Page 53 of Pull Me Under

All the while my brain’s screaming.

Last night was supposed to be a one-time catastrophic lapse in judgement. A mistake we’d both pretend never happened. Stress relief in the worst possible form, with the worst possible person.

And now I’ve got to walk down to the harbour, find the woman who threw me out of her shed eight hours ago, and ask her if she’d like to spend five weeks in close physical proximity with me on a lifeboat. Trusting me with her life. Being trusted with hers. Because I opened my stupid mouth and defended her capabilities to the very people who were looking for a reason to say no.

I did this to myself.

I literally argued my way into this.

For five weeks minimum. While Kit’s three thousand miles away and I’m here running his business and covering his duties and trying to keep Dad from unravelling and pretending I’m not buried under the weight of it all.

And I’ll be the one who recruited a Trelawney onto the crew.

The one Dad will blame when he inevitably finds out.

The one who’ll have to stand between Brynn and whatever explosion happens when the truth comes out.

‘Oh, this is going to go spectacularly, catastrophically badly,’ I mutter to no one in particular.

I walk out of the station into the grey morning light. The harbour’s waking up properly now – boats heading out, gulls wheeling overhead, the smell of diesel and salt and fish guts heavy on the air.

Down at the south end, the shed doors are still open. I can see movement inside – a figure on the deck of the trawler, working, always working.

I have to walk down there.

I have to ask her.

I have to look Brynn Trelawney in the eye, eight hours after having her against the wall of her own boat’s wheelhouse, and talk about knot work and rescue protocols and professional boundaries.

A gull screams overhead, mocking me.

Yeah. That sounds about right.

Chapter Thirteen

BRYNN

The RNLI alarm splits the calm Monday morning air like a knife.

I’m halfway through stripping the fuel pump – seals corroded, gaskets shot, salt damage so bad it could turn a routine rebuild into an archaeology dig – when the sound reaches me. That low, urgent wail that carries across the harbour and up the cliffs and into every corner of Sea Salt Bay.

My hands still on the spanner.

Jude.

The thought surfaces before I can stop it. Unwanted. Inconvenient. He’ll be on that boat. Heading out into whatever’s gone wrong.

I shove it down hard. I don’t care if Jude Harding throws himself into the Atlantic.

I set down the spanner before I’ve even registered making the decision.

Nina.

I know what that alarm does to her. Wiping the grease from my hands, I grab my jacket, and head for the Lavender Café.

I do not think about Jude Harding.

I do not wonder if he’s safe.