Page 34 of Pull Me Under

I smile into my coffee, feeling the first genuine spark of excitement since Reuben’s explosion yesterday. ‘Who says I don’t have a boat?’

‘Do you?’

‘Not yet. But I’m driving to Plymouth this afternoon to look at one. Nineties beam trawler, needs work but the hull’s sound and the engine’s salvageable. Owner’s emigrating to Australia, wants a quick sale.’

‘That’s brilliant!’ Nina’s enthusiasm is real, warming. ‘Though Plymouth’s a bit of a drive alone.’

‘I’ve driven further for less.’

‘Still.’ She wraps two more pieces of shortbread in paper, slides them across. ‘For the road. And Brynn? Be careful. Some of these boat dealers…’

‘Are creeps who’ll happily take advantage of a woman they think doesn’t know about boats?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Good thing I know about boats then.’

A grin flashes across her face, quick and bright, erasing the dark shadows for a moment.

I grin back.

The walk back to the shed takes me past the main dock, where the morning has properly started now. Fishermen checking nets, engines warming up, the ordinary chaos that keeps Sea Salt Bay breathing. I should walk past, get my things, hit the road before traffic builds.

Instead, I stop. Because there’s Jude at the dock, baseball cap turned backwards, and he’s clearly fighting a losing battle with an engine part I could probably name but won’t give him the satisfaction.

He’s got one boot braced against the deck of the Mary Jane, both hands on what looks like a seized winch pulley, and he’s muttering a string of curses creative enough to make a sailor blush. His jacket’s discarded despite the cold, sleeves pushed up, and there’s grease already streaking his forearms.

I should keep walking. Should definitely not notice the way his shoulders flex with effort, or how he’s biting his lip in concentration, or how genuinely terrible he is at this.

‘You’re going to lose a finger if you keep doing it like that.’

He jerks, nearly does lose a finger, and glares at me. ‘And you’re going to get impaled if you keep sneaking up on me.’

‘I wasn’t sneaking. You were just too busy sweet-talking that pulley to notice.’ I step onto the boat without invitation, crouch beside him. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘It’s seized. Salt corrosion probably.’

‘Obviously. But you’re coming at it wrong. Here—’ I reach past him for the tools, our arms brushing. ‘You need to work it loose gradually, not force it. Penetrating oil first, let it sit, then gentle pressure alternating directions.’

‘I know how to⁠—’

‘You really don’t.’ But I soften it with a half-smile, taking the spanner from his hands. ‘Watch.’

I work the pulley carefully, feeling for the point where resistance gives just slightly. It’s meditative, this rhythmic work. The problem presenting itself through your fingertips, the solution emerging through patience and proper technique. Within minutes, the pulley’s moving freely.

‘How did you⁠—’

‘Magic.’ I wipe my hands on my already ruined jeans. ‘Or, you know, actual mechanical knowledge.’

He’s looking at me with what might be annoyance, but could also be respect. Hard to tell with Jude. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome.’ I stand, brush off my knees. ‘Try not to break anything else. I’m heading to Plymouth this afternoon.’

‘Plymouth?’ His whole posture changes, alertness replacing embarrassment. ‘Why on earth would you go to Plymouth on a Saturday afternoon? Do you know what the traffic is like?’

I roll my eyes and somehow fight my smile. Somehow. ‘Boat shopping.’

‘You’re buying a boat?’