Page 135 of Pull Me Under

The boat shed is cold when I unlock it, but it warms quickly once I get moving. I’ve been working on the hull restoration – painstaking work, scraping away decades of neglect to find the good wood underneath, sanding and sealing.

I lose myself in the rhythm of it. Scrape, assess, mark. Scrape, assess, mark. Restoration work is meditative, if you can allow your mind to wander. Taking a wreck and making her whole again is almost healing.

The metaphor isn’t lost on me.

I’m so focused that I don’t hear the footsteps until they’re right outside the door. Then a familiar voice:

‘You know, most people take a day off after a dramatic dinner declaration.’

I spin around, heart leaping. Jude’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, that half-smile playing at his lips. His hair is still damp from the sea, curling at the edges, and there’s a dark smudge of – oil? fish guts? – on his jaw.

He’s never looked better.

‘Some of us have work to do,’ I say, but I’m already crossing the distance between us. ‘Good catch?’

‘Decent.’ He catches my waist as I reach him, pulling me in. ‘Missed you, though.’

‘You were gone four hours.’

‘Long four hours.’

I laugh – actually giggle, which is mortifying – and he grins like he’s winning.

‘You’ve got a smudge on your face,’ I say, reaching up to wipe the mark from his jaw.

‘Attractive, isn’t it?’

‘Devastating. All the girls must swoon.’

‘Only one girl I’m interested in swooning.’ His hands tighten on my waist. ‘Come outside.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Because I want to kiss you properly and this shed smells like dead fish and turpentine.’

‘Romance isn’t dead.’

‘Never said I was romantic.’ But he’s already tugging me toward the door, out into the bright midday sun.

The harbour is busy. Of course it is – it’s nearly noon, and this is a working village. Bill and Frankie are at the fish shack, sorting the morning’s catch. A cluster of tourists are taking photos of the boats. And there, down by the Mary Jane, Reuben Harding is coiling rope with such aggressive efficiency it’s suggesting he’s imagining it’s someone’s neck.

Jude follows my gaze. His jaw tightens, then deliberately relaxes.

‘Let him look,’ he says. Quiet. Certain.

And then he kisses me.

Not a peck. Not a quick brush of lips that could be explained away as friendly. A proper kiss, his hand sliding into my hair, his mouth warm and sure against mine. It’s a statement kiss, and I’m all over that statement. I’m painting my name across it in neon letters.

I’m dimly aware of someone wolf-whistling – probably Frankie, the old gossip – and the murmur of voices from the tourists. But mostly I’m aware of Jude. The taste of him, salt and tea. The way his thumb traces circles on my hip. The steady thrum of his heart against my chest.

When we finally break apart, I’m breathless.

‘Well,’ I manage. ‘That was⁠—’

‘Long overdue.’

I laugh, and he’s laughing too, and for a moment everything is perfect. The sun on the water. His hands on my waist. The whole village watching us and neither of us caring.