Page 94 of Pull Me Under

I add wine to the pan – it hisses and steams. Basil goes in last, torn rather than cut, and the kitchen fills with the smell of food that might, just might, be edible.

‘That smells amazing,’ Brynn admits.

‘Don’t sound so surprised.’ Although frankly I’m as surprised as hell. If this turns out well, I’m buying Nina a bouquet of flowers.

I drain the pasta – fresh, not dried, because I listened to Nina – and toss it with the sauce. Divide it between two plates. Not pretty. But real.

A squeeze of lemon at the end. For brightness. For Peter.

‘Moment of truth.’

She twirls pasta, takes a bite. Chews slowly. I hold my breath.

‘Well?’

‘It’s…’ Pause. Deliberately torturing me. ‘Actually good. Really good.’

‘You don’t have to sound so shocked.’

‘I’m recalibrating my entire understanding of you, Harding. Give me a moment.’

We eat. We talk. Easy things first – Cassie’s baby preparations, Cal’s obsessive kit checks, Dot’s crossword empire. Then harder things. I tell her about the Truro run – the new account, Mira’s face when she tasted the mackerel, the comparison sheets I make at the kitchen table every Sunday night – and she listens with an attention that makes my throat tight.

‘You’re good at it,’ she says. ‘The business side. You know that, right?’

I huff a snort, while at the same time trying not to preen for more titbits of approval like a sad desperate fuck. ‘It’s just numbers.’

‘It’s not just numbers and you know it. It’s relationships. It’s knowing what people need before they ask. It’s—’ She gestures with her fork. ‘It’s the same thing you do with everyone. You read people. You pay attention.’

I don’t know what to say. Nobody’s ever framed it as a strength.

I reach across the table. Take her hand. Her fingers are cold, and they tremble slightly against mine.

‘Brynn—’

‘Don’t.’ She shakes her head. ‘Don’t say meaningful shit. I can’t handle meaningful right now.’

‘What can you handle?’

She looks at our hands. Then up at me. Those dark eyes catching the lamplight, warm and gold-flecked and seeing everything.

‘This,’ she says. ‘Just this. For now.’

I stand. Move around the table. She turns on her chair, tilting her head back as I step between her knees.

‘This is a bad idea,’ she murmurs.

‘Probably.’

‘Our families⁠—’

‘I know.’

‘I have – there are things I haven’t told you. Things that could⁠—’

‘I know.’

‘You don’t know.’ Her voice cracks. ‘You can’t⁠—’