by Lily Evans
For the first time he grinned. "Why, who d'you want to call?"
"Well, doh." I pulled my hand out from under the towel and slapped my forehead, Homer Simpson-style. "The coastguard?"
His eyes narrowed for a moment then his grin returned. "You want to call the coastguard?"
"Yes!" Was this man incredibly stupid? "I think it might be a good idea."
"Really?" He looked amused. "So you'd like them to scramble a helicopter, get four men to risk their lives while they winch you up into the air—high, high into the air—"
Shit, he'd guessed I was scared of heights.
"—and then drop you back down on to the beach, with the world and his wife watching their every move—your every move? 'Cos that kind of thing tends to draw quite a crowd."
I gazed at him speechlessly.
"Or we can wait a couple of hours, wait for the tide to go back out again then get you down and get you to hospital."
"Hospital?" I gave a choke of puzzled laughter. "But I don't need to go to hospital."
"Oh, I think you do. That's going to need stitches."
"What?" It was only when I glanced down at myself I saw what he was staring at. "Fuck!"
I'd never seen anything like it in real life, only on television and in films. The whole of my right forearm was scarlet and dripping—literally dripping—with blood. "No," I breathed, only realising how much it hurt as I looked at it. "Oh no."
"Don't panic. I said it needed stitches, not that it needed amputating."
"And what would you know about that?" I gasped, raw terror sending my voice several tones higher than usual. "You know about first aid, do you? Don't tell me, you were a boy scout."
"You're panicking," he said, his own voice calm as he met my gaze. "And oh shit, you don't do blood, do you?" he added with a frown. "Lie down. Now!"
I wasn't in any position to argue. My vision was already blurring, a dull roaring sound in my ears. "It's just there's there's so much of it," I muttered, feeling his hand beneath my head as he eased me backwards, cushioning me from the rock. Oh God, I felt dizzy. "Are you sure we shouldn't call the coastguard?" Sure, swinging from a helicopter winch didn't appeal, but if I was going to bleed to death…
"Couldn't even if we wanted to. I haven't got my phone with me." His face swam back into view as he settled beside me, gently pushing something under my head, a waft of aftershave—rather nice aftershave, actually—reaching my nose as he did so. "And trust me, this isn't a lot of blood. A little bit goes a long way."
A little bit? I stared as he pulled his rucksack towards him. "What—what are you doing?"
"Getting my first aid kit. As it happens, I was a boy scout."
I watched as he began to reach inside, pulling out items one after the other. That bloody football, a bottle of water, his wallet, a set of keys, a large multi-coloured carton…
"Condoms?" I gasped, squinting at the carton and realising what it contained.
"Ah, not just any condoms," he said, pausing to grin at me without a trace of embarrassment. "A jumbo variety pack. I'm on a stag weekend, you see. And there's something for everyone in there. Every colour, every flavour, ribbed, extra-sensitive, extra-safe—"
"You brought condoms?"
"Er, yes." He seemed rather bemused by the question. "I'm the best man. Of course I brought condoms."
"Right." I stared at him in disbelief, my shallow-buried anger returning to the surface with remarkable speed and ferocity. "Because it's okay for the groom to get laid one more time before he gets hitched, right? Before he shackles himself to the old ball and chain, it's okay if he gets his rocks off with one last chick?"
"Whoa!" He flinched visibly beneath my attack. "What the hell's your problem?"
"What's my problem?" I sat up then immediately wished I hadn't, my head swimming. "What's my problem? You think that's okay then, right? You'd condone that behaviour? Tell—Tim, was it?—to just go ahead? You'd say 'take a few of these mate," I grabbed the box of condoms and shook it in his face, "and have a damned good time'?"
He looked at me, his expression unreadable. "You need to lie back down."
"Well, would you?" I felt very odd now. Hot. No, not hot. Make that cold. Shivery. Sick. "Why won't you answer the question?"
He sighed. "Because you're going to pass out. Lie down."
And even as I felt his hands on my shoulders, everything went black.
***
Scissors. That's what that funny little squeaky sound was. Snipping. Cutting material. Pulling something out from under me.
I opened my eyes to see a dark head silhouetted against pale blue sky, a cool breeze across my face, the familiar sound of waves crashing against the rocks—crashing very near. Too near.
"Damn it, you're back. I was hoping for at least another minute."
"Wh-what?" But the words had been spoken without malice and as I stared up at him I saw the beginnings of his smile. "Oh God. How—how long was I out?"
"Ooh, let's see now." When he sat back, I could see a small square of blue and yellow towel in his hand. So that's what he'd been cutting. "All of about thirty seconds. Hardly long enough to enjoy the peace and quiet."
"Peace and quiet?" I echoed, puzzled. And then I remembered. "But you never answered my question!"
"Oh, here we go." He gave an exaggerated sigh and turned away from me. I could hear rustling sounds, a snap of elastic and when he turned back, I saw he'd donned thin vinyl gloves. "I suggest you don't watch what I'm doing for a moment." When I immediately twisted my head to look he made a growling noise low in his throat. "Why do people always do that?"
I gazed at my arm but, to my surprise, this time I remained unperturbed by the sight of blood and torn flesh, feeling oddly detached, as though somehow the arm was no longer mine but someone else's. He reached behind him and retrieved the bottle of water, wrenching off the top and saturating the piece of towel in his hand. Then he began to wipe around the wound, using long, sure strokes, clearing away the worst of the blood. "In answer to your question," he said quietly, focussing wholly on what he was doing, "no, I wouldn't condone that behaviour."
"But you brought condoms!"
He rolled his eyes. "Not for that. They're for a practical joke we've got planned."
"You seriously expect me to believe you?"
"Damn right I do. If Tim ever cheats on his wife-to-be, I'll fucking kill him."
"Oh." I stared at him, deflated. If only Daniel had chosen a best man with principles.
"But then again, he is marrying my sister." He dropped the bloodstained towel on to the ledge and picked up the bottle of water again. "Right, grit your teeth a second. This'll probably sting a bit."
Not comprehending, I watched in astonishment as he tipped up the bottle then hissed as he directed a stream of water straight at the cut. "O-o-ow!"
"Sorry. I'm nearly done." He pulled at the towel beneath me, gently blotting away the excess moisture around the wound before reaching behind him again for what appeared to be a small plastic sandwich box. "Right," he murmured, as I lifted my head to peer inside with him, seeing a row of neat packets, a roll of bandage, more gloves and some surgical tape. It really was a first aid box. I'd been expecting a few ancient plasters. And as I caught his eye, he grinned. "Yeah, I know. You think this is completely over the top, don't you? But I'm not prepared to take any chances. I take my best man duties very seriously, you know. Besides, Julie'd kill me if anything happened to Tim."
"Your sister?"
He nodded, opening up one packet of gauze then another, placing the folded squares in a thick layer across the wound before picking up the bandage. "This should do the trick for now," he said, winding it deftly around my arm.
"Thank you." And all at once I felt rather small. Humbled. I'd been so ungrateful, so undeserving of his assistance. "Oh!" I wailed as he finally ran out of bandage and moved to pick up the tape. "This isn't fair. I'm not even supposed to be here. I'm supposed to be in the Maldives!"
"What?" His fingers pausing, he regarded me sharply for a moment. As though he wasn't sure whether I'd hit my head as well as my arm. "The Maldives? Babe, this is Cornwall. I think you took a wrong turn on the way to the airport."
"No, I mean…" I bit my lip, trying to keep it from wobbling. "I'm supposed to be on my honeymoon." Oh God, I was going to cry! Why the hell was I telling him this? "Last Saturday was sup-supposed to be my wed-wedding day-ay-ay…"
"Ah. Whoops." Looking understandably alarmed as I dissolved into noisy tears, he peeled away his plastic gloves then tore off two strips of tape to secure the bandage. "Hold on, hold on. I'm nearly finished. Hang on just one more second…"
Then to my astonishment, his hands were sliding beneath me, pulling me upwards and against him, pressing my head into his broad shoulder. "It's all right," he murmured into my hair as his arms swept around me. "Just let it go."
And to my mortification, I did. I howled. I couldn't stop. I'd been so proud of myself. Up until now, I hadn't shed a single tear. Not when Daniel confessed, not when I'd told my Mum—told my friends—that the wedding was off. Now it was as though someone had turned on a tap. "But I d-don't even know your name!" I sobbed after what must have been several minutes, my whole body still shuddering.
"It doesn't matter," he said with a sympathetic chuckle. "Anyway, it's probably best that you just call me Tosser, yeah? That has to be how you're feeling about all men right now."
I gave a choke of surprised laughter. "Tosser Foster?"
"Oh." He chuckled again. "You were watching us. I knew you were. Pretending to read that book. You think other people don't know about the sunglasses trick?"
Now I really wanted to die.
"It's okay." He gave me a squeeze. "It's Luke, by the way."
"Tosser sounds better," I muttered, rather unsettled. Being in his arms felt good. Too good. As though he'd held me a thousand times. But how could that be?
"Well, it's your choice, of course." He sounded amused. "Is there something you'd like me to call you?"
"Huh." I gave another sob. "Hey, you choose. How about Gullible? Idiot? Fool? Sucker?"
"Aw. You can't blame yourself for what he did. He's the fool."
"What?" I pulled away abruptly, gazing up at him. "How the hell do you know what he did?"
His lips twisted slightly. "Well, maybe I've got this all wrong, but as far as I can make out, your fiancé slept with another woman on his stag night, stag weekend, whatever it was. You found out and the wedding got called off."
I stared, searching his face for clues. "Someone told you. Who?"
He shot me a rueful smile. "You did. You gave me such a hard time about those bloody condoms. It wasn't exactly difficult to put two and two together."
"Right." The wind had been taken out of my sails yet again.
"Want to talk about it?"
"Oh, I'm sure you don't want to know," I said, shivering slightly. It was cold outside the warmth of his arms.
He frowned. "Well here's the thing," he said, bending to pick up the sweatshirt he'd used as a makeshift pillow. "You and I are stuck here for at least the next two hours. We've got some time to kill. Here." He was holding the bottom of the sweatshirt open in front of me. "Put your poorly arm through first."
Feeling rather like a child, I gingerly fed my right arm through one sleeve then slid my left arm through the other, Luke pulling the rest of the sweatshirt down over my head. It swamped me, another blast of that wonderful aftershave flooding my senses. "Won't Tim and the others be worried about where you are?"
"Doubt it. They'll just think I've pulled."
"What?"
He laughed at my shocked expression. "They knew I was going to look for you. Believe me, they won't worry, so long as I meet them in the bar later for a drink. I used to have quite a reputation with the ladies."
"Used to?" I echoed, unnerved by this new piece of information.
"Yes, used to. Other things have got in the way just lately. " He grinned. "And there was me thinking you'd be impressed that I really did come back to get you. 'Cos when the tide started to come in and I didn't see you come back round, I got a bit worried. But hey, you can thank me later."
"No!" I protested, uncharacteristically flustered. "I am grateful, really I am. Although," I narrowed my eyes at him, recovering fast, "I wouldn't have been down there at all if it hadn't been for you guys forcing me to move, remember?" I took a glance down at the smaller cove below, swallowing hard when I saw just how high the water had risen.
"Hey, we didn't exactly force you," he began then stopped, shaking his head with a smile. "Uh uh. No diversion tactics. I want to know what happened and I think you need to tell. Call it therapy."
I sighed heavily. "There isn't much more to tell."
"How did you find out?"
I gave a rather bitter laugh. "He sent me a text message."
"He told you in a text?" He looked astonished.
"Yes, but he didn't mean to. You see, the message wasn't meant for me."
"It was meant for her? He sent it to you by mistake?" He grimaced when I nodded. "What did it say?"
"Oh." I gave a shrug then leaned forward to grab my beach bag. "You can read it if you like. I think it's…" But as my fingers closed over the soggy fabric, I froze. "Huh," I muttered, startled I hadn't already made the connection. "Actually, you can't read it. My—my phone got wet." And bizarrely, the realisation I would probably never see that message again, would never again see those photos of Daniel made my eyes refill with tears.
"Hey!" Luke clambered around the ledge until he was behind me then drew me backwards between his legs, supporting me like an easy chair. "It might be okay when it dries out."
"No, you don't understand," I gulped, swiping furiously at my wet face, fighting an urge to get the phone out of the bag and hurl it down into the sea below. "I don't want it to be okay. I want it to be ruined!"
"Oh thank God." He sounded relieved. "Because I was lying. There's no way it'll be okay. I was just trying to make you feel better."
And incredibly, I laughed. "Really?"
"Absolutely. But I'll jump on it for you if you like just to be sure." He picked up the now half-empty bottle of water and held it to my lips. "So stop crying and drink. You're losing too many fluids."
I drank deeply, surprised to discover how thirsty I was. Then, pushing the bottle away, I settled back against him with a sigh, closing my eyes. This position felt almost ridiculously comfortable given we were perched up on a rocky ledge just out of reach of the waves. "That message," I began. I didn't need the phone to recall what was in it. I knew the words by heart—knew they'd be etched on my heart forever. "It said, 'Hi gorgeous, missing you already. Can't wait to see you again. Will call you when I get back from hols'. Three kisses."
"'Hols'?" Luke repeated. "He meant your honeymoon?"
I nodded. Because, after all, that was the line that had given it all away.
To start with, I explained, Daniel had tried to claim he'd just written the wrong thing. That he'd meant to write 'Can't wait for our hols'. But for all his bravado, for all his ability to charm the birds out of the trees, I knew he wasn't telling the truth. And, if I was being honest with myself, I'd suspected he'd had other affairs during the three years we were together. For a start, there'd been several holidays with his mates but I'd never been able to prise details from any of them, save that they'd spent the whole time drinking, clubbing and sleeping.
There'd been the time he'd come back with a pair of red knickers in his suitcase. He'd laughed it off as a prank, of course. And aside from holidays, there'd been evenings, weeks even, where he'd insisted we didn't go out as a couple, that we go off and do our separate things. At the time, that had seemed sensible, logical even, a way of ensuring our relationship didn't get stale. With hindsight—oh what a wonderful thing that was!—he'd probably been cheating on me then.
But when that text had arrived at ten o'clock last Saturday morning, while I was
at the hairdresser's having my veil pinned into place ready for our wedding at noon, I'd realised I couldn't fool myself any longer. I didn't think I'd ever be able to forget that moment of utter devastation. Total desolation. And then the numbness had set in.
"I spent all day Sunday and Monday re-wrapping wedding presents and sending them back," I told Luke now, relishing the warmth of his arms around me rather more than I cared to admit. "I bought yards and yards of bubble wrap and brown paper. I think Mum thought I'd lost it, that she'd be visiting me in the asylum before the end of the week. I've never seen her look more relieved than when I told her I was coming here. Though she got a bit worried when I said I wanted to go on my own."
"I'm not surprised. To be honest, I'm not sure you should be here on your own, either."
I grimaced. "I just wanted to get away from everyone. And I thought if I brought someone along, someone who knew what'd happened, it'd just be a constant reminder of why I was here." Then I sighed. "But I can't get away from me, can I?"
"It's going to take time, babe. But you'll get through this." And to my astonishment, I felt him press his lips to the top of my head.
"Hey!" I exclaimed, pulling forward and swivelling around to look at him. "Did you just kiss me?"
He grinned. "Nah," he said, shaking his head. But then his grin faded, those sea-blue eyes locking on to mine, his gaze piercing, as though he could see right into my mind. Right into my soul. "Why? Did you want me to kiss you?"
Yes. And as I stared back at him, startled by my sudden desire, he moved in towards me and his mouth closed over mine.
Chapter 2
His lips were gentle and warm, brushing oh-so-slowly over mine, every movement unhurried and sweet; not at all what I'd expected. But eventually it sank into my addled mind he was biding his time, waiting for me to make the next move. Waiting for me to trust him, to accept that although he was kissing me, I was the one in charge of how far this went.
I began to kiss him back, the roar of the sea seeming to fade as I explored those soft, slightly salty lips, longing to taste him fully, to deepen the kiss. But it wasn't until I tentatively touched the tip of my tongue to his top lip he welcomed me in. And then he groaned, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, his hands sliding into my hair as he took control.
