One Night on the Island(6)

‘Maybe,’ I say. ‘But it’s true.’

We lapse into tense silence. My beer, bath and bed plan is disintegrating in front of my eyes, and I don’t like it one bit. She pulls her phone from her pocket and stabs at it for a few seconds, then raises her eyes to the ceiling. I’d say she’s counting under her breath, the way you might when you don’t want to explode with absolute rage.

‘I’m not going back over that mountain today,’ she says, shoulders squared.

‘I don’t blame you,’ I say. ‘Me neither. Though, technically, it’s a hill.’

She screws her wide mouth into a tight line, the exact same way Nate does when things aren’t going his way.

‘We can’t both be right,’ she says. ‘And I know I am.’

Man, she’s infuriating. She’s still having a hissy fit, while I’m over here working out how we’re going to get through this. ‘We’re both going to have to stay here tonight.’

She makes an un-cute choking noise. ‘Oh, no. I don’t think so.’

‘Okay.’ I fold my arms across my chest. ‘You know where the door is.’ For the record, I don’t actually expect her to leave in this weather, I just need her to understand that it isn’t an option for me either.

She flicks her eyes towards the door. ‘And I’ll lock it, right after you leave.’

I wait a couple of beats. ‘I’m not leaving.’

‘But … you have to!’ It bursts from her like a child.

I sigh and rub my hand over my eyes. I know this must be tougher for her than it is for me. I’m not such an ass that I can’t see that any woman would be wary about spending the night with a guy she doesn’t have any reason to trust.

‘I’m married, if it helps.’ I pull my wallet from my back pocket and flip it open to the photo of Susie and the kids. ‘My wife and my sons.’

‘Why the hell would that help?’ she snaps.

‘Someone thought I was a decent enough human to marry me?’

She looks pointedly around the lodge. ‘Well, she isn’t here to vouch for you now, is she? If she even exists.’

‘She exists,’ I mutter, pissed. She exists … she’s just three thousand miles away with my kids.

‘I can’t do this,’ she says. ‘You’re a stranger and a man and …’ She waves her arm. ‘Big.’

I shrug. Not much I can do about that.

She presses her fingers against her brow. ‘Just so you know,’ she says, ‘I do krav maga.’

I don’t smirk, but I highly doubt she’s telling the truth. ‘Okay.’

‘I could totally take you down if I need to.’

‘You honestly won’t need to,’ I say. I think of Susie and how I’d want someone to act around her if she ever found herself in this position. ‘Look, I’ll sleep out on the porch tonight. I’m not saying you’re right or that I’m leaving, just that I get that it’s dark and we don’t know each other. We can sort it in the daylight.’

She stares at me, indecision all over her face. ‘I need to think,’ she mutters, opening the door to step outside. There’s a rumble of distant thunder as the wind tries to yank the door from her grip and she slams it shut again. The weather is really ramping up out there. She leans her back against the door and swallows hard. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’

I step aside so she can pass, and breathe a sigh of relief when she’s out of sight. Christ, I could really use that beer.





Cleo





2 October


Salvation Island


HOLED UP AT THE END OF THE WORLD WITH HAN SOLO


I don’t know what to do. I mean, I do. I know I’ve got no choice but to share Otter Lodge with a random American. Having seen how wild the weather is just now, he’ll probably do something dramatic like die if I take him up on his offer to sleep on the porch. And now here I am hiding in the bathroom, sitting on the loo with my horrible wet jeans bunched around my chafed ankles, wishing with all my heart to be back in my flat in London. So much for solitary beauty.

I fight my boots and jeans off and kick the ball of wet denim across the room in temper. God, that bath looks inviting. The lodge might be remote, but someone with a flair for interior design has worked some serious magic here. I couldn’t properly take in the main room because of the six-foot American standing in the middle of it, but sitting here now I appreciate the calming neutrals, the roll-top copper bathtub, the expensive bath products, the fat church candle and jar of long matches. The slate floor is blessedly warm under my feet and a pile of snow-white towels sits on an uneven wooden shelf that looks as if it might have washed up on the beach. If I was going to search for something like this on Pinterest, I’d type in ‘rustic-luxe’. It’s proper cottagecore. I can’t wait until I can enjoy it without a stranger in my peripheral vision.

‘Can you please pass my suitcase?’ I shout, hoping he doesn’t try to score any more points by refusing.

‘By the door.’

I crack the door open enough to make sure he’s not lurking, but he’s out of sight so I haul my case inside and flip the lid open on the floor.