Page 48 of Pull Me Under

‘Morning, sunshine!’ I call out, far too cheerful for the hour.

She doesn’t look up. Just keeps coiling rope with quick, efficient movements that suggest she’s been doing this since she was old enough to tie her shoes.

I jog closer. ‘Sleep well? In that palace of corrugated metal you call home?’

Still nothing. But I see her jaw tighten.

‘You left your nails in my back, by the way.’ I’m grinning now, can’t help it. ‘Want me to FedEx them? Or should I just consider them a souvenir?’

She straightens up slowly. Turns to face me.

The look she gives me could strip paint.

‘Harding,’ she says, voice flat and dangerous, ‘if you don’t fuck off right now, I’m going to throw this spanner at your head.’

‘Noted. Friendly as always, then.’

She growls – actually growls – and turns back to her work without another word.

I jog past, laughing despite myself. ‘Okay. Maybe still a little mad.’

I make it another fifty metres before I glance back.

Can’t help it.

She’s bent over a rope coil, muttering to herself – probably cursing my name, my lineage, and my general existence. Her ponytail swings as she works and even from here I can see the set of her shoulders, the stubborn line of her spine.

The grin fades.

I’m not thinking about her mouth or her hands or the sounds she made. I’m thinking about that notebook. The plans. The lists. Harbour fees and supplier contacts and licensing applications and a future she’s building from nothing. That’s the thing that got under my skin worse than her nails did. Not the sex. The ambition. The fact that she’s staying.

I force myself to turn around. To keep running. To ignore the way the air in my throat feels tight and it has nothing to do with the pace.

I run harder, pushing my legs until they burn, until my lungs ache, until the only thing I can think about is putting one foot in front of the other.

It doesn’t work.

By the time I circle back towards home, the sun’s starting to break over the horizon – pale gold and fragile against the grey sky. The village is waking up. Lights are coming on in windows. Dot will be opening the post office soon, ready to catalogue everyone’s business.

And I’m covered in sweat, still grinning like an idiot, with scratch marks on my back and the taste of Brynn Trelawney still on my tongue.

Yeah.

I’m fucked.

I make it home twenty minutes later, legs burning, knee screaming, lungs aching, and that stupid grin still plastered across my face despite my best efforts.

The house I grew up in. The house I never left. Kit moved up the hill with Jess, his first wife, years ago, and I stayed, because someone has to, because Dad needs someone here even if he’d die before admitting it. The Harding cottage at the bottom of Quay Lane – small, stone, slate roof, the smell of fish oil and Dettol and nothing that’s changed since my mother walked out twenty years ago.

The kitchen smells like toast and strong tea when I let myself in through the back door. Dad’s at the table with the newspaper spread in front of him, reading glasses perched on his nose. At least he’s here though, and hasn’t wandered off somewhere. He looks up when I enter, takes in my sweat-soaked shirt and flushed face.

‘You’re up early,’ he says. ‘Thought Mondays were your paperwork day.’

‘Couldn’t sleep.’ Not a lie. ‘Thought I’d get a run in.’

He grunts, turns back to his paper. ‘There’s tea in the pot if you want it.’

I grab a mug from the drainer, pour myself what’s left of the brew – strong enough to strip paint – and lean against the counter. My knee’s stiffened up again from the cool-down. There’s a pleasant ache in my lower back that makes me think of⁠—