Chapter Sixteen
“He thought he was too good for the island when he left. Well, maybe we didn’t want him back.”
FLYNN DIDN’Tdo denials. If people wanted to believe the worst of him, let them. It was no skin off his nose. But for the first time in a long time, he was tempted to defend himself. He overcame the urge.
“What if I did?” he asked. “Why do you care? Banging your father figure? It’s what a bad boyfriend would do, right?”
For a second Nate looked conflicted. The expression on his handsome, mobile face was caught between accusation and apology. Flynn felt anticipation catch in his chest as he waited to see what it would be. He didn’t know why it would matter, but it felt like it would.
Instead Nate shrugged.
“You’re right. It’s none of my business.” He pushed himself off the wall and ducked under Flynn’s arm, but he touched Flynn’s hip as he did so. It was a casual touch, careless even, but it sparked heat under Flynn’s skin. “I should get back to work. I’ll call later if I can.”
He took two quick strides down the alley, stopped, and turned back.
“Thanks,” he said. “For helping Mum. I appreciate it.”
Flynn scratched the back of his neck. “It’s my job.”
“Still.” Nate gave him a tight smile, but it softened after a moment, and the edges curled into something more genuine. “Funny thing is, I don’t think she’s ever warmed to any of my actual boyfriends this quickly.”
Nate gave a quick nod, and then he left.
Fuck.
Flynn groaned to himself and scrubbed his hands over his face. It felt like he’d just lost a game he didn’t even want to admit he’d been playing. What exactly had he expected from Nate? That he’d buck the habits of a lifetime, of the island, and just have some faith in Flynn?
Actually, Flynn realized, yeah. Once he put it into words, that was exactly what he wanted. He could have just denied he’d ever gone near Teddy St. John, or even told the truth, but instead he’d dug his heels in to see if maybe, just maybe, Nate wouldn’t think the worst of him.
Even though Flynn had been pretty sure he would. Or maybe it wasbecauseof that. It was why he’d come back to the island—because it was the one place on earth that he wouldn’t be tempted to get comfortable.
“Idiot.” He swung his foot in a short frustrated arc that connected with the red-glazed pot by the gate. It hit the wall and cracked in half, and a dead lavender plant and three years’ worth of cigarette butts spilled over the ground.
Because that helped.
THE GULLwas back. It perched precariously on the kitchen window and squawked insistently through the glass. Flynn leaned over the sink and banged his knuckles on the glass. It shut up but didn’t actually move. Its feathers fluffed out from its body as it peered at him judgmentally.
“You’re a pain in the ass, bird.” Flynn left the dishes to soak in the sink, wiped his soapy hands on his jeans, and grabbed a tin of sardines from the cupboard. He peeled the lid off, opened the back door, and tossed the brine and slippery pickled little fish out onto the grass. The gull swooped down on them and hopped from fish to fish to snap them up. “I should have called you Max instead.”
The gull ignored him. Once it was fed, it didn’t care what he did.
Flynn leaned against the door, crossed his arms, and watched it for a second. The fact that he’d bought the fish just for the gull meant that it might be a pet now.
He shifted his attention to the horizon. The sun hung low in the sky and stained the shredded clouds in shades of rose and gold. Beneath it a ribbon of golden light that looked as solid as a path stretched across the sea toward the cliff. A few birds hung in the air, silhouetted against the sky like a child’s pencil check marks.
They never had much when he was growing up. Even with the garage, his dad had only ever just about made ends meet—too many favors for his mates, too much time down at the pub after Flynn’s mother died. But no matter how bad things got, he always had the view. Even when he was coming home to hot dogs and rice for dinner, he could look out on a scene that people were willing to pay a fortune for.
As he watched, a slack fin popped up out of the water, and he could see the shadow of a pale, round body under the golden water—a sunfish, although occasionally the sight disturbed tourists.
The old-fashioned jangle of the doorbell echoed through the lighthouse and jarred Flynn out of his contemplation. He glanced at the gull, who’d finished its fish and was a fluffed-out ball perched on the cliff edge.
“Looks like your namesake is here,” he said.
The gull ignored him. Flynn went back inside and closed the door behind him. Despite the lingering frustration over their earlier conversation—although he wasn’t even sure who he was frustrated with. Himself? Nate?—he stood straighter and rubbed a hand over the rough on his jaw.
He could have shaved. Not that Nate had complained about his grooming so far.
The doorbell rang again. Flynn grunted irritably and stretched his stride out, despite the lingering ache that was still lodged in his thigh.
