Page 90 of Pull Me Under

I turn. Dot’s peering at me over her glasses, crossword abandoned.

‘Peter,’ she clarifies. ‘For months she couldn’t say his name. Now she’s sharing recipes.’ Her smile softens at the edges. ‘Grief’s a strange creature. Takes its time.’

‘Yeah.’ I glance back at the window. Both of them gone. ‘It does.’

Dot bags my shopping. ‘Whoever you’re cooking for,’ she says, ‘I hope they’re worth it.’ She winks, which tells me she knows exactly who I’m cooking for, and why, and then pushes her glasses back up the slope of her nose.

I think about Brynn. Sharp tongue. Certain hands. The way she looked at me in the shed yesterday, a complication she hadn’t budgeted for.

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I think she might be.’

Dot doesn’t respond, only raises her eyebrows as she returns to a folded newspaper and an unfinished crossword. ‘Four letter emotion beginning with L?’

I grab the bag and head for the door. ‘You’re making it up.’ I chuckle, swinging the door, setting the bell above ringing.

‘I’ll have you know, young Harding, that I never make anything up.’ Her focus drops back down. ‘Ah, Love, that’s it.’

‘Or lust,’ I add, before shutting the door quickly behind me.

I’m early for training, hoping the extra time will settle my head.

The boathouse smells the way it always does – diesel and salt and old rope. Familiar. Usually grounding.

Not today.

Today I’m checking my watch every thirty seconds.

Pathetic. Truly pathetic.

Cal arrives first. He nods, starts his checks.

‘Big night tonight,’ he says, not looking up.

‘What?’

‘Cassie mentioned you’re cooking for someone. Wouldn’t say who.’ Eyebrows raised. ‘She’s a vault, my wife. When she wants to be.’

‘It’s not⁠—’

‘None of my business. Good luck.’

I say nothing.

Brynn arrives at ten past. Slightly breathless, hair escaping its ponytail, a smear of grease on her cheek she doesn’t know about.

She’s wearing those overalls again. The ones that shouldn’t look good on anyone but somehow look incredible on her.

I am in so much trouble.

‘Sorry,’ she says, not sounding sorry at all. ‘Fuel injector’s being a bastard.’

‘The boat’s on your face.’ Tom gestures at his own cheek.

She swipes at it, examines her fingers, shrugs. ‘Occupational hazard.’

She moves to her station without looking at me. Fine. Good. Professionals.

Until she glances at me, quick and almost shy, and not at all what I expect. She’s nervous too.