Page 87 of Washed Up

‘Thanks, but I’m going to be a bit busy,’ he said, glancing at Frankie.

Bobby raised both eyebrows and grinned. ‘I bet you are.’

Frankie tutted. ‘He’s writing music, Bobby, that’s what he meant. Not everyone is obsessed with sex, you know.’ Frankie was hyper aware of each and every part of her body as she spoke, willing Dylan to correct her. Maybe he did have two weeks of debauchery in store. Please God, let him have some debauchery planned.

But Dylan nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s what I meant. I’ll be writing. But thanks. Might see you around.’

Bobby threw a glance at Frankie, pity in his hazel eyes, and her cheeks heated even more. Ouch.

‘You coming, sis?’

‘I’ll be along in a minute. I just need to show Dylan where everything is.’ She knew it sounded lame, even as she said it. Lame and also unnecessarily suggestive all at the same time.

‘I bet you do,’ muttered Bobby, backing away down the little path from the front door.

‘For God’s sake, Bobby.’

‘I’m going, I’m going,’ he said.

‘For God’s sake, Bobby, take a hint,’ said Dylan.

Frankie let out a nervous little laugh. She felt suddenly shy.

‘Oh, by the way, sis,’ said Bobby, turning back to her, a stupid grin plastered to his face.

‘What?’

‘The bedroom’s upstairs and to the left,’ he said.

‘Bobby!’ yelled Frankie. ‘I’m so sorry about him.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Dylan. ‘He did carry the bags.’

‘Yeah, I did,’ shouted Bobby, both hands in the air as if he’d won some kind of competition. Which, in a way, he had.

When he’d finally gone, Dylan stepped aside to let Frankie go into the cottage first, then pushed the door closed and leant on it, breathing deeply, eyes closed.

‘It’s good to be back,’ he said.

Frankie suddenly felt like she was intruding on something. A private moment.

‘I… I’d better let you get settled,’ she said.

‘I thought you were going to show me where everything is,’ he said, eyes closed but one eyebrow quirking.

‘That was just to get rid of him,’ she admitted.

‘Good work,’ said Dylan. ‘He seems a good lad, all things considered.’

‘He’s okay,’ she said. ‘In small doses.’

Dylan strolled through to the kitchen, Frankie following him, automatically listing all the amenities. ‘Right, there’s milk and some Guernsey butter in the fridge. It’s delicious, highly recommend. And there’s a little hamper with biscuits, cheese, that kind of thing. Plus, some of my shortbread biscuits, you don’t have to eat those, though, of course.’ She was wittering, she knew she was, but now she’d started it was hard to stop. Instead, she indicated the counter, the hamper she’d packed that morning looking really pathetic under his gaze. Know the feeling, she told it silently.

‘That’s really thoughtful,’ he said, filling the kettle, already at ease in the space.

‘Goodbye, then,’ she said limply, backing towards the door. He seemed so tall suddenly, larger than life in that tiny kitchen. Something like electricity buzzed between them, or perhaps that was simply how Dylan Wright went about his life, with electricity bouncing off everyone he encountered. She could well believe it. What was the word Sally had used? Luminous.

‘Don’t you want to stay for tea?’ he said, pulling two mugs out of a cupboard and turning to lean against the counter as the kettle began to boil behind him.