Page 63 of One Last Gift

Cassie gripped the note tighter. She could hear his voice, playful, teasing. It gave her those same conflicting feelings she always had, each time she opened the next clue. The pressure on her chest, her heart, as she thought of her brother, and the fact that she’d lost him. And that spark, the flutter almost, as she read words that connected her to him. Words that made her feel his presence lingering around her.

She read the note one more time, then looked up at Greg and blinked. “He wanted me to stay overnight?”

“Yes, that’s what he told me.”

“But I can’t,” she said flatly. “I’ve got work tomorrow.” As she said it, she realized how stupid this all was, how reckless. She should never have just taken off with Sam—the seven-hour trip down here had been exhausting, and now she had to do it all back again, and Greg wasn’t even going to give her the damned clue. She should have planned this more properly, and then she’d have been prepared. She took a breath, tried to stay calm. “And you’re clearly not in a position to put us up in any case.” She gestured around the room, but he shrugged.

“I’ve got a place in town, like I said. It’s no bother. Besides, if it’s what Tom wanted, I’ll make it happen.”

“But…” Cassie stared at him helplessly. “I’ve got work,” she repeated. “I can’t stay in the middle of nowhere without planning, without telling people, without—” She looked at Sam, sitting next to her. “Why are you grinning?” she demanded.

His grin just got bigger. “Because you’re cute when you’re flustered.” She narrowed her eyes at him and he held up his hands. But he didn’t push. He wasn’t going to make her do it, she realized. The decision had to be hers. He’d let her turn around and leave, without the clue, if she wanted to. She looked to the window, to where the ocean was waiting. If it’s what Tom wanted.

This was probably exactly the reaction he’d have expected from her, too—to freak out, refuse to do it. But he must’ve thought she would go through with it, because otherwise she’d never get to the gift at the end.

Sam took her hand, squeezed it. She looked down to where their fingers laced, so easily, together. “He’s trying to show you something, I think,” he said. “Why don’t you let him?”

“But my job, Sam. My boss already hates me.”

“So what’s the problem, if he already does? You’re not going to make it worse in that case. Just call in sick.”

She frowned. “I’ve literally never faked being sick in my entire life.” She usually agonized over it even when she was ill, torn between not wanting to pass the cold or whatever on and not wanting to look like she was faking it, terrified that people wouldn’t believe her.

“I’ll call in for you?”

She snorted. “What am I, nine?”

“No,” he said softly. “You’re definitely not nine.” Their gazes met, held. Then she had to look away quickly, because it felt too intense, and Greg was still there, watching them with a bemused expression. Tom had thought she’d be alone, which would have been even more daunting. But the prospect of staying overnight somewhere with Sam made her stomach churn with a different kind of nerves.

Still, Greg was right. And there was no question about it—not really. She wasn’t going to fall at this hurdle, not when she so desperately wanted to get the next clue. If it was what Tom had wanted, then she had to do it. So she squared her shoulders. “OK. I’ll stay.”

Chapter Thirty

After telling them he’d be back tomorrow with the clue and wishing them a good night, Greg left the cottage, leaving Sam and Cassie in the kitchen, alone. Sam smiled at her. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I could do with a quick nap, before we do anything else.” Do anything else—what was that supposed to mean? Nothing, she told herself firmly. Stop reading into everything.

Sam insisted she take the bed to nap, which was far comfier than it looked, with about four more pillows than were totally necessary. She fell asleep more easily than she’d thought she would, given the way her stomach would not stop churning, and when she woke it was after six p.m.

She gathered her washbag from her suitcase, found a towel in the drawer under the bed, and padded down the corridor to the bathroom. Where she nearly collided with Sam, who was coming out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist, muscled chest fully on show. Jesus, would you look at him? She felt a blush rise to her face, even as her mouth went a little dry. She made herself look up, into his eyes, and she swore she saw him trying to stop a smile. And why wouldn’t he be smiling? He must know how good he looked naked. Naked. He was naked, under that towel.

Stop it, Cassie!

She cleared her throat. “I’ll, er, just have a shower, if that’s OK?” God, what was she doing? Why was she asking for permission?

In the bathroom, she told herself to get a bloody grip, even though she felt like a complete mess of emotions. She gave herself a stern look in the mirror. “You can do this,” she said firmly. She could stay here, next to a lighthouse, on a cliff edge. She could stay here, with Sam, miles away from her home in London. It would be fine. There was no reason her stomach should be churning this way—she was probably just hungry.

She got dressed in the jeans and loose black top that she’d worn on the way to the manor, then agonized over whether to put makeup on. It was just the two of them, so it would be obvious she’d done it for him, but in the end she put some on anyway, keeping it subtle, because she was too self-conscious not to.

Sam was fully dressed by the time she got back to the kitchen, though she couldn’t decide if she was relieved or disappointed by that. He was holding a wicker carrier bag, which he held up to her. “I’ve packed some food. Thought we could go out, have a picnic somewhere on the cliffs.”

“A picnic?” For some reason, she found that quite endearing.

“Sure, why not? Might as well make the most of it, right?”

“Right,” she agreed. God, why couldn’t she sound as casual as him?

They left the lighthouse behind and walked along the cliffs. Cassie was grateful for the sound of crashing waves below them, because it negated the need to say much, meaning she could let go a little. She felt her shoulders start to relax as she breathed in the smell of the sea, the wind tugging its fingers through her already messy hair.

Sam picked a spot seemingly at random, and they both sat down. There was no picnic blanket, but the grass was warm and dry after a day in the sun. Cassie stretched her legs out in front of her, tilted her face toward the evening sun as Sam scrambled around in the plastic bag. He produced a bottle of white wine—Tesco Finest, as Greg had said—and two white mugs with a turquoise stripe at the bottom, just like the lighthouse itself. Cassie laughed a little as he poured wine into them, handing one to her. He smiled apologetically. “I couldn’t find any wineglasses.” She smiled at him, and took a sip. The cool, crisp flavor seemed perfect for a summer’s evening. She’d have to remember to send Greg something to replace it, once she got home—no matter what he’d said, she didn’t feel entirely comfortable helping herself.