Chapter 39
Saturday, five weeks after Pixie’s wedding.
Birds nests and flowers on doorsteps.
When I say the last thing I look out at before going to sleep isSnow Goose’smast, it’s also the first thing I see when I wake too. Today is Saturday and because, for now, I’m still counting, that’s five weeks and two days on from Pixie’s wedding. When I ease forward on my pillows and peer out of the porthole window at six, the clouds are washed with the pale apricot of dawn and a solitary seagull is perched at the top ofSnow Goose’srigging.
And then, as my eyes slide downwards, my body jerks upright – because for a second, there in the distance, through the mist rising off the water, I swear I see a figure on the deck. Hand propped against the mast. Just like …
I screw up my eyes and scrape away the sleep. And when I look again it’s gone. But when you’re as wired as I am, nothing’s completely rational. And it’s not like I can turn off the possibility in my mind. So I’m already across the room, shrugging on a cardi over my sleep-shorts and T-shirt, leaping down the stairs, wincing as the wind chills my skin.
I dive into the stepped alleyways and skid out at the bottom by the dune path. Then I’m curling back towards the harbourside cottages, scrambling over fishing nets, and leaping a pile of lobster pots. By the time I’m finally racing towards the jetties, my throat is burning and my lungs are bursting and as I get to the walkway whereSnow Gooseis moored, I’m pulling to a halt. Standing. Staring. And I already know what I’ll be looking at.
It’s the same empty space I’ve seen every other time I’ve rushed down here chasing moonbeams, only to stare out across the deserted deck.
I sag against a lamp post and blink back the tears pricking my eyelids. When my gasps finally subside, I’ll wind my way back up the long route by the empty cobbled street, past the brightly painted cottage doors, the windows with closed blinds, the early morning smells of freshly-baked bread from Crusty Cobs bakery. Past the Deck Gallery.
But for now I’m kicking myself for being so stupid. So reactive. So raw. Seriously, if I’m going to find myself half asleep down at the harbourside on a regular basis, I need more substantial pyjamas. Ideally ones with whole legs. And maybe that counselling Poppy keeps talking about – for people who’ve totally lost their shit.
I pull my cardigan closer around me. I’m scraping every last bit of energy together ready to walk back up the hill when a noise behind me makes me jump.
‘Milla?’
I glance down at the expanse of thigh on show, try to slide behind the lamp post and pretend I’m not here but it comes again.
‘Milla … are you trying to hide? It is you, Milla Vanilla …?’
And as I turn I’m blinking because, silhouetted against the streaky orange sky, there’s a figure hurrying along the quayside. Tall. Muscled. Dark wavy hair. A dusky tan. Jacket tossed over his shoulder. ‘CaptainKirk?’ I screw my eyes closed in case I’m dreaming but when I open them again he’s still there. Those faded jeans and those soft grey-brown eyes with the crinkles at the edge when he smiles – even through the blur of my tears, it couldn’t be anyone else.
I’m stammering. ‘W—w—why aren’t you on Hamilton Island?’ It’s only as he slides in beside me that it hits me quite how much I’ve been dying inside, how much I’ve been longing for the smell of him.
He’s staring down at me. ‘What about you, out in your cardi? You’re like Bridget Jones on her snow run.’
I sniff hard so he won’t see I’m crying. ‘I thought I saw you from the window, but when I got down the hill you’d gone.’ It’s such a huge flip from that worst, crushing disappointment to the whoosh of elation that he’s here. Then it hits me that I could be taking too much for granted. ‘You do want to see me?’
There’s a smile playing around his lips. ‘I didn’t come twelve thousand miles to see anyone else. I nipped to the bakery to give you time to wake up.’ He’s holding up a cake box, then his eyes narrow as he stares down at the hem of my T-shirt skimming my thighs. ‘Please make my day and tell me there are kittens under there.’
I’m feeling like a wrung-out dishcloth, and that’s all he can say? ‘For eff’s sake, Nic.’
He gives me a nudge with his elbow. ‘And …?’
Two seconds in his company and I’m already rolling my eyes. ‘There are kittens. And pompoms too.’ It’s sad to watch how much he visibly relaxes. ‘So how come you’re on deck at six in the bloody morning?’
He blows out a breath. ‘I flew in to London late last night, picked up a car, and here I am.’ He runs his fingers through the tangle of his curls. ‘I really needed to talk to you.’
I’m trying not to let my heart sink as I hear that, and to re-twist my hair so I look less like a seagull built its nest on my head as I slide onto the nearest bench. ‘Is here okay?’
‘Anywhere is good.’ He slides his jacket around my shoulders. ‘It’s still quite cold. Why not put this on.’
It still doesn’t feel real. I’m inhaling his scent from the fabric, tucking my knees up, hugging them to my chest as much for comfort as for warmth. I hate to admit that the jacket is one small gesture; I’m a strong independent woman, but it’s still the loveliest feeling to have someone looking out for me. As I pull the edges closer around me, my eyes are randomly leaking, so I’m mopping them with my cardigan cuff. And even though he’s come all this way, it still feels as if there’s a very large chasm he hasn’t crossed yet. That in spite of the nudges and the kitten jokes, as he sits down beside me, he’s still keeping his distance. Now that he’s here, however much he’s respecting my boundaries, I don’t want to let him too far out of reach, so I shuffle towards him.
He pushes the open cake box towards me. ‘I hope you still like almond croissants. They’re just out of the oven.’
‘Great choice, Nicolson. And you know me, six won’t be a challenge.’ That’s total bullshit. Right now, the dragonfly explosion in my stomach is making my mouth drier than sawdust; I couldn’t manage a bite. Instead I take one, and wave it around, trying to divert attention from my lack of appetite. ‘So how’s your new job? It must be good if they’re already giving you a holiday.’
He pulls a face. ‘Mostly brilliant. It’s a great boat, fabulous sailing, lovely employers.’
My eyes are wide. ‘Lots to like then.’ No downsides at all. And I’m reminding myself, most business guys don’t have carbon footprints as teensy as mine; they fly long-distance without a second thought. There are heaps of reasons he could be here, other than me – for family, or an emergency with the company.
