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Chapter 3

ROWAN

I also trust him when he steers me to my car and tells me that he'll be right back. Not that I have any other choice than to wait because he moves fast, gone across the coast road, lamb in hand. That's where I know farmland rises up to wilder moorland. I can't see it without my glasses. I can only make out that tors rise fuzzily in the distance if I squint. He's a much clearer if half-dressed outline when he comes back.

"I left it safely with its mum, but not before it crapped on me one last time." He must have unzipped his wetsuit to shake that crap off because he closes in on me bare-chested, wetsuit hanging at his hips, and I catch a flash of inky chest hair as he passes while tossing a quick, "Give me a minute," over his shoulder.

He jogs to his own vehicle, and I'm not so shortsighted that I can't tell it's a blue camper van with a white wave decal. It must also have a winch attachment. I hear a motor kick in, winding in that rope, and at the same time, what he said kicks in.

He could have winched me up without risking himself if I'd?—

"Right." He's back, only now he wears board shorts and a desert camo T-shirt. He also carries a pack of wet wipes that he thrusts at me. "You can get the worst off with these." He checks his watch. "Forty-five minutes." A door slams, and I'm alone beside my car with him in the driver's seat. He winds down the window. "What are you waiting for? Get in."

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like? I'm driving you to get your spare glasses." He taps the face of his watch. "Forty-four minutes. Want to waste another couple by gobbing off some more?"

I don't.

I get in the car and tell him where I stayed last night. "I booked a place nice and close so I wouldn't be late." My chest tightens, only not as a signal of voice-stealing panic. It's at how pointless all that planning had been, which isn't funny. However, resisting impulses isn't my strong suit and neither is reading people. I can't tell what he thinks when my panicked laughter hitches. I wrestle it down as he starts the engine, and I think I've convinced him that I've got it together like a normal person until he turns the key again and shuts off the engine.

I know he's looking at me even if I can't make myself look back. Then he's in my space, his hand on my thigh, and the last time I was cornered in a confined space didn't end well, but today the only order I hear is gruff yet gentle.

"Breathe." He waits a beat before asking, "You want this job," in a way that isn't a question. Neither is the next. "I told you that you've got grit. Dig deep for some more of it, yeah? You can fall apart later." He squeezes my thigh like he did my shoulder on the cliffside, and we don't have time for this but he repeats a quiet, "Breathe," and I can. He breathes with me a few times before asking, "Ready now?"

I nod. I also press my lips tight at how many minutes I've wasted, but at least we're off now.

He drives the wrong way along the coast road, taking me further away from the school instead of closer, but I want to believe him when he tells me I still have time to make it. It's harder to trust when he suddenly slows and then pulls the car over into another lay-by.

"What? Why are you stopping?" The answer is smudged and hazy—another surfer approaches, his wetsuit unzipped and hanging from his hips like?—

I don't even know his name.

I find out when he winds down the window and this second surfer leans in, his chest heaving.

"Fuck me, Sexy," he pants. "The hill up from the beach is steeper than that bastard outside Damascus where we hijacked that Hummer." He peers in at me, his eyebrows raised. "Now you're hijacking a Ford Focus and a cliff jumper?"

"I didn't jump?—"

My driver interrupts us. He also passes a set of keys out the window. "I'm not hijacking anyone, Matt. The camper is back there. Pick me up in Porthperrin in a few?" Then he pulls out onto the road again before I can thank the man who sat on a board beside those rocks for me. But then I haven't thanked the one sitting beside me either, have I?

"Sexy?"

He glances my way, that ghost of a smile back. "Sexton. Liam Sexton. Ex-Sapper, like that wanker." He must see my incomprehension. "Ex-forces," he explains. "Army. Royal Engineer."

"Rowan Byrn." I don't add ex-boy band member. I've left that fuckwit behind. I still swallow around a lump of what I do need to tell him because I might have a long track record for misjudging people, but there's no mistaking his help was crucial. "Thank you, Liam. I… I really don't know what I would have done without you."

He doesn't answer. Or at least he doesn't until we're heading down the steep hill to the fishing village where I spent a sleepless night staring at a ceiling. I know it's a pretty place—I saw the bright strings of bunting fluttering between white-painted cottages when I first got here. They waved me goodbye and good luck not long ago. Now all I can focus on is what's closest to me. Who's closest. And on how he sounds when I thank him again.

"It was nothing." He scrubs at the back of his neck. "It was good to feel useful." It almost sounds as if the words for once are missing, and if I had time, I'd want to know why. I don't though. The clock still ticks on my second-chance countdown, and he's in as much of a hurry as I am. He must be. Once we're parked, he steers me again with one hand on my elbow through the car park.

His touch shifts, coming around me and lowering. It lands on my hip, pulling me close when we take a narrow alley to the harbour. The scent of brine is condensed there, thick like the shadows that are a sudden contrast to sunny brightness. I can't see a fucking thing and I stumble, slipping on damp cobbles, but once again he's got me.

I'm pressed to his chest in another second chance, and if the countdown to my interview wasn't urgent, I'd take it—I'd give in to the kind of impulsive behaviour my last headmaster despaired of. I'm my mother's son though, and she was always a free spirit, so I'd kiss Liam Sexton for real instead of just thinking about it. Not only because he's called me pretty. Plenty of people have said that, and look where it got me.

No, I'd kiss him so he knew how much I appreciate him.

I don't do that, but he doesn't let go of me either. He could pick up his pace if he wanted, march me along the harbour to the pub where my spare glasses are in my wash bag and a clean shirt hangs in the wardrobe. He does neither, still holding me close. He's so big and solid. Substantial. Both of his arms are around me, only a packet of wet wipes between us instead of a lamb, and?—

He pulls away before I notice what he must have already spotted.

Movement flickers at the mouth of the alley, then someone passes us with a cheery greeting that Liam returns before his hand is back on my hip, steering me safely to the harbour.

I squint. The pub where I stayed last night is just visible. "There's the Anchor. I can take it from here."

He either doesn't hear that or ignores me, which should set old alarm bells ringing, but the only chimes come from a bell above the pub's front door. It tinkles as I bypass the entrance to the main bar and head straight for the staircase.

I don't climb them on my own.

He's one step behind me all the way up, my shadow when I get out my room key, and I can feel his eyes on me. Can see them too once I find my spare glasses. He's still on the threshold, his gaze unwavering as I empty the pockets of my jacket before dabbing at it with a wet wipe. Then he's in the bedroom with me, the door closing behind him, and again, alarm bells don't start up with their old clamour until one of his hands covers mine to stop me. His voice also stops that siren before it can shriek louder.

"Leave your jacket to me. You got another shirt?"

I nod.

"Change into it. I've got this."

Maybe I should think twice about breaking a promise I made to my stepdad. I told him I'd never strip in front of a virtual stranger again, but I don't have to worry. He isn't here to watch me. Liam doesn't watch me either. He takes my jacket to the bathroom. A tap runs as I get busy dragging off my dirty shirt. I drag on a clean one even faster. That only leaves my trousers, which aren't half as dirty. I wipe them off, then pull on a much cleaner jacket, thanks to Liam who says, "Here."

He holds out what I emptied from my pockets and tossed on the bed.

I take my keys, almost leaving the tin whistle he also offers. My flute's a more impressive way to showcase my skills than that battered old keepsake. I pocket it rather than explain, in a hurry to get that showcasing started. I lock the door behind us and rush downstairs, only pausing when I open the door to the harbour and that bell tinkles again.

I look back then to see that Liam's followed me as far as the foot of the staircase. Now he hangs back, letting me go.

Tourists pass by on the harbour, life going on as normal outside, while I feel like I've lived through warfare, a skirmish I only survived because of this man who nods at the door I still hold open. He tells me without words to make tracks while I still can, and I should, especially when he checks his watch.

"Twenty-seven minutes left on the clock." His voice is lovely and low. I wish I could hear him sing even if I couldn't harmonise with him now my singing days are over. He isn't done speaking either. "Make the most of every minute, Rowan. Go."

"I…" I do make the most of it, only not by leaving.

Not yet.

I go back to him instead.

He tilts his head, watching, his brow creased, and his lips part as if to repeat his order. I clasp his arm before he gets to, and he doesn't say no, but I haven't exactly asked him for permission, have I? I do that as laughter drifts from the main bar and seagulls cry behind the now closed door to the harbour, but all I truly register is my own voice cracking. "Can I?—"

I don't get to finish.

He dips his head, and our mouths meet.

We kiss while a clock ticks. His lips are soft, his stubble rougher, the slick tip of his tongue there for a fleeting moment. That's an electric sensation. It's also testing. Cautious. Wary, like I've seen in my own mirror all too often since fucking up so badly. For once, I want this more than the peace of mind that being alone brings, so I go up on tiptoe to open to him.

Our tongues touch, and I know I've done this before. There's a whole court injunction detailing graphic sex from start to finish. I've locked that kiss-and-tell away so tightly that this feels like a first time—so much so that I don't know what to do with my nose. Ours bump, then bump again until he shifts, and that's better, even if my glasses slip and steam up. I don't need to see, not while I'm busy feeling, and this slipping, sliding sensation lights me, heating me all over, which is weird because I shiver.

I wind my arms around his neck and he holds me just as tightly, hands skimming my sides next, sliding around to the small of my back until he's got two handfuls of what last got me into trouble, and I like him squeezing my arse about as much as I like his tongue in my mouth.

Like it?

His kiss is still electric, still close to lightning zipping through me, and just as shocking as the bell over the front door suddenly tinkling.

I lurch away, immediately wanting to lurch back, but as customers enter the main bar, I settle for telling him what still feels more important. "Thanks again. For everything."

The door closes behind them. We're alone again—could get back to what I started—but he murmurs, "Tick-tock, Row," and I know he's right. I still dart back for one more quick kiss, my hold sliding from the curve of his biceps down corded forearms to the big, square bones of his wrists before I finally break contact. That's harder than it should be. I shove my hand into my pocket where that old tin whistle is a good reminder of the second chance I'm really here for.

I take one step away followed by another. A third brings me to the harbourside door, which I open, but I still don't cross the threshold. I nod towards the bar door instead. "Feels like I should buy you a drink to say a real thanks. I mean, I'm not a fan, but whatever your poison, it would be on me."

"Not a fan, Row? What are you gonna celebrate with?"

"Celebrate?"

"When you get the job."

He's so convinced I still stand a chance. That warms me inside. Maybe that's why I'm reminded of what Mum always made on cold nights. "With a hot chocolate?"

That ghost smile flickers. "Go get your job, Row."

And for once?

I actually want to follow orders.

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