Page 35 of Pull Me Under

‘Looking at one. Guy’s got a day-trawler, needs work but priced right.’

‘You’re going alone?’ I don’t like the way his voice lifts at the end.

‘Yes, I’m a grown woman, not a Victorian invalid.’

‘You don’t even know this guy – he could be anyone. These private sales, sometimes they’re⁠—’

‘A creep luring me with a fishing boat that smells of fish guts?’ I’m teasing but he’s not smiling. ‘Jude, I’ve been looking after myself for a long time. I think I can handle a boat viewing.’

‘In Plymouth. With some stranger. Who knows you’re a woman coming alone with cash.’

‘I’m not bringing cash, I’m not stupid⁠—’

‘I didn’t say you were stupid⁠—’

‘It’s heavily implied when you assume I can’t handle basic⁠—’

‘I don’t assume anything. I just—’ He runs his hand through his hair, tangling the sandy waves around his fingers. ‘It’s not safe.’ His mouth opens but then snaps shut again.

‘I’ll be fine,’ I say, gentler now. ‘But thanks for the concern.’

I turn to go, and I’m almost at the Land Rover when I hear footsteps behind me.

I open the driver’s door and the passenger door opens too.

Jude drops into the seat like he belongs there, long legs folding into my cramped cab, head brushing the roof.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Coming with you.’

‘I didn’t invite you.’

‘No, but you need someone who knows boats⁠—’

‘I know boats.’

‘—and someone who knows Plymouth. And someone who can look intimidating if this guy turns out to be sketchy.’

‘You think you look intimidating?’

He gives me a look that’s probably meant to be stern but mostly makes him look like a disappointed teacher. ‘I’m six-two and I’ve got resting fisherman face. That’s intimidating enough.’

‘Resting fisherman face isn’t a thing.’

‘It is. It’s like resting bitch face but more weather-beaten and suspicious of outsiders.’

I want to laugh. Want to kick him out. Want to ask why he cares. Instead: ‘What about your dad? The boats?’

‘Tom’s covering. Already arranged it.’

‘When? In the thirty seconds since I mentioned Plymouth?’

He holds up his phone. ‘I’m very efficient at texting.’

We sit there, him in my passenger seat like he’s already won, me gripping the steering wheel like it might provide answers.

‘This is a bad idea,’ I say.