“Oh—really?” That wasn’t the impression I got. “That’s…good to hear.”
“Have you had brekkie yet?” he asked.
“Haven’t even had coffee yet,” I admitted.
Willoughby laughed when he saw the espresso machine. “We used to have the same one at the campus café we worked at.”
“You two worked together?”
“Of course. He trained me to be a barista. But it wasn’t long before the student became the master.” When I gave him a confused look, he leant close conspiratorially and whispered, “We were quite competitive when itcame to latte art.”
I perked up at that, and before I knew it, I was showing him all sorts of designs I’d seen online.
“Have you heard of the seahorse?”
My jaw dropped. “Yes!”
I’d heard it was a notoriously difficult one to pull off.
“Here, let me show you a basic one first…”
Next thing I knew, he was using Brandon’s espresso machine. I considered protesting, but he clearly knew his way around it. And he’d said we could use it. Was it too much of a stretch to let Willoughby help me? I honestly didn’t know, but I forgot my worries as he began making a cappuccino, explaining every step and even guiding my hands through the motions.
And then Brandon came home and the spell broke. I felt like a naughty child, caught doing something I shouldn’t.
A guilty feeling gnaws at me as the trees thin, the castle visible beyond them. It’s small but impressive, all grey flint and crenellated parapets. Half-castle, half-period-drama manor, the kind of place that looks like it should come with scandalous letters and tea trays.
Sprawling lawn surrounds it, and I try to focus on the positives. The Rose Gardens are meant to be beautiful, though roses are the last thing I want to see after this morning.
I can’t believe Brandon gave my sister roses—red ones, symbolising romantic love.
Embarrassingly, I still hope he might have feelings for me.
I certainly didn't expect Brandon to be interested in Ellenor, but looking back, they always treated each other with such familiarity. Like their verbal sparring. Or the way she invited herself to stay here, confident he wouldn’t turn her away.
Her words from our phone call echo back.
“Brandon loves me. He won’t say no.”
I took it for a throwaway comment, but was there a grain of truth to it?
They have history. After Dad introduced them years ago, he admitted, half-jokingly, that he hoped they’d ‘hit it off’. They never did—or so I assumed. TheWords with Friendsgame is proof they stayed in touch.
Then there are her mysterious outings, always when Brandon’s supposedly at work. Maybe she’s been meeting him at the oyster farm?
Jealousy awakens, ugly and irrational, as I picture her laughing behind him on the quad bike, the wind streaming through her perfect sheet of ice-blonde hair.
The image leaves me hollow, like something inside me has deflated.
She’s the flame to his calm, intriguing him in the moments where I say nothing at all. I thought our silences were comfortable, but maybe they’re just dull. Ellenor meets his dry wit with fire, ready to take on the world, while I keep flinching from it.
And they’re closer in age, only four years apart. For the first time since I arrived in England, I feel the age gap between Brandon and me like a staggering divide. Of course he’d see me that way: a wide-eyed girl he humours, not a woman he could ever see in that light.
Willoughby’s hand brushing mine jolts me back to the present.
“Hey,” he says brightly. “Did I mention I used to work at Whitstable Castle?”
“Did you?” I ask.
