Hidden (Nicole Jones #1)(7)

‘Nicole Jones,’ I tell him, thinking about that other name, the one I haven’t uttered for years. ‘And what are you calling yourself these days?’

‘Zeke,’ he says. ‘Zeke Chapman.’

I tighten my grip on the handlebars of my bike, steadying myself as I struggle to breathe.

It is all I can do to pedal up the next hill. When the lighthouse comes into view, I jump off the bike and walk it across the grass; he is keeping up behind me. He is in good shape, with just a hint of exhaustion that comes with the island’s terrain. I wish he wasn’t. I try to sprint forward, but he is there again, at my side. His name is swirling around in my head. I don’t have to ask why he chose that one. I know why. He means to unnerve me in every possible way, as if just showing up here isn’t enough.

‘So you live here year round?’ he asks, not interested at all in the history of the lighthouse that I recite.

I nod.

‘How long have you been here?’ he asks.

While I am tempted to lie, it would be easy for him to find out the truth, if he doesn’t know already. ‘Fifteen years.’

‘All that time?’

I can see him doing the math in his head. ‘Yes.’

‘And you make your living by giving bike tours?’

‘I paint a little, too. People buy my paintings.’ I don’t mean to tell him this; it sounds like I’m boasting.

But he’s unfazed. ‘Really?’ He seems impressed.

It’s as if we were at a cocktail party, so I ask the next logical question: ‘What do you do now?’

The smile vanishes for a second and then is back, but his eyes have narrowed and he shrugs. ‘Same as before.’

It’s been so long that I can’t imagine doing what I did before.

‘Where are you living now?’ I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.

‘The same place.’

‘Really?’ My incredulity must show, because his grin broadens.

‘Not all of us run away,’ he says.

I think about this for a second before saying, ‘Some of us didn’t have a choice.’

His eyes narrow as the grin slides off his face, his jaw tenses. ‘There is always a choice.’

I sigh, shrug, kick a pebble with the toe of my shoe. I don’t want to get into it right now.

‘Do you want to have lunch?’ he asks after a few seconds.

This is not the question I’d been expecting. ‘Like a date?’ I raise my eyebrows.

‘You probably know the best places to go here,’ he says, teasing me, his eyes dancing across my face, moving down my body, lingering.

‘Yes, I do,’ I say, trying to keep my tone light. ‘I’m not sure I want to have lunch dressed like this,’ I add, indicating my bike shorts.

He assesses my legs thoughtfully. ‘I don’t mind, but I understand.’

‘I’d like to take a shower and change first,’ I say, aware of his penetrating eyes.

‘So would I,’ he says suggestively.

I cannot reply, but I start walking my bike back to the road. This is the first time I have not looked across the water from this spot.

I let him into my house, our bikes parked outside. We are in the kitchen when he reaches for me. Even though I expect it, it happens so quickly, the long, deep kiss. It is so familiar I feel a catch in my throat. I am not Nicole now. I am who I was before.

His fingers move to my breasts, between my legs, and despite myself, I want it – I want him. I force myself to pull away, aware that my face is hot and flushed. He reaches for me again, but I take another step back. I can’t do this. I don’t know what I was thinking, bringing him back here.

‘You never played hard to get before.’ His voice is gruff with desire, but to his credit, he stays where he is.

‘It’s not the same.’

‘That felt the same.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘You mean, you, here, Miss Bike Tours? You’re all settled in this little house.’ He scans the small, outdated kitchen with its white wood cabinets and Formica countertops. ‘This isn’t how I remember you.’

‘I’m not that person anymore.’

He stares at me a long time, then a slow grin spreads across his face. ‘You’ve fooled them all, haven’t you? Does anyone here know?’

‘No. And I’d like to keep it that way.’ I fold my arms across my chest, pushing him even further away.

‘You would, wouldn’t you?’ he asks.

The threat in his tone lingers, like an uninvited guest who won’t go away.

But then he leaves without another word, or another look behind him. I close the door, sliding the deadbolt and slipping on the chain as I watch him ride his bike down the hill until he is out of sight.

I shut my eyes and wish for the first time that I did not live on an island.

I don’t answer the phone when it rings. Instead, I take my painting things – the easel, the canvas, my box of paints – and walk to the beach. Not the public beach, but the one near my house, the one that no one can see from the road. The clouds have moved in; the waves crash against the sand that slides underneath them. My brush strokes are long and fat, gray with hints of blue and purple. It doesn’t really look like that, but I see the colors anyway.