Page 81 of Pull Me Under

Damn. ‘Someone’s got to watch the stupid. Make sure it doesn’t get out of control.’

He huffs a laugh, gaze travelling out to the horizon where dark indigo stretches for miles. ‘I like the science side of it, actually. The environmental stuff. Understanding the ecosystems, the fish populations, how it all connects.’ He scrapes the toe of his boot across the concrete. ‘Sounds stupid when I say it out loud.’

‘It doesn’t sound stupid.’

‘It sounds like something a Harding shouldn’t care about.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because Hardings pull fish from the water. That’s what we do. That’s what we’ve always done.’

I lean against Betty’s hull, studying him. ‘So you’re in the family business of pulling fish from the water, but secretly you want to give them all the kiss of life and set them free?’

He rolls his eyes. ‘Now you’re just being ridiculous.’

‘Ooh, Harding. It’s a brave man that calls me ridiculous.’ I fight the grin and focus on the seriousness underneath. ‘Am I, though? Or am I right?’

He puffs out a slow breath and I hate the fact I’m noticing the dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Or the strand of lighter hair that sits proudly within his sandy waves.

I hate that I notice anything about him.

But I do. And there’s no denying it.

‘I’m not against fishing,’ he says eventually. ‘I just think we could do it better. Smarter. Sustainably.’ He says the word like it tastes strange in his mouth. ‘Peter was working on conservation corridors, rewilding the inlet margins. Making sure there’s still fish to catch in fifty years, not just next season.’

My stomach drops at Peter’s name. At the echo of his notes, still spread across my workbench. Notes that Jude, from the sound of it, would understand, even enjoy.

‘I know,’ I say quietly. ‘I’ve read his research.’

Jude looks surprised. ‘You have?’

‘It’s in the shed. Nina said she wanted someone to look at it.’ I pause. ‘He had good ideas.’

‘He had brilliant ideas. And nobody listened.’ There’s an edge now. Frustration. Old anger, maybe. ‘Dad called it hippie nonsense. Said Peter was trying to put us all out of business.’

‘Was he?’

‘He was trying to make sure we still had a business in twenty years. But try explaining long-term thinking to a man who can barely see past the next catch.’

The bitterness surprises me. Not because it’s there, but because he’s letting me see it.

‘So why aren’t you doing it?’ I ask. ‘The environmental stuff. If that’s what you care about.’

His expression shutters. Just for a second, but I catch it.

‘Because I’m a Harding.’ He puts on a voice – deeper, booming, an exaggerated Reuben. ‘Harding boys are fishermen, always have been, always will be.’

The impression is so accurate it startles a laugh out of me. But underneath the comedy, there’s this trapped suffocation that leaches into his tone. And shit, if it doesn’t make my chest contract.

‘That’s a shit reason,’ I say. Meeting his gaze.

‘It’s the only reason I’ve got.’

‘No it isn’t.’ I set down my coffee, turn to face him properly. ‘You’re what, twenty-seven, twenty-eight?’

My gaze meets his, and of course I remember we were the same age all those years ago. I remember all of it. The sandcastles, the rock-pooling, the sandy pasties and the call from my grandad that it was time to come home for the day.

It aches. All of it.