Page 59 of Take Me Away

‘Yeah. No.’ In my head Maggie is telling me off for not using my manners. Funny how her voice is back so strong here in Sea Salt Bay; in London, or New York, LA, she always seemed so far away, I never had her voice echoing as clear as a bell. ‘Thanks.’ Sorry, Maggie. But he’s being a jerk.

‘Someone has to,’ he snaps. ‘Unless you’re planning to sleep under an umbrella.’

‘I can hire someone,’ I say. I’d fold my arms, but I’m using one hand to balance one-legged. I really do need to get off this bloody foot, and right now Kit Harding is standing between me and the damp couch I can sit on.

Kit barks out a laugh. ‘You’ve forgotten where you are, princess. No one will be able to fix that for at least a week.’

I open my mouth to retort when I spot Nina lingering at the bottom of the path, watching our exchange. She gives us both a cheerful wave when she notices me looking. ‘Don’t let me interrupt!’ she calls, grinning. ‘Just heading back to the café!’

Kit turns, noticing her for the first time, and his scowl deepens. ‘Great,’ he mutters. ‘Now the whole village will be talking.’

‘You don’t like Nina?’ I ask before I can stop myself.

He meets my gaze, shoulders rolling a little, because being so close to me is obviously putting him on edge. Go me. ‘I love Nina.’

I find myself holding my breath, desperate to know anything he might think or feel that isn’t tied up in bows of scowling grumpiness. He doesn’t continue. ‘And…’

‘I don’t love so much that her café is Gossip Central while the whole town gets their sugar and caffeine fix. Everyone will know you’ve been at mine within the half hour. Including Jude, and then I’ll never hear the bloody end of it.’ His teeth clamp shut, a little grinding of his molars. Wow. He really doesn’t want to be seen with me.

‘I’m guessing I’m the last person you’d want to be gossiped about with.’

A flicker chases across his face, but then he says, ‘Let’s just get this over with,’ and pushes past me towards the door.

Chapter Fourteen

ISLA

The rhythmic thud of Kit’s footsteps on the roof has become the heartbeat of my morning – a constant reminder that I’m not alone. For the past two hours he’s been up there, fixing what the storm broke, while I’ve been down here, pretending to look busy, my hands restlessly organising books it looks like Maggie read countless times.

She always read, every evening, something soft and melodic on the CD player, a book in her lap. Percy purring on the back of the sofa. Sometimes she’d nod off to sleep, thumb still pressed between the pages, and I’d creep into the lounge when I returned from wherever I’d been with the Harding boys, or later just Kit, and carefully close the book, placing her flower-pressed bookmark between the pages. She’d mumble, eyes still closed, ‘Not sleeping, just visualising the scene.’

The memory is so achingly real, I could turn and expect to see her there.

Occasionally, debris rains down past the windows – ancient roofing nails, bits of rotten wood, decades of moss that’s been clinging on for dear life. Much like me to this cottage.

I’ve made tea he didn’t drink. Offered help he politely refused. Eventually, I retreated to my current position, sorting through Maggie’s dusty bookshelves. The cottage feels smaller with him in it, even when he’s technically outside.

I found an old veg box in the larder, still strong enough to hold some weight, so I’m stacking the old paperbacks when the back door bangs. Kit stomps in, plaid shirt tied around his waist, arms glistening from the damp air, his hair now more curl than wave.

I’m staring.

And suddenly really bloody hungry, but I don’t think it’s for food.

His sea-storm gaze drops to the box of books, his mouth crimping into a line. ‘Packing.’

I shake my head, swallowing. ‘No. Just organising.’ I pluck a well-thumbed paperback from the top of the pile. ‘I’m not sure I want to read Her Throbbing Saviour from nineteen ninety-seven.’

Kit’s gaze widens. ‘No way. That dirty old woman.’ His shoulders drop and the air between us relaxes a notch.

‘I know, right?’

He shakes his head, a grin fighting the frown he seems to have permanently on his face like a badge of honour. When he rubs the back of his neck, I can’t help but stare indecently at his arms. Kit Harding is ripped.

With a warmth I haven’t felt in months tingling through my veins, I pull at the neckline of the black sweater I tugged on to ward off the chill.

‘How’s it going out there?’ I nod to the roof, but honestly, I’m not sure what fixing a roof entails.

‘Not bad. She’d lost about ten tiles, hence the internal sprinkler system.’