Page 71 of Take Me Away

‘W-what are you doing here?’ I pull away from him, and his hand drops. The last thing I need for my mental stability right now is Kit Harding in my kitchen, seeing me hurl.

‘I came to check the roof held up yesterday.’

‘All good,’ I manage.

I can’t breathe properly. My entire body is disconnected.

‘Isla…’

‘All fine here, Harding, you can go.’

A frown chisels his brows, lips tugging down. His fingers push through his tangled waves, one tendril refusing to cooperate and flopping back down.

I watch him breathe in deeply. Controlled. His eyes close.

Yep. Counting to ten. I’ve reached a new low.

When his eyes snap back open, I swear they stare straight into my soul. ‘And I wanted to say thank you for sitting with Maisie yesterday when I was on the shout.’ The shadows in his gaze flicker. ‘She likes you.’

‘And I like her, she’s a cute kid. Really cute.’

He nods. He’s clearly battling something.

‘Spit it out, Harding.’

That frown flickers back.

Then resolve settles across his features.

‘I’m sorry I kissed you yesterday. It was inappropriate.’

‘Inappropriate?’ No. This is my new low. My palms are hot. I rub them against my jeans.

‘You know. You’ve got a boyfriend, and well, I’m still…’ He can’t even say the word mourning. I witness it get stuck sideways in his throat. ‘And I just think that it’s best to keep things – you know. Straight. Clean. For Maisie’s sake.’

Shaking my head, I pinch the bridge of my nose. ‘Kit, I kissed you. And I’m not apologising for it.’

‘But you’re in a vulnerable place, and with someone else, and…’ For an intense moment, the openness of his face, the blinking innocence in his expression shows me a person I used to know. Someone I loved.

‘Kit. I’m not with Reid. You think my self-respect is so low I’d allow a man who ditched me at the first sign of trouble to come wheedling back in?’

His lips purse as he chews on the side of his mouth. ‘Not with Reid All The Muscles Usher?’

I snort a laugh, my shoulders relaxing from where I’ve been holding them up near my ears. ‘No.’

Kit nods slowly, blue gaze sweeping my face. ‘Right.’

Another nod.

‘Right,’ I reply.

The solidity of him warms the cold kitchen.

‘Why are you here?’ I ask. ‘Really?’

He looks around the room, at Maggie’s old cookbooks still left where she put them, the teapot with its knitted cosy. The clock on the wall that no longer tells the time, but cements memory.

‘I keep asking myself the same thing,’ he admits. ‘Why you’re here. Why now. Why you had to come back and⁠—’