by Jessica Ames
The shit we tell ourselves. The lies we try to believe. My whole life is currently a lie but it’s always a worry when you buy what you’re peddling.
Still, I plaster on a smile and try to pretend life is hunky-dory.
“Mum only hates Richard because he stopped her from fulfilling her dream of being the mother of the bride.”
My sister considers me, her head tilting to one side. “Do you really believe that?”
I shrug one shoulder. “Why would I think otherwise?”
She shakes her head, her blonde hair bouncing around her shoulders. Lilliana definitely got the great hair when it came to genetics. We’re both blondes, like Mum, but Lil’s hair is a mass of stunning curls that most women would give their right arm for. She doesn’t even have to style it. They just form naturally in perfectly tight ringlets that look like they were created by a professional stylist. I, on the other hand, spend the best part of an hour in the morning trying to tame my slightly wavy hair into something that doesn’t resemble a hedge. Genetically, I’m all my father; I didn’t get any of Mum’s grace.
“Let me clue you in to what happened after you stormed out of the venue, honey. Mum went crazy. And I don’t mean a little crazy; I mean completely batshit off the wall nuts. I thought she was going to feed Richard his balls. She was ready to throw down in front of a hundred and fifty guests for you. And she would have done if Dad hadn’t stepped in to calm her down. She hates Richard for what he did to you. I think she’d be happy to dump his body in the Thames.”
I had no idea Mum did any of that so all I can do is gawk at my sister. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. She was seriously put out that Richard decided to walk out on you like that. We all were. Even his own mother wanted to slap him senseless—not that it would have helped since the man had no sense to start with. Really, it would have been sensible for him to have emigrated after the wedding, but he’s never been sensible. I’m surprised he has the balls to flaunt around his new trollop though. That is bold.”
“I’m guessing he thought no one would see him that far from home.”
She snorts, a derisive sound that makes my lips quirk slightly.
“Well, he’s an idiot. Pretty much everyone we know—and he knows—goes to that part of the city on a regular basis.”
This is not a lie. In fact, the area around London Bridge is pretty much one of our main stomping grounds in our circle. I have no idea why I took Mum and Henry there in the first place—to prove a point, perhaps.
“Anyway, try not to dwell on that insufferable fuckhead and think about dinner with me and Garrett.”
My lips quirk. “I’ll do my best. Now, get out of here. Some of us have work to do.”
“You work too hard,” she tells me as her eyes cast over me. “You and Dad. You both should slow down.”
“We’re both fine,” I assure her. “I’ll see you Thursday.”
We hug and I wait until she’s left my office before sinking back into my desk chair and returning my attention to my computer.
This is another thing about Lilliana—she drops in regularly to the office unannounced. Sometimes, I think she forgets Dad and I actually do have work to do. It is nice to see her, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t exactly have time to sit around, shooting the breeze all day.
I’m just checking through a campaign planning document when my mobile phone vibrates. I pick it up, not really paying attention, my gaze locked on my monitor and when I finally do look down at the screen, I see the message icon for the Match Me Perfect app. I frown at it. Since I completed my profile a week ago and the battery of tests that were worse than any psychology session could ever be, I’ve been waiting for it to do something. Anything. This is the first time the app has made so much as a peep.
Somewhat hesitantly, I open the app and a message pops straight up.
‘CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE BEEN MATCHED.’
I blink at it. I’ve been matched?
Truthfully, I’d put the stupid dating thing out of my mind—while silently cursing my best friend. This is the worst exercise in online dating ever to exist. At least with the other sites you get to see some prospective candidates. I was left high and dry, a note telling me I had to wait for a match and that it could take them seventy-two hours to match my difficult self. They may as well have sent me a certificate, congratulating me into the ranks of spinsterhood.
And I thought that was what they had done.
Until a moment ago. Until I read those words on my phone.
They found me a match?
With a hint of trepidation and a tingle of excitement I hit the ‘close’ button and another screen pops up with my match.
I get a photograph image first and what I see isn’t bad. He’s about my age, maybe more towards his mid-thirties than early, with blond hair that is more on the brown side than my own colouring. He looks like he’s on a boat, the backdrop of the sea and a brilliantly blue sky behind him; he looks like he is completely unaware he’s being photographed. His eyes are sad though. I can see there is a heaviness around them, even in this photograph.
I scroll down and find his profile details.
His name is Callum, he’s thirty-six, five foot ten, likes movies, meals out, walking and a whole host of other things that sound interesting.
I continue to scroll down. The more I read, the more I like the sound of him.
At least until I get to the part about location. His profile says he’s from somewhere called Kildirk. I frown. Kil-where-now? I’ve never heard of the place.
My hand goes to my mouse and I quickly pull up a browser on my PC. Then I put the location in to the map program. And my heart sinks.
It’s miles away. And not only is it miles away, but it’s also a small island, just off the Devonshire coast. It’s a four-and-a-half-hour drive away—plus a ferry ride.
I let out a frustrated breath because there is no way this is a feasible match. I shut the app down and return my focus back to what I should be looking at—campaign planning.
13
Callum
The water is strangely calm today, which is more than can be said for my crew. I’m sitting in the cabin, watching my cousin, Tanner and Mace on the deck of the boat. Mace and Alex look like they’re arguing about something, although fuck knows what. The pair of them have been like a couple of bears with sore heads since we left port this morning. They’re driving me nuts and Tanner looks about ready to throttle one of them.
This is the last run of the week. The guys are tired; they need time off. Christ, I’m tired. We shouldn’t really take too much in the way of breaks while the season is in full swing, but sometimes you just have to say fuck it and kick back for a day. Besides, if they’re tired they’re more likely to screw up and that’s how accidents happen. I don’t ever want to be in the position where I’m coming home without one of my crew. I take my role as captain seriously and I put the guys’ safety above everything else.
As much as I love being out on the water, I have to admit, I’m looking forward to having a day off. I think we’re all feeling this fishing season and need time to regroup. It’s a day of lost earnings, but the fish will still be here when we’re ready to come back out.
Tanner throws his arms up suddenly and walks off, muttering under his breath at Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, who both look contrite for a moment before getting back into their argument. Over the engine, I can’t hear what is being said but the body language he’s giving off suggests he’s annoyed as hell.
He pushes into the cabin, shutting the door behind him and his fingers go straight into his hair.
“Everything okay?” I ask, even though I can clearly tell it’s not.
Alex and Mace can be like a pair of kids when they get going, and being in each other’s pockets so much lately is definitely having a knock-on effect. Sometimes I feel like I’m running a crèche, the way they carry on. It gets exhausting having to play referee.
“Those two de
serve each other,” he mutters. “They’re annoying.”
“What are they arguing about?”
“Fuck knows. I don’t think they even know anymore.”
This is probably true. They’re like oil and flame when they’re together. They both have the ability to rile each other.
“Fuck!”
A roared scream has both mine and Tanner’s heads snapping in that direction. I’m up and out of my seat before Tanner even clears the door. As I rush over to my cousin and Mace, the first thing I see is blood. A lot of blood. Mace has his hands pressed against Alex’s head as the blood seeps through his fingers.
I steer him into the cab, out the way of the wind and push him into the chair because he looks like he might fall down if I don’t sit him down. Mace keeps his grip on the wound, moving with him.
“Get the First Aid kit,” I command Tanner before I turn back to my cousin. He’s pale, and his mouth is pulled into a tight grimace as he stares at Mace’s bloodied hands. “What happened?”
“He got hit in the head by one of the lines. He was too busy arguing with me to pay attention,” Mace mutters, earning a glare from Alex.
“Well, if you weren’t being such an arse—”
I hold up a hand. “Knock it off.” Tanner passes me the First Aid kit and a clean towel, which I use to replace Mace’s hand. “Tanner, set a course for the port.”
“We don’t need to head to the mainland,” Alex protests.
“Yeah, we do. You’re bleeding heavily and if I let you bleed to death so we can catch fish your mum’ll eat me alive.”
His lips quirk for a moment before he winces. “Fuck, that hurts.” He glares at Mace. “Do you have to press so hard?”
“Yes,” is his simple, to the point response. Clearly, Mace’s patience is running as empty as mine is.
I call the coastguard before we get back to port and have an ambulance waiting for us as soon as we dock. I send Tanner with Alex while me and Mace secure the boat. Then we follow them to the hospital.
It takes three hours and six stitches before Alex is released, and he’s only released under the proviso someone will stay with him overnight. I get my crew back to the boat and we take the short journey over to Kildirk.
When we dock on the island, my aunt Rachel is waiting for us. I called her from the boat on the way over so she would be able to meet us. She rushes us before we even get off the boat.
“What happened?” she demands, her hands clutching at Alex’s arms.
“I got up close and personal with one of the lines. I’m fine, Mum.”
She looks sceptical but her eyes skim to me. “The rest of you boys okay?”
I nod, exhaustion overwhelming me and making my steps leaden. We did less work today than if we’d been out in open waters all day, but the stress of Alex getting hurt on my watch has depleted all my energy.
This gig is dangerous; we all know it, but having that realisation thrust in your face is never a good feeling.
I leave my cousin to my aunt, say my goodbyes to Mace and Tanner and head home. The air is cold as I take the coastal path that winds across the island to my cottage.
I’m exhausted but somehow I manage to get myself into the shower and wash the salty sea air off myself. Clean and dressed in fresh joggers and a T-shirt, I head downstairs and prostrate myself in front of the television. I barely notice what I’m watching; it’s on really just for background noise.
As I’m sitting there, my phone beeps and I lazily make a grab for it. It’s a message from Alex.
ALEX: Sorry about today.
I sigh. My cousin is an idiot but this mess was also my fault. I should have stepped in sooner and stopped him and Mace from going at it. Still, I’m not going to let him know that.
ME: You feeling okay?
ALEX: I have the headache from hell and Mum is fussing over me like I’m on my last legs, but yeah, I’m fine.
An alert comes through and I think it’s another text until I see the Match Me Perfect icon. I still haven’t disabled the damned thing.
I click into it and immediately a box flashes up, reminding me about my latest match—Sadie.
I should delete it. I should. And I have every intention of doing so, but then something stops me. I don’t know what it is but it’s like something inside me stays my hand and instead I read through her profile again.
What can it hurt to reach out to her? If she turns out like the others, then I’ve lost nothing. I make myself a promise that if this doesn’t work out then I’m done. I will disable my profile and become a crazy old dude, sailing the seas while ranting about the good old days.
I grab my laptop and then I sit to write an email message to a woman I’ve never met, and, considering how my luck usually runs, probably never will.
14
Sadie
“What do you think of these colours for the gala?”
I glance at the two swatches Mel pushes onto my desk. One is an apple green, the other a soft lemon. They complement each other perfectly and will be a great colour scheme for the upcoming gala—a gala that may just be the death of me by the time it’s organised.
Part of my job as head of Greenwood’s marketing department includes event organisation. It is the least favourite part of my job but it is, unfortunately, a necessary one.
The gala is held once a year to celebrate the company’s ‘official’ birthday, but really, it’s a way of bringing in new clientele and investors. While the company often takes over failing companies and sells them back on, quite often we also buy companies and run them, sinking the profits back into our own firm. Smaller and larger companies will often approach us to buy them out. If it looks profitable, Henry will look to reselling the firm on. This can give us whopping profits, if done right. And Henry has a good eye for finding the companies that will give us a return. I have no clue how he knows; he just does. It’s like some weird in-built sense he has to sniff out money.
For that reason, many investors and board directors come to our annual gala with the hope of brokering a deal with the company to offload failing investments. I have no clue how it all works but what I do know is that I have to organise the event. This includes organising a five-course sit down meal for over five hundred people followed by evening entertainment. Last year we had a Ceilidh band, the year before that an opera singer. This year we’re going a little more lively and having singing waiters and a live band. Henry wasn’t too keen but times are changing and most of our clients these days are my age. Some of the things we’ve had in the past haven’t been particularly on trend—not that I have a clue about anything on trend.
“I like it.” My brows knit together. “Did we do these colours a few years back though?”
Mel glances down at the clipboard she’s clutching and flips over her notes. Words cannot express how glad I am this woman is organised because honestly, I don’t think I would get through a day without her help. I’m seriously glad I don’t have to. Without Mel, I think my entire world would fall apart—working world anyway. Actually, probably my non-working world too because I’d be here twenty-four seven, trying to keep on top of things.
“We used green and blue before but not yellow. We could add some blues and purples and go a little more exotic.”
I nod. “Okay. Let’s go with that.”
I round my desk and grab an envelope off the end of it. “This is the contract for the catering. Can you make sure it goes to the guys in accounts to pay?”
Mel takes it from me. “Absolutely. Anything else you need?”
A vat of wine…
I smile. “Nope, I think we’re good for now.”
She leaves my office, shutting the door behind her and closing me off from the noise of my team on the main floor. They tend to get a little rowdy when we’re in full event planning mode, so I’m grateful Mel had the foresight to close the door.
I sag back into my desk chair and lean back against the padded leather. I’m sure there are a hundr
ed other things I should be doing right now, but in this moment I just need to clear my head enough to focus on my to-do list for today. I’m mentally ticking things off when my phone vibrates from the side of my keyboard.
I make a lazy grab for it and when I unlock the screen I see a message from the dating app site.
This confuses the hell out of me because it’s been two days since I was matched to the guy from Match Me Perfect. Two days of silence in which I have been internally bemoaning the ridiculousness of a dating site being able to match you to a potential partner using nothing but online testing.
I have no idea what the message is about so I open it hesitantly. And then my brows contract. It’s an actual message—as in an email message—from the guy they matched me with.
My thumb hovers over the open button, unsure if I should hit it. Then I take a deep breath and swipe.
The message that comes up is longer than I expected. I thought I’d get a ‘Hi’ and that would be it. Or a dick pic. It’s neither of these. I start reading.
Hi Sadie,
This is all kinds of weird, trying to write to someone I’ve never met before and only know the sum total of a paragraph of information about. Considering you didn’t respond after we first matched, I’m guessing you’re feeling like I am: nervous, unsure, a little scared. I wasn’t going to write this to you, but if there’s one thing I’ve learnt over the years, it’s that life is short and in order for good things to happen you sometimes have to take a risk. So, I’m taking a risk. I’m stepping off the ledge, and I’m hoping like hell you’ll take this step with me.
