‘Because it will change things. And I’m not ready for that.’
I am so confused.
He sighs and reaches his hand out, a peace offering. I stare at it for a few seconds before placing my palm in his. He traces his thumb over my knuckles.
‘I’ve found somewhere to stay in Perranporth.’
Finally, he’s telling me!
‘Bill asked if I’d be interested in the sous-chef position. I said I’d speak to you.’
‘He’s already mentioned it,’ I confess, staring at his thumb making its slow tracks back and forth.
He cocks his head to one side. ‘You didn’t say anything.’
‘I was waiting for you to.’
Five seconds pass before he speaks. ‘Just let me get Wales out of the way.’
‘And then what?’ I ask.
‘And then we’ll talk.’
I swallow and nod, then get up and clear my plate from the breakfast table.
I haven’t eaten a thing.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
While Tom’s away, I do something I quickly come to regret: I look him up online.
I can’t find a single thing that offers any clues as to why he might have lost his driving licence, but I do find an article about him at work. And the thought that I ever doubted his claim of being a helicopter pilot makes me feel deeply ashamed. I feel as though I’ve broken his trust and I’m still none the wiser about any dark secrets he may or may not be hiding away.
Now it’s Wednesday morning and I’ve woken up in the early hours, my mind ticking over.
Did something bad happen when he was out on a job? The article referred to the difficult terrain he has to navigate around Snowdonia National Park and out at sea, winching to cliffs and boats and landing in tight spots on mountains. Any number of things could have gone wrong, and maybe plenty did. Could he be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder?
I wish my mind would give it a rest. He will talk to me when he’s ready, and until that day comes – and I have to resign myself to the fact that it maynevercome – I need to respect his privacy.
Over on the side table, my phone lights up. I slip out ofbed and check the message that’s just come in, my heart jumping when I see that it’s from him.
‘I’m back. Will you text me when you wake up?’
I tap out: ‘I’m awake! Where are you?’
It’s only five thirty in the morning. When did he arrive in Cornwall? Late last night? He said he’d head straight to Perranporth to get himself settled. He’s booked to stay for three weeks in a mobile home in a holiday park, which is not quite the permanent accommodation Bill had thought it was, but they had availability so it will get him by until the first week of August.
‘Beach. St Agnes,’ he replies.
‘I’ll be there in ten!’
My phone begins to ring. It’s Tom.
‘Hello?’
‘Or I can come to you,’ he suggests, and the sound of his warm, deep amusement curls itself in and around my ribcage.
‘Is that an option?’ I ask breathlessly.
