Page 14

The kitchen is empty, and I’m not sure where Isla’s grandparents have got to—usually Mary is in here, cooking enough to feed a whole village. I grab five cups from the dishwasher and pop the teabags in as I wait for the kettle to boil.

“Hey, short stuff.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, begging for strength. A large body presses against my side, and when I open my eyes again, I’m greeted by Robbie’s hairy armpit.

He reaches over me to get a cup out of the cupboard, and I sway towards his musky scent before I catch myself and step away. “Don’t call me that.”

“Sorry. You do look like you’ve grown a bit since I last saw you. You must be what—five foot five now?” He looks at me over his shoulder, biting his bottom lip, which does nothing to hide his smirk. The light glints off his piercing, and it raises my hackles.

“I’m five foot seven.”

He hums and picks up the kettle, taking over making the tea. “You’re looking good,” he mutters softly, all teasing gone.

I think back to the last time I saw him and what a mess I was: underweight and exhausted, angrier at the world than I’d ever been. He must be thinking about it too, and I hate that. I hate that he saw me at my worst when he had no right to be there.

Robbie turns around and presses a cup into my hands. “See you around.” He grins, taking a sip of his own drink as he leaves the kitchen.

I stare down at the tea he made me, taking an experimental sip.

Two sugars and a dash of milk.

Theo’s still on my shit list.

Richard managed to convince me and Bailey to come to the pub tonight, even though Fists Almighty is here too.

I glare at him as I approach the table. The one good thing is that Theo has stayed away from the farm and left Bailey alone for the past two weeks. The bad thing is, him staying away means I haven’t been able to shout at him for what he did.

Bailey hasn’t told me much, just that he and Theo went to school together in the south of England, and it “didn’t end well”—whatever the fuck that means. And Richard wants me to play happy families, so I still can’t say or do anything because everyone else is apparently fine with what happened, including Bailey.

I let Bailey sit next to Theo. If everything is “fine” as Richard said, then it’s far safer for Bailey to sit next to the fluffy-haired idiot than me.

I squeeze onto the bench seat next to Bailey, and a large, overwhelmingly hot body presses against me on the other side, boxing me in. I scowl up at Robbie, trying to shuffle away—except there’s nowhere to go.

I grow increasingly irritated. The smell of woodsmoke from the fireplace quickly becomes unbearable, and the noise from a group of fiddlers fights for my attention over whatever Isla is saying.

Bailey pushes me off him, and I grab the first thing I can to steady myself. My hand meets the firm muscles of Robbie’s thigh, and I reel back. I’m about to apologise, but the words lodge in my throat when I see the sparkle in his dark blue eyes. He flashes me a grin, and again my eyes catch on that little silver ball perched on his bottom lip.

“Comfy there, Titch?” Robbie asks, nudging me with his elbow.

It’s too loud. Too many bodies pressed up against mine. A volcano sits in my chest, on the brink of exploding.

“There’s clearly not enough bloody room, get a chair and sit on the end.” My face is hot, and I must be bright red from the frustration, but Robbie ignores my outburst.

“I’m good here, thanks.” He stretches his arm along the back of the bench, crowding me in even more.

“Anyway,” Isla interrupts, glaring at Robbie, “as I was saying, a dog walker found a body in some woods down in Surrey. They think the recent rain unearthed him.” She gags dramatically. “The police searched the area and found two more bodies.”

“Shit,” Robbie mutters, screwing up his nose. “Do they know who did it?”

“Not a clue so far. But they’ve shut down the entire forest to see if there are any more bodies. They said the victims were likely killed years apart, due to the different stages of decay.”

“Lovely,” Richard mutters next to her.

I roll my eyes at Isla’s dramatics and pull out my phone, opening my reading app, ready to dissociate. I’d much rather read about hot serial killers than worry about a real one on the loose.

Voices fade into the background, Robbie’s more notable than the others, a deep and soothing hum that I hate to admit calms me down.

I’m just reaching a good part in my book, where the serial killer kidnaps the mechanic, when Robbie slams his pint glass on the table, jostling me.