Page 13 of Washed Up

‘Sorry. I’m quicker on my own, that’s all.’

‘I’ll sit and drink my shitty coffee down here, then.’

‘You do that,’ she spat.

Frankie was passively aggressively pulling the first pillowcase on when he appeared in the doorway.

‘Please let me help,’ he said, his dark blue eyes wide like a puppy. ‘I did make the mess, after all.’

‘Fine,’ she said, and had to bite her lip to keep from smiling at his pathetic little face.

Dylan’s eyes caught the movement and dropped to her lips. When she caught him looking, he turned away and sat on the bed, pulling on pillowcases obediently. She was suddenly acutely aware that they were alone in the small bedroom, in the cottage. In the world, or so it felt, with the wind still howling outside. Her heart was thumping, though mainly from annoyance, or that’s what she told herself.

‘So, how long have you lived on Herm, Frankie? That’s such a great name by the way, have I told you that? Sort of unexpected. Reminds me of Stevie. You know, Stevie Nicks?’

‘Oof, that’s original,’ said Frankie.

‘Ouch. Sorry, just making conversation.’

Frankie dropped onto her side of the bed with her back to Dylan, pretending she wasn’t struggling to pull the duvet cover on by herself. She sighed. Be nice.

‘Sorry. You’re right. I think I was named after Frankie Goes to Hollywood. Can you believe that? My parents are obsessed with music… but not exactly stuff that’s up to date,’ she added hastily, in case he was about to mention the band again.

‘See, that is cool. So… how long?’ he prompted.

Frankie tried not to swear as she struggled with a corner of the cover. ‘Um, I’ll say it quick. I’ve lived here my whole life. I’m the second generation of Jacks on the island.’

‘Jacks?’ said Dylan, moving round the side of the bed to help her.

‘My surname.’

‘You’re Frankie Jacks? See? Stevie Nicks. Frankie Jacks. You could be a musician, too.’

Frankie gave up the fight and handed him two corners of the duvet cover, their hands meeting, just briefly, before she stepped back and violently shook the quilt out inside it.

‘Steady.’ He laughed.

‘Sorry,’ she said again. Their eyes locked and he held her gaze for a beat, two, three, four. She was the first to look away but it took some effort. Those dark blue eyes of his were dangerous, sucking her in, like a vortex. The wind howled past the window and in that moment, she knew, with absolute certainty, that this man was going to be trouble. She had to get him the hell out of here.

‘Have you never travelled?’ he said, his voice softer.

‘We travel all the time,’ she said, shifting on her feet.

‘I don’t just mean buzzing about on a little boat between the islands.’

‘Oh. Well, then no.’

‘Thought not.’

‘Don’t be patronising.’

‘Sorry. I just wondered, that’s all.’

‘Well don’t. I love it here, if you must know.’ She risked another glance up at him. He was still staring at her with that same intensity. She swung the duvet onto the bed, then turned to look at him again, hands on hips this time. ‘Can you not look at me like that?’

He took a step towards her. ‘Like what?’ he said, his eyes on hers.

‘Like you know every last thought in my head?’ she said, heat burning her cheeks. Either from a blush or the laser-beam focus of his eyes.