Page 148 of Pull Me Under

Brynn’s bent over the hull she’s been restoring, her hair escaping from its messy bun, a streak of teak varnish across her jaw. She’s wearing those ancient overalls that should be hideous but somehow aren’t, and she’s frowning at a piece of timber like it’s personally offended her.

‘Morning,’ I say.

She startles. Actually startles, spinning around with the scraper raised like a weapon. Which is – unusual. Brynn isn’t the kind of woman to startle and even if she did, I doubt she’d let it show.

‘Jude.’ She lowers the scraper, pressing a hand to her chest. ‘God. You scared me.’

‘Sorry. Thought you heard me.’

‘I was … distracted.’ She turns back to the boat, picks up the scraper again. ‘Miles away.’

‘Anywhere good?’

‘Just thinking about the hull. There’s more damage to the stern than I thought.’ She runs her hand along the timber, frowning at it. ‘Might need to replace the whole section.’

Boats. She’s talking about boats. I can work with this.

‘Show me.’ I push off from the doorframe and cross toward her.

She shifts to make room, pointing out a section of planking near the waterline. I lean in – ostensibly to look, actually because it puts me close enough to smell her shampoo.

Focus, Harding.

‘See here? The rot’s gone deeper than the surface damage suggested.’ Her fingers trace the grain. ‘I thought I could patch it, but now I’m not sure.’

‘What are the options?’

She looks at me, surprised. ‘You’re actually asking?’

‘I’m actually asking.’

‘Sister a new plank alongside. Reinforce rather than replace. It’s more work, but it saves the original structure.’ She runs her hand along the wood with a tenderness I recognise – it’s how I feel about the Mary Jane, even if I couldn’t fix her to save my life. ‘This wood has been in the water for sixty years. You don’t throw that away if you can help it.’

My phone rings.

I glance at the screen, frowning. Kit. He doesn’t usually call this early – it must be the middle of the night in New York.

‘Hold that thought.’ I step back, answering. ‘Brother. What’s wrong?’ I ask, after I’ve swiped.

‘What’s wrong?’ Kit’s voice is sharp, tight with that particular brand of older-brother concern that’s never quite gone away. ‘I don’t know, Jude, maybe you can tell me why I’m hearing from three different people that you’ve moved out of Dad’s house?’

Bloody hell. News travels fast.

‘Who was it? Cal? Frankie? Bill?’

‘Does it matter who it was?’ I can picture him, pinching the bridge of his nose the way he does when he’s frustrated. ‘What the hell is going on over there? Dad’s not answering his phone, you’ve apparently moved out, and no one will give me a straight answer about why.’

I’m looking at Brynn. She’s watching me, the scraper forgotten in her hand, her face unreadable.

I take a breath.

‘Think I’m in love, brother.’

The scraper clatters to the floor.

Brynn’s eyes go wide. Huge. Shocked in a way that makes me want to laugh – like I’ve just announced I’m joining the circus or moving to Mars.

I grin at her. Can’t help it.