Page 73 of Take Me Away
‘Right.’ He nods slow, rubs at his jaw. ‘I’d better go.’
I wave my fingers. ‘Off you go.’
‘Isla…’
‘No. Leave. Please.’
He turns, my stomach aches, and I watch him walk to the back door, my hand clutching Maggie’s old work surface behind me.
Once the door is closed, I turn and lean over the counter, heaving in a breath that sticks against my ribs and aches down low.
This place is wrecking me more than Hollywood ever did. Or maybe it’s all of it, the glitter of fame that you don’t know is shards of glass until it kisses your skin. The current of Sea Salt Bay that drags you and rolls you over and over until you no longer know which way is up.
I should go to London. Coming here was a mistake. What was I thinking?
‘Isla?’
My shoulders shudder but I hold in the tide that’s building inside me. Back straight, chin lifted, smile for the camera. ‘Kit, please.’
‘Come over.’ He’s standing in the kitchen doorway, the breeze from the clear blue sky lifting his dark waves.
‘What?’
‘This afternoon, come over. Maisie would love it.’
I snort a laugh. ‘Really.’
‘Yeah.’ There’s a pause, and then he steps over the threshold, a steady beat in the closing of the space between us. ‘She would.’
I’m searching his face for what he wants. The memory of his kiss is all over me. I should say no. Kissing Kit Harding is officially off the Isla Quinn Recovery Plan.
‘Sure.’ My chest curves with the echo of my breath. ‘I’d love it too.’
He holds my gaze for just one moment, and then he turns and is gone.
I raise my hand to knock, then hesitate. It’s not too late to turn around. To offer some lame excuse about not feeling well. To avoid whatever’s waiting on the other side of this door.
I knock.
There’s a patter of footsteps, then the door flies open to reveal Maisie in school uniform, white shirt sticking out of a grey pleated skirt, white socks slouched at her ankle, plaster on her knee. ‘Injury?’ I point to the plaster that’s slipped slightly to the right and left that grey sticky mark on her skin that’s always impossible to get off. Childhood memories are such funny things. Gone, forgotten, until they revisit.
‘Four Square. Daisy said it was an accident.’ Maisie’s eyes narrow, calling bullshit.
‘I don’t know that one, but it sounds dangerous.’
Her blue eyes round and she nods, her mass of brown curls bobbing. ‘You’ve no idea,’ she states, utter seriousness before turning and hollering, loud enough to startle seagulls, ‘Dad! Isla’s here!’
She grabs my hand and tugs me inside before I can respond, chattering a mile a minute. ‘I haven’t done my maths yet. Are you any good at maths, I hate it. Why do we need to do maths? It’s stupid. Dad’s making fish, Grandad brought it round, you eat fish don’t you, Isla? We eat a lot of fish.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘A lot of fish, and I wanted to show you my shell collection but Dad said that could wait too and—’
‘Breathe, Maisie,’ I laugh, letting her pull me through the cosy living room with its cushions and throws, and its decor chosen by the wife who no longer gets to be here. ‘The shells aren’t going anywhere.’
Kit’s voice floats from the back of the house where the kitchen is. I can’t breathe. ‘Maisie, let Isla at least get inside the door before you start showing her every single pebble you’ve ever picked up.’
Kit Harding is at the stove in worn jeans and a simple white T-shirt, barefoot on the terracotta tiles. His hair is still damp, curling slightly at the nape of his neck. He looks simultaneously completely at home and impossibly out of place – like someone Photoshopped a rugged fisherman into a domestic scene from a lifestyle magazine. Cap is at his feet. His tail gives a brush of the tiles at the sight of me, but he’s clearly not giving up his space by the cook who might drop scraps.
I swallow as Kit glances up, eyes meeting mine with an unreadable expression. ‘Rain’s stopped,’ he says, spatula in hand, as if we’re picking up a perfectly normal conversation.
I exhale slowly, tension unwinding just slightly from my shoulders. ‘Yeah, Kit. The rain’s stopped.’
