Page 93 of Take Me Away

I glare at him in the mirror and grunt.

‘Like, the Reid Usher. Car-rolling, stunt-performing, built-like-a-tank Reid Usher.’

‘And he’s a twat and didn’t step up when she needed him.’

Jude eyes me, that infuriating calm gaze of his sweeping across my face. ‘And you will, right?’

‘I’m going to try.’

He nods slowly, peeling himself from the doorway and stepping into the room, clapping me on the back. ‘I’m going to go get Maisie from Dad’s and bring her back here.’

I nod. This is so stupid, the nerves, the unsettled sensation that’s washing through me like I’m on a storm-tossed ship.

‘Jesus.’ I scrub a hand over my face. ‘Will everyone be judging me?’

‘Yep. This is Sea Salt Bay, mate. People still talk about the time your boat engine stalled and you had to paddle back with a mop. And she’s Isla Quinn and you’re punching. I’m your brother, I’ll keep it real.’

‘I told you that was a tactical glide. And yes, she’s Isla Quinn, but she’s also the Isla we used to chase with wet seaweed.’

‘Fuck. Yeah. I’ve forgotten about that.’ His grin widens. ‘But don’t try and distract me from your “tactical glide”, which is still the most excitement this village has had since Dot Pendleton’s ferret crashed Easter Service.’

I shoot him a look, but my heart’s hammering too hard for it to land. I’m seventeen again, about to ask out the girl who makes my brain short-circuit every time she looks at me.

‘She’s not gonna run because you wore the wrong shirt,’ Jude says, suddenly less smug. ‘You saved a man’s life last week. I think you can survive a pub date.’

‘She’s Isla.’ I rub the back of my neck, which is somehow sweating despite the freezing air. ‘It’s not just a drink. It’s … her.’

‘Yeah.’ Jude nods. ‘It is. She’s still here. Still showing up. So stop being a knob.’

I snort. ‘Solid pep talk. You should write for Hallmark.’

He shrugs. ‘I’m emotionally available and full of wisdom.’

‘You’re an arse.’

‘And yet, here you are. Nervous as shit over a woman who already knows what you look like naked.’

I glare at him, but it’s half-hearted. My stomach’s flipping like I swallowed a goddamn anchor.

Then the knock comes.

He lights up like Christmas. ‘Showtime.’

I groan. ‘Do not answer it.’

‘Wasn’t planning to,’ he says, already backing away. ‘Want her to see you in all your flustered glory. You gonna change again, or just sweat through this one?’

‘Go away.’

‘I’m gone. Good luck. Try not to pass out. And for Christ’s sake – use protection!’

‘Jude!’

But he’s gone, and the knock comes again.

I blow out a breath, check the shirt once more like that’ll help, then head for the stairs.

Just a date.