That wave of guilt hits me again. ‘I’m so sor?—’
‘Don’t.’ Before I realise what’s happening, he’s wrapped his arms around me, and I think we might be… hugging?
His arms slide around my shoulders and he holds me tight against his chest. The material of his long-sleeved top is soft and clingy in all the right places, and he’s got the muscles of someone who spends their days swinging pickaxes and shifting bricks around or whatever it is he’s doing up there, and I can feel my defences crumbling away. He smells like some sort of tropical shower gel, and his long arms are deceptively strong and steady and they make me feel like everything’s going to be okay.
I slip my arms around his waist and squeeze him back. I let myself relax against his chest, and feel his chin rest gently on top of my head. He lets out a sigh that makes me think I wasn’t the only one who needed a hug, and although I know I should pull away, that tiny under-breath noise makes meneverwant to pull away.
‘Is this okay?’ he murmurs.
No, probably not, because I can’t remember the last time I had a hug that felt so good, but that noise of agony when he stood up made a protective side of me burst forth and I suddenly want to hold him in my arms until his leg heals, and take away the other pain he’s hiding underneath his sunny smile. Instead, I nod against his chest and his arms tighten even further, and his chin moves against my hair like his smile has grown even bigger.
We stay like that for longer than is probably appropriate, but neither of us seems inclined to move, and I let myself stop analysing it and just enjoy feeling safe, and like I matter to someone.
When he eventually extricates his arms and takes a step back, I know the daft grin on my face matches the one on his. ‘Sorry if that was improper. You looked like you could use a hug, and I definitely needed one.’
If nothing else, I appreciate his openness in admitting that. The world would be a better place if more people were as direct as Reece is, and also if all hugs were as good as that one.
‘It wasn’t. It was…’ I stutter for a neutral description, and then decide to try his brand of directness instead. ‘…the best hug I’ve had in years.’
‘Me too.’ His impossible-to-stop smile gets unfathomably wider, even though I think he’s being modest there. He isgorgeous, the kind of gorgeous that’s amplified by his sparkling personality, and I can’t imagine that therearen’twomen queuing up to hug him, and definitely more.
We’re grinning at each other in the small space again, and eventually, he has to shift the weight off his leg and his eyes fall onto the broken teapot again. He leans past me to pick up the bowl and lifts the pieces to examine them, handling them gently with long fingers that are surprisingly elegant for someone who spends his days doing manual labour. ‘I’ll take it. Throw it in the skip on my way up.’
‘Thanks.’ That stupid teapot has become weirdly symbolic now. A metaphor for everything that came after it. Throwing it away feels like a big step, one that I’m not sure I’m ready for, and yet, space is limited in the van and sentimental shards of broken china don’t earn their keep.
‘Goodnight.’ He pulls the door open and steps down into the car park, the broken teapot jangling with every movement. He turns back to me and leans against the open door, and there’s something in his expression that makes my heart skip, and it takes all my willpower not to reach out and pull him back in.
‘Thank you for the…’ He’s at a loss for words aboutwhatexactly just happened, and I can’t come up with anything better than a charged pause either.
‘Ditto.’ It encompasses everything. Thank you for the hug, the reminder of my gran’s recipes that I was scared I’d never get to make again, for making me feel steady in an ever-spinning world, and for being the nicest human I’ve ever had the pleasure of running over.
His answering smile suggests he understands thatIunderstand the complete loss for words and he salutes me with the bowl of broken teapot pieces. ‘Goodnight then.’
‘Goodnight.’ My jaw is hurting at the edges from how widely I’m smiling and I find myself leaning around the van door and watching him as he limps away into the night, and when I can no longer see him, I close the door and let out a high-pitched squeal. If I had the space, I’d throw my arms out and spin around in a giddy circle, overjoyed by what turned out to be an unexpectedly wonderful night, and a welcome reminder that maybe all is not lost.
11
I wake up with a jolt to the sound of ‘Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’’ being wailed outside my window and groan. Is it morning? I lean over and pull aside the curtain covering the back window and squint as sunlight assaults my eyeballs. I don’t know what time I eventually got to sleep last night, but far from sleeping soundly, I spent many unproductive hours lying in the little cabin bed and thinking about Reece, and now it’s like I’ve accidentally summoned him as a particularly noisy alarm clock. I push the duvet aside and scramble down the ladder until I can unlock the door and slide it open.
Outside, I’m greeted by a can of paint. Or, more specifically, a can of paint being held in mid-air, suspended from a set of fingers closed around the handle.
‘Good morning,’ the owner of the fingers says cheerfully.
‘What’s that?’
Reece pulls back with a befuddled expression as he looks between me and the paint. ‘You can’t tell that’s a tin of paint?’
‘Well, yeah, but it’s…’ I look around for a clock, but there isn’t one in the van, and then I spot the watch on his wrist and lean out to grab his hand and pull it near enough to see. ‘…quarter to nine in the morning. As breakfast options go, it’s an odd choice. I’m more of a coffee and toast girl, usually.’
He laughs, a big, loud laugh, and even in my just-woken-up state, I love that he doesn’t hold back any laughs, ever. ‘It’s not for you, it’s for Campervan.’
I pat the closed door and address the campervan itself. ‘Aww, he called you by name, my friend. Wait…’ I turn back to him as my brain catches up with what he said. ‘Why would you have a tin of paint for her?’
I’ve become the thing I hate. I now see the campervan as a female co-conspirator, and she’s been good to me so far, minus the shower incident. Maybe she deserves a name, or at the very least, a gender.
‘I couldn’t stop thinking about you after I left last night, and I kept going back to what I said about Jared and social media. This is a very recognisable van andthisis a busy touristy area. There’ll always be a slim chance someone could recognise it. So why not give it a makeover?’
He holds up the tin of paint again, and I squint at it, feeling so disjointed that I must still be in the middle of a dream. ‘You think we should paint the van? To what, disguise it?’
