Page 87 of Pull Me Under

‘They won’t know that.’

‘You’re a menace, Trelawney.’

‘So I’ve been told.’

He’s still grinning as he turns to go. Then stops. ‘One last thing.’

‘Chickening out already?’

‘Can I cook at yours?’

‘Have you seen my place?’

‘I like a challenge.’ His grin is brighter than the sun. I probably hate it and love it in equal amounts.

‘Fine. But I’m warning you – the wallpaper is peeling and there’s rubble behind the sofa.’

‘I’ll survive.’

Somewhere beneath the certainty of disaster, a small and stubborn kindle of hope flickers to life.

It’s only as I watch him walk away with that easy stride of his, hands in pockets, whistling an off-note tune – that I think about why he wants to cook at mine.

Because he still lives at his dad’s.

And Reuben Harding hates me.

Chapter Nineteen

JUDE

Idream about her hands.

In the dream she’s explaining instructions to me patiently and slow, the way she was yesterday at the harbour. But I’m not hearing a word because I’m watching her fingers. Sure. Capable. Knowing exactly what they’re doing, exactly where they belong.

Must be nice. Knowing where you belong.

I wake to grey light and the smell of damp. Monday. The house is cold because I forgot the heating again, which is becoming a pattern I should probably examine but won’t. I lie there staring at the ceiling, trying to shake the dream.

It doesn’t work.

The kitchen tells a story I don’t want to read. Mug of tea in the microwave – stone cold, reheated but never drunk. Dad must have been up before I was, which means before five. And on the counter, yesterday’s catch log in his handwriting: the careful capitals that haven’t changed since I was a kid, except the weights are wrong. Two columns that don’t add up. A species name – pollack – spelled with a D that shouldn’t be there, and Reuben Harding has been spelling fish names since he could hold a pencil.

I stare at it. Then I pick up a pen and fix the numbers quietly. Pollack with two Ls, no D. Weights recalculated to match the buyer’s receipt.

Dad’s tired. That’s all. Early mornings, broken sleep, running the Mary Jane with a replacement mate instead of Kit. He’s been tired.

That’s all it is.

Normally I’d be on the water by now. Monday morning, the Mary Jane cutting through the swell, hauling pots with Dad barking orders like he’s been doing since I was old enough to hold a rope. But Dad took her out at five with Davey Pascoe – the temporary mate we’ve brought on while Kit’s in New York.

Dad said I should make myself useful for once and chase up the restaurant accounts. See if I can convince them our prices aren’t highway robbery.

His faith in me is touching, really.

Never mind that I’m the reason half those restaurants buy from us in the first place – because I built those relationships, face by face, handshake by handshake.

So here I am. A morning off I didn’t ask for, in a house that’s too quiet, thinking about a woman I shouldn’t be thinking about.