Page 55 of The Unknown

Ronan gives the neckerchief another tug, embarrassed this time. Almost as if he’s just realized he’s half naked. “Shit, I didn’t even think of that. Too late now, I guess. That’s one shirt ruined. Lucky for me, I have a dozen more just like it. How does the knee feel? Think you can walk?”

“I’m fine,” I say, adding, in a horrible British accent, “It’s just a flesh wound.”

Ronan laughs, which is more surprising than his eight-pack. And, in a weird way, sexier. “God, I love that movie,” he says. “Must have seen it a hundred times.”

“Me, too,” I say, suddenly struck with the urge to tell him that I watchedMonty Python and the Holy Grailso much because it was one of the few things that made my parents laugh. Instead, I say, “Now we really do need to head back. I’ll try not to trip again.”

“I won’t allow it,” Ronan says, lifting me up and literally sweeping me off my feet. “Can’t risk any more injury to my leading lady.”

He carries me all the way to my cottage while I keep his shirt pressed against my knee. Even though it’s not very far, I feel self-conscious being so openly manhandled by someone without a shirt. A shy bachelorette at a Chippendales show.

The good part? Only one person sees it.

The bad part? That person is Susie, languidly sitting on her cottage porch, vape in hand. She watches intently as Ronan lowers me onto my own porch and says, “Here we are. You all good?”

I check my knee and see the bleeding has stopped. “Right as rain.”

“Excellent.” Ronan takes his shirt and bows his head. “Well, Marin Keane, it was a pleasure rehearsing with you.”

Susie watches him leave, waiting until he’s out of sight to give me anI told you sonod.

The jury’s still out on that.

But I do know one thing.

Even if Ronan Peters isn’t smitten with me, I wouldn’t mind it if he was.

Twelve

Tonight feels darker, even though I know it’s just my imagination. The moon is the same size as last night, and the island as electricity-free as before. Yet something has seemed off since sunset. A strange disturbance in the atmosphere that would make me think a storm is coming if not for the cloud-free, star-filled sky.

Maybe it’s because there’s still no sign of Loretta. Which is worrisome. And I’m not the only one who thinks so.

“What if she’s not back by tomorrow?” Julianne said as we stood in the kitchen, preparing a variation of the hash and biscuits I made the night before.

“She will be,” I said. “I’m sure Brad is fine and that circumstances prevented her from coming back tonight.”

I couldn’t even convince myself of that, let alone Julianne. Something is obviously wrong. Variations of what that could be—and how bad—consumed my thoughts all through dinner. Rather than eat, I moved food from one side of my plate to the other before giving up and dumping it in the trash.

Now I’m in my cottage, both exhausted and anxious. When I hear footfalls on the path outside, I run to the window, hoping it’s Loretta,returning at last. Instead, I see Ronan speed-walking from the main house to the cottages.

Mycottage, I think with a nervous flutter as I recall our easygoing conversation. His hand on my knee, resting there, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His pecs. And abs. And arms.

But as Ronan draws closer, a new emotion emerges: panic. I look, for lack of a better description, like shit. Dressed in an unflattering nightgown and greasy with sweat. I didn’t even brush my teeth after dinner because there was no more potable water left in the kitchen and I didn’t have the energy to boil more.

It turns out, I have no reason to worry. Because when Ronan reaches my cottage, he zigs right, crossing the green to the cottage on the other side.

No. 3.

Susie.

Ronan raps twice on the door. Susie opens it wearing the same nightgown as me, although on her it looks a thousand times better.

“Hey, you,” she says.

“You needed to talk to me about something?”

“I do,” Susie says, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”