When she returned to the kitchen dressed, Emma was still standing by the counter. But something had shifted in the few minutes Natalie had been gone.
Natalie took a long sip of her coffee. “What is it?”
Emma’s gaze flicked to her face, then away. “I was going to tell you last night. In the pub.” A pause, and Natalie could see her choosing her words carefully. “But then you left before we could sit down properly.”
The jealousy returned, sharp and sudden. Trish’s hand on Emma’s arm. The way they’d leaned toward each other, voices too low to hear. The way Emma had looked at Trish—warm, comfortable, unguarded. It had been unbearable then. Now, with the taste of Emma still on her tongue, it felt ridiculous.
“I booked my flight to Sydney,” Emma said. “It’s tomorrow.”
The words struck her hard. She’d imagined weeks ahead—the rest of summer. Mornings in bed, walks through the woods, evenings by the fire pit where they could finally talk. She’d thought they had time.
“For how long?”
“Ten days.”
Natalie nodded, the motion automatic while her mind scrambled to recalibrate. Ten days. A week and a half to sort out a life in Australia, to resign from a job, to pack up. It wasn’tlong. But the thought of Emma on a plane tomorrow, of waking up in the cottage with no light in the windows next door, made something in her chest constrict.
Her stomach chose that moment to rumble, loud and insistent in the quiet kitchen. Emma’s mouth twitched, the first genuine expression Natalie had seen since the phone call.
“I’m going to shower too,” Emma continued. “I’ll come over in half an hour?”
“Sure.” Natalie finished her coffee in one long swallow, the last of it gone bitter and cold. She moved to the counter, scanning for a dishwasher, and found it tucked beneath the counter beside the sink. The door opened with a soft click, and she slotted the mug into the top rack beside a single plate and bowl.
She paused at the back door, her hand on the handle, and turned back. Emma was still standing by the counter, watching her with an expression Natalie couldn’t quite read. There was something fragile in it, something that made Natalie want to cross the room and pull her close again.
“We’ll figure it out,” Natalie said, and the words came out rough, like they had to fight their way past something lodged in her throat.
Emma nodded once. A small motion, but it felt like a promise.
Natalie stepped outside into the morning air. The gravel crunched under her feet as she walked the familiar path between their gardens, and she could feel Emma watching her from the kitchen window. The knowledge of it warmed her back like sunlight.
19
Emma sat on the back step of Bridget’s cottage. They’d had breakfast together inside. The hunger had surprised her. She’d expected to be too twisted up with nerves to eat, but her body had other ideas.
The morning air moved against her face now, carrying the scent of the roses Bridget had planted along the back wall. White clouds drifted overhead, their shadows moving across the garden in slow patches. Everything felt impossibly ordinary for a morning that had started with Natalie naked in her bed.
The back door opened behind her, and Natalie emerged, settling beside Emma on the narrow step. The warmth of her thigh pressed against Emma’s, solid and reassuring. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, still damp from her shower, with loose strands escaping to frame her face.
“So,” Natalie said, her voice careful. “I just want to apologize for last night. At the pub.” She paused, and Emma could see her choosing her words. “I’m not used to being jealous. I hate that I was.”
Emma spoke before she could stop herself. “But if you weren’t, last night probably wouldn’t have happened.”
“No.” Natalie smoothed her hands down her thighs, the khaki fabric of her trousers shifting under her palms. “I haven’t been great at telling you how I feel.”
The admission made Emma’s pulse jump. Her fingers found the silver ring on her index finger, twisting it.
“Neither have I,” she said, the words coming out quieter than she intended. “I shouldn’t have let you go so easily. After you kissed me in the woods. I might not have been able to convince you to miss your flight and stay for a few more days, but I could have told you what I wanted. How I felt. I could have skipped my shift and had a few more hours with you.” Emma pressed her lips together for a second. “What you said to me that day, about being too old for me. Do you know how old I am?”
She had always known Natalie’s age. A simple Google search that first summer had told her everything. Natalie Clarke, born May 15th, fifteen years before Emma’s own birthday.
“No,” Natalie said. “I mean, I had an idea. You were in college then, training to be a nurse. I could make a guess.”
“It’s really not that big of a deal. Have you ever felt it when we’re together? All those summers?”
Natalie turned to look at her fully, and Emma could see the worry creasing the corners of her eyes. “No.” The word came out slowly, like she was testing it. “How bad is it? Am I eleven years older than you? Twelve?”
“Fifteen.”
