She burst out laughing. ‘Oh, shut up.’
‘You are,though.’
She smacked his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin. His chuckle rumbled against the sheets.
‘Why don’t you go and have a look around the island tomorrow? You need to explore your future home.’
‘Ha ha.’
‘It’s a beautiful place and I’m convinced you’ll fall in love with it as much as you have with me.’
She swiped him again. ‘Get to sleep!’
But as she turned away, she felt it. That pull towards him, like gravity shifting.
This was going to be a problem.
A big, ridiculous, Daniel-shaped problem.
ChapterTen
Fern woke to the feeling of an empty bed. She stretched, feeling a little disappointed that Daniel wasn’t still there. She reached for her phone and checked the time, and was amazed to see it was already past nine o’clock. She couldn’t remember the last time she had slept in this late.
Normally, on a Monday, she would have been up around seven for a run, followed by Pilates, then breakfast at her local juice bar, a little hidden spot in Fulham where she always ordered the same thing: an açai bowl and an oat flat white. Then it would be straight to her laptop to start transcribing an interview or working on a feature forSound & Fury, the music magazine where she had made her name in the industry.
Her phone beeped, and she felt a shiver of excitement as she saw the reminder that had popped up. Two weeks from now, she’d be in London at the hottest gig of the year, standing backstage with exclusive access to the biggest bands on the planet. It was the kind of event she lived for: the rush of the crowd, the electrifying energy, the post-show drinks in VIP lounges where music legends spilled their secrets.
She neededthat night. Needed to remind herself who she was, that she wasn’t some shopkeeper on a sleepy island but a journalist in demand, with a career people envied. She had worked hard to get where she was. Growing up, she had devoured every issue ofRolling StoneandNME, sneaking into indie gigs with a fake ID, determined to one day be part of that world. A journalism degree and years of hustling later, she had done it. Now, she spent her life at gigs, had the ears of the industry’s biggest names, and had become a name in her own right. The next step in her career was to secure a position of editor, and soon she’d be back in London making it happen, sipping cocktails in some exclusive after-party, far away from dust-covered antiques. Fern swung her legs over the side of the bed and headed for the shower. She knew in time that Daniel would see things her way. The shop wasn’t bringing in any revenue, and it was time to face up to the fact that it was at its end.
She padded over to the tiny bathroom, where the shower seemed determined to either scald her or freeze her, but after some careful negotiating with the taps, she managed something lukewarm. Ten minutes later she was wrapped in a threadbare towel staring at her reflection in the mirror. She had survived a second night in the flat, and having someone in her bed for the first time in a long time had felt very comforting. Most of her relationships, if you could call them that, had been built on convenience and little else. Late-night drinks that turned into rushed kisses and tangled limbs, always ending the same way: either she’d kick them out before dawn, or they’d vanish without so much as a goodbye. There was no room for vulnerability, no space for comfort. That was the deal, and she’d never questioned it. But this, sleeping next to someone, feeling their warmth still lingering in the sheets the next morning, felt startlingly different. It unsettled her how much she liked it.
After she said good morning to the moose’s head like it was the most natural thing in the world, she followed the aroma of something sizzling in a pan downstairs and stopped in the doorway of the long, narrow kitchen, taking in its assortment of cabinets in varying shades of green, some doors hanging slightly askew, others proudly displaying their mismatched ceramic knobs. A farmhouse sink sat beneath a window, the glass fogged up from the steam from whatever Daniel was cooking. Pots and pans hung from a rack that swayed slightly whenever a breeze caught it. The walls were cluttered with vintage signs advertising long-forgotten brands of tea and biscuits.
The back door stood wide open, leading onto a small, stone-paved yard. Beyond it, rolling green hills tumbled towards the edge of a cliff, where the vast, glistening expanse of the sea stretched endlessly into the horizon. This was the first time she had properly seen the view and it was breathtaking, so much so that Fern found herself walking towards the open doorway, trying to process the fact that she was here, on an island, in a crumbling antique shop, watching a man she barely knew fry bacon and sausage in an ancient-looking pan.
‘Wow! Look at that!’ she couldn’t help but exclaim.
‘Morning, sleepyhead,’ Daniel greeted her without turning around, flipping a sausage expertly. He was barefoot, his hair messier than usual, wearing another old T-shirt. ‘Were you meaning to say that out loud? I know I’m a catch, but?—’
Fern rolled her eyes and cut him off. ‘I meant the view.’
‘It’s perfect, isn’t it?’ he said, turning to look at her properly.
She screwed up her eyes, wondering for a second if he actually meant her. He was definitely flirting, she decided, and she liked it.
‘You’re making breakfast again?’
‘Full English today,’ he declared proudly. ‘Figured you might need some sustenance before you start plotting your escape back to London.’
She laughed but didn’t deny it. Instead, she busied herself laying the table. As she placed the knives and forks down, Daniel turned, eyeing her with mock seriousness.
‘This is important,’ he said. ‘Brown sauce or ketchup?’
‘Brown sauce, obviously.’
He let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. ‘This relationship isn’t going to work.’
‘Oh, please,’ she replied, shaking her head and laughing as she slid into a chair. ‘I should be the one reconsidering this whole arrangement. Who puts ketchup on a full English?’
