Page 105 of Take Me Away

Except this morning there’s someone else in my bed.

Isla’s sprawled across three-quarters of the mattress, one arm flung above her head, hair tangled across the pillow. She’s wearing one of my old T-shirts – the faded Fisherman’s Friends one with the hole near the hem – and even in sleep, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

I don’t want to leave this bed. Don’t want to leave her.

But the tide won’t wait, and the quota won’t fill itself.

I ease out carefully, trying not to disturb her. The floorboards creak – they always bloody do – and I freeze. She stirs, mumbles something that might be my name, but doesn’t wake.

In the grey pre-dawn light filtering through the curtains, I find yesterday’s jeans crumpled on the chair. Pull them on as quietly as possible, which is to say: not quietly at all. The zip sounds like a chainsaw. I’m halfway through wrestling a jumper over my head when I trip over my own boots, catching myself on the doorframe with a thud that would wake the dead.

‘Kit?’ Her voice is sleep-rough and amused. ‘Are you trying to sneak out?’

I turn. She’s propped up on one elbow now, hair even more chaotic, eyes still half closed. Smiling.

‘Wasn’t sneaking,’ I say, tugging the jumper down. ‘Just being considerate.’

‘You sound like a drunk elephant.’ She yawns, stretching like a cat. The T-shirt rides up, and I have to look away before I abandon all thoughts of fishing.

‘Sleeping Beauty awakens.’

‘Is that what you’re calling this?’ She gestures at her hair. ‘Because I’m pretty sure Beauty had a lady’s maid and a fancy dress. I’ve got bedhead and your holey T-shirt.’

‘Looks better on you anyway.’ I sit on the edge of the bed, and she shifts closer, warm and sleep-soft against my side. ‘I have to head out. Tide won’t wait.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Half four.’

She groans. ‘That’s not morning. That’s still night pretending.’

‘That’s fishing.’ I press a kiss to her forehead. ‘You remember, don’t you?’ Her remembering seems fundamental to the well-being of my day.

With a deep sigh she slides a hand up my thigh. ‘I remember you sneaking down the stairs of Salt Cottage at some ungodly hour, hoping that Maggie wouldn’t hear the creaks of the floorboards.’ Her index finger trails a pattern on my leg.

‘And she was waiting in the kitchen with tea made and a sandwich packed.’ I grin in the darkness.

Her finger keeps trailing. ‘She was the first one that guessed we weren’t just friends.’

A huff of a laugh blasts from my mouth into the chilly bedroom air. ‘Think my dad always had some problems with that scenario.’

I watch her finger move, realise she’s drawing hearts on denim, and my heart swells to twice its usual size. ‘Dad’s coming by at seven to take Maisie to school. You don’t have to – I mean, you can sleep. Or go back to Salt Cottage. Whatever you want.’

She’s quiet for a moment, and I can practically hear her thinking.

‘I could stay,’ she says finally, tentative. ‘Help with Maisie. Breakfast, maybe, if that’s not overstepping? Though I should warn you, my cooking skills are limited to toast and cereal. And sometimes I burn the toast.’

Something warm unfurls in my chest. ‘You don’t have to⁠—’

‘I know.’ She sits up fully now, the T-shirt slipping off one shoulder. ‘But I want to. If that’s … if you think it’s okay?’

‘Isla.’ I cup her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone. ‘It’s more than okay.’

‘I just – I don’t know what I’m doing. With kids. With morning routines. What if she asks for something and I don’t know where it is? Or what if I say the wrong thing?’

‘You won’t.’

‘You don’t know that.’