Page 83 of Pull Me Under

‘I’m known for my compelling offers.’

I should send him away.

But the sun is filtering through the shed doors, and the harbour is quiet, and he brought me coffee without being asked.

‘Fine,’ I hear myself say. ‘You can stay. But if you hand me the wrong tool, I’m throwing you in the harbour.’

‘Fair enough.’

He settles on a crate near where I’m working. Close enough to help, far enough not to be in the way.

‘That thing you’re holding,’ he says, pointing at a gasket. ‘What is it?’

‘Gasket.’

‘Right. I knew that.’

‘You absolutely did not.’

‘I absolutely did not,’ he agrees, grinning.

And despite everything, I find myself grinning back.

We work in companionable silence for the next hour. Almost companionable silence, apart from the uptick of my heartbeat when Jude hands me tools – mostly the wrong ones – and I correct him without comment. He asks what I’m doing, and I explain in terms simple enough that even a Harding can follow.

It’s nice. Easy. Dangerous.

The sun climbs higher, burning off the morning mist until the harbour outside glitters. My shoulders loosen. My jaw unclenches. For the first time since I arrived in Sea Salt Bay, I’m not bracing for impact.

‘Fuel line’s reconnected,’ I say, wiping my hands. ‘Should hold. Need to test it, but⁠—’

‘Cal!’ Jude’s voice cuts across mine, hand raised in greeting.

I look up. Cal’s making his way down the slipway towards the lifeboat station, toolbox in hand. That bow-legged walk of a man who’s spent more of his life on water than land.

‘Monthly inspection,’ Jude explains, catching my look. ‘Cal’s religious about it.’

‘As he should be.’

‘Don’t let him hear you say that. His ego’s big enough.’

Cal waves back, disappearing into the boathouse. A moment later – clang of metal, hum of equipment.

Movement on the harbour path catches my eye.

A woman. Early thirties, maybe. Dark curly hair piled in a messy bun, bright yellow sundress almost aggressively cheerful against grey stone. Cool bag in one hand, the other resting on the swell of her belly.

Pregnant. Very pregnant. Seven months? Eight?

She picks her way down the slipway with the careful grace of someone whose centre of gravity has shifted, heading straight for the boathouse.

‘That’s Cassie,’ Jude says, following my gaze. ‘Cal’s wife.’

I blink. Look at the woman again – the smooth skin, the bright energy. Then I think of Cal. Late forties, maybe pushing fifty, weathered beyond his years.

‘His wife?’

‘Don’t look so shocked. You’ll hurt her feelings.’