Page 46 of Take Me Away

‘Because you’re staying at my place tonight.’ I can’t believe I’m saying this. Jessica’s house. The home I built with my wife. And I’m inviting Isla Quinn – the first woman I ever loved – to sleep under that roof. Maisie’s going to read into this. Hell, I’m reading into this. ‘I’ll fix the roof in the morning. You can’t stay here with water pouring in, and you clearly can’t be trusted not to injure yourself further.’

‘I don’t need your help,’ she says, lifting her chin in that stubborn way I once found endearing.

‘Apparently you do.’ I nod towards the chair. ‘Unless your plan was to spend the night emptying pots one-footed in the rain.’

She opens her mouth, then closes it again, clearly looking for a counterargument and finding none. Her teeth catch on her bottom lip, and my eyes track the movement before I can stop myself.

‘Fine,’ she says finally. ‘But just for tonight. And I’m taking the sofa.’

‘Whatever gets you moving fastest,’ I reply, already regretting the impulsive offer but unwilling to withdraw it.

She limps towards the bedroom, and I resist the urge to help her. I empty the overflowing pot into the sink, then grab a towel to mop up the worst of the water on the floor. By the time Isla emerges with a small overnight bag, I’ve positioned three more pots around the room. The leak’s spreading, water dripping from multiple points now.

‘Ready?’ I ask, suddenly acutely aware that I’m inviting Isla Quinn to spend the night in my home. The woman I’ve spent ten years trying to forget. The woman I carried home today, whose scent still lingers on my clothes.

She nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in a gesture so familiar it rewinds time. ‘Thank you,’ she says quietly. ‘I know you didn’t have to do this.’

‘I know.’ I take her bag – it’s so light, I’m not sure she’s packed anything – not meeting her eyes. ‘Can you walk, or do you need…?’

‘I can walk, it’s feeling so much better already,’ she says quickly. ‘Just slowly.’

I nod, relieved and disappointed in equal measure at not having to carry her again. ‘Let’s go, then.’

As we step out into the rain, I offer my arm for support without looking at her. After a moment’s hesitation, her hand curls around my bicep, light but present. The rain drums against my hood, running in rivulets down my neck. Her grip tightens when we hit a puddle, and I slow instinctively, adjusting my pace to hers. Neither of us speaks. The only sound is rain and our footsteps, oddly synchronised despite her limp.

Taking Isla Quinn home is going to be a complete fucking disaster.

But I’m already too far gone to stop.

Chapter Eleven

ISLA

Every step is agony, but I’ve spent years perfecting the art of hiding pain. Red carpets in shoes that pinch. Award ceremonies with pneumonia. Twelve-hour shoots on sprained ankles. This – a bruised foot and injured pride – is nothing by comparison.

When we finally reach his front door – a cheery blue – I’m breathing harder than I’d like to admit. Kit pretends not to notice, busying himself with keys and the door, giving me a moment to compose myself.

‘Just to warn you,’ he says, face half turning to face me, almost but not quite, ‘she fully plans on covering your foot with glitter plasters.’

There’s a hollowing ache that scoops my insides out, leaving me empty and echoing. ‘My favourite kind.’ I smile, and that dark denim gaze of his catches it. He gives the briefest of nods and then pushes the door open, letting a triangle of warm light spill out, capturing me in a spotlight of illumination.

Kit’s home.

Where he chose to stay and have a family.

Shoulders back. Deep breath.

‘Dad!’ Maisie’s voice rings out the instant the door opens. ‘Is she here? Did you—’ She breaks off as she spots me. ‘You came!’

Her delight is so genuine it catches me off guard, a flash of warmth that jolts into me.

‘Of course she came,’ Kit says, ushering me inside. ‘The roof is leaking in three different places.’

‘Four,’ I correct, hobbling over the threshold. ‘There’s another one started in the bedroom.’

The glow of the house hits me immediately – not just the physical heat after the chilly rain, but the sense of a home. It smells of spices and something sweet, with underlying notes of wood, wool, and the sea. The cottage hallway opens straight up into an open-plan living space, kitchen at the back. Drawings haphazardly cling to the fridge. Shoes in various sizes clutter the entrance. A patchwork throw lies rumpled on the sofa where someone – Maisie, presumably – has been curled up.

It’s so different to the vintage formality of Maggie’s place you wouldn’t know it was the same town, let alone the same row of houses.