His lip quirks. “And here I thought the song might have a deeper significance for your journey.”
“Nope.” I take a long sip of my drink, the straw dragging at the last drops noisily.
“Pity. Well, my mistake.”
We stare at the sea, both smiling, mine a little bashful, his edged with amusement.
A large raindrop splats against my temple. I flinch, glancing skyward just as another lands on my wrist.
“Uh-oh.”
“Yep, that’s a storm,” he says as cold, fat droplets start pelting us.
We’re on our feet in an instant, Brandon grabbing the kazoos and shaking our clothes free of grit.
“Come on.” He holds out his hand, and I take it unquestioningly.
“Back to the cottage?” I ask.
“Too far. Let’s get into town.”
We break into a mad dash, the clean, earthy smell of rain rising as it pours down heavily. Within minutes, my hair’s clinging damp against my cheeks, my sneakers squeaking with water.
It’s dusk now, golden lamplight spilling across the wet streets as we search for shelter.
“In here—there’s a tearoom,” Brandon mutters, and we duck into the mouth of a narrow alleyway lit by the glow of a window of what looks like a cosy place—only for the sign to flip ‘CLOSED’ in our faces.
“Oh no,” I say, laughing shakily.
We retreat beneath the awning opposite, pressing our backs against the wall to avoid the thick sheet of rain falling inches from our faces.
Our chests rise and fall as we gasp for air, clothes damp and skin slick, and it’s only then I realise…he’s still holding my hand.
14
Echoes
Brandon
The alley shimmers with rain, lit faintly by the glow of the tearoom windows opposite. Trapped beneath the striped canopy awning, my gaze flicks sideways to Lily-Anne. She’s breathless, cheeks flushed, hair clinging damp to her cheeks. And her hand…it’s warm in mine, palm soft, fingers delicate.
What on earth am I doing?
I drop her hand at once—more abruptly than I mean to.
Her smile falters the moment I let go.
Words of apology form on my lips, but I don’t utter them. How can I possibly explain?
“Lovely English summer we’re having!” she shouts over the roar, hugging herself.
I seize on the deflection gratefully, letting sarcasm pitch my voice. “It’s a stereotype.”
“I can see that!”
“Aren’t you glad you’re not in Sydney?”
“So glad—it’s meant to be sunny all week there, you know.”
