Page 64 of Pull Me Under

‘Speaking from experience?’

‘I haven’t slept properly in the best part of two weeks.’

The admission hangs between us. Nearly three weeks. Since she drove back into Sea Salt Bay with a holdall and a Land Rover and a chip on her shoulder the size of Cornwall. I watch her do the maths.

‘That’s not my problem,’ she says quietly.

‘I know.’

‘Whatever’s keeping you up at night⁠—’

‘Is definitely not thoughts of you. Obviously.’

She stares at me. I stare back.

‘Obviously,’ she echoes, and her voice cracks.

‘Go home, Trelawney.’

‘Stop telling me what to do, Harding.’

‘Colleagues don’t boss each other around?’

‘Not unless they want a spanner to the head.’

‘Noted.’ I almost smile. ‘See you Monday.’

She nods once, sharp, and walks away. I watch her until she rounds the corner towards the shed – her shed, Peter’s shed, the shed where I lost every rational thought I’ve ever had – and then I turn for home.

I make it about twenty steps before I glance back.

She’s glancing back too.

We both look away at the same time. Like teenagers. Like idiots.

Colleagues.

Right.

My phone buzzes. Kit.

How’s everything? Dad okay? Business surviving without me?

I stare at the message. Think about Dad this morning, calling me by the wrong name, reaching for Kit even when Kit’s not there. Think about the crew being understaffed and the business accounts I need to reconcile and the woman I can’t stop wanting walking away from me like she’s running from a fire.

Then I type back: All fine. Stop worrying. Go enjoy Broadway.

One major lie in seven words. A new personal record.

I pocket the phone and walk faster.

Behind me, somewhere in the village, Brynn Trelawney is probably telling herself the same lies I am. That it meant nothing. That we can work together without combusting. That the heat between us is just friction from old grudges and proximity.

Maybe if we both keep saying it, it’ll become true.

I guess we’ll find out Monday.

Chapter Fifteen