks have changed – British Summer Time has crept stealthily in – and soon the days will stretch long and lazy, the sun not setting until nine or later.

I used to love those endless summer evenings as a child. Running along the beach until my legs ached, Grandad calling me in for supper when the light finally started to fade. The memory sits warm and cherished, bittersweet.