Page 50 of Take Me Away

‘You must really miss her.’

There’s a beat. A pause for the woman no longer here.

‘Every day.’

I nod. Swallow against the ache in my throat. ‘I can’t imagine how hard it is doing this by yourself.’

He clears his throat. ‘I’m not by myself. I’ve got Dad, Jude, Nina, the whole damn village.’

I stare at him, although he won’t turn around to look back at me. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘I’ve changed the sheets upstairs,’ he says, voice firming up, pushing me back. ‘You’ll take my room.’

I sit up straighter, startled. ‘What? No. The sofa is fine.’

‘It’s not.’ His tone makes it clear this isn’t a debate. ‘You’re injured. You need a proper bed.’

‘But where will you sleep?’

‘Here.’ He nods towards the sofa.

‘Kit, I can’t take your bed.’

‘You can and you will. The only bathroom is up there, and I’m thinking you’ll need it eventually.’ His jaw clenches. ‘Do you need help with the stairs?’

The thought of him carrying me again sends my face nuclear. ‘I can manage.’

He raises an eyebrow, sceptical. ‘It’s steep.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ I insist, pushing myself up from the sofa with as much dignity as I can pull together. I test the weight on my foot, a dull ache throbbing when I try and put all my weight down. Crap.

Kit doesn’t say, ‘I told you so.’ He doesn’t need to – it’s written across his face as clearly as if he’d tattooed it on his forehead.

‘Lean on me,’ he says, offering his arm. ‘Unless you’d prefer I carry you?’

‘Lean.’ It’s a no-brainer in the awkwardness scales. I place my hand on his forearm.

The staircase is narrow, forcing us closer together. I can smell his shampoo, something clean and faintly herbal. His warmth radiates through the sleeve of his shirt where my fingers grip his arm. We navigate to the upper floor, an awkward three-legged creature moving in fits and starts. Kit matches his pace to mine, patient despite the fact he’s holding his body rigid and as far from mine as he can while still offering support. The dog follows like he’s planning on sleeping with me.

By the time we reach the top landing, I’m breathing harder than I’d like, and not entirely from exertion.

‘First door on the right,’ Kit says, guiding me towards his bedroom.

Inside, a lamp casts warm light over a simply furnished room. A double bed with navy bedding. A plain wooden dresser. Bookshelves filled with paperbacks and nautical reference books. Some framed photos of Maisie.

He nods towards the bathroom across the hall. ‘There’s a spare toothbrush in the drawer if you forgot yours.’

‘Thank you.’ I sit on the edge of the bed. ‘You really don’t have to do this.’

‘Try telling that to Maisie. If she found out I made you sleep on the sofa with an injured foot’—his lips quirk in what’s almost a smile—‘I’d never hear the end of it.’

‘Well, thank her for me,’ I say.

He nods, lingering in the doorway as if there’s something more he wants to say. The silence stretches between us, filled with unspoken words.

‘Goodnight, Isla,’ he says finally.

‘Goodnight, Kit.’