by Ella Hayes
She took his hands in hers, gripping them as tightly as she could. ‘And, if you feel angry all the time, is it any wonder? You did the right thing by Bram and Eline punished you for it.’ Such a mess, such a trail of devastation. She took a breath. ‘Would it help to know that Eline is sorry...that she bitterly regrets hurting you?’ Rain in his eyes again, tightness in his jaw, but behind the clouds a glimmer of light. ‘You’ve had a lot to feel angry about in your life, Theo, but maybe you can start to let it go now.’ She leaned in, kissed him softly. ‘It’s time to cut yourself some slack.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE LUMBERING CLANK of the Texel ferry moving away from the dock stirred an unexpected sadness inside her... Memories of that first summer on the island after her parents had died. That feeling of displacement because everything that had been important in her world had been swept away. That first summer hadn’t felt like a holiday because there’d been no home to go back to. Home had been irreparably fractured and, maybe because of that, a feeling of home was all she’d ever wanted.
A shiver fingered the base of her spine. She’d blamed Hal for cheating and lying, but had she been any less dishonest? Hal’s gambling had put him on a ruinous path, but he’d never lied about loving her. He had loved her, but had she really loved him?
She watched the sunshine glinting on the water, tugged her cardigan tighter against the breeze. If she’d really loved Hal, she’d have paid more attention. She’d have seen the fear behind his eyes, noticed the brittle edge on his voice, the way he’d laughed a little too loudly. If she’d really loved him, she’d have seen through the veneer, noticed the sorry state he was in and she’d have helped him. She bit her lip, felt a humbling wash of guilt. Her own need for hearth and home had given her tunnel vision. She’d only seen the Hal she’d wanted to see and that wasn’t love.
‘Nobody sees anyone as he is. They see a whole—they see all sorts of things—they see themselves.’
Virginia Woolf had been right. Personal experience was the lens that refracted everything: the way people saw each other, the way they saw themselves. Talking honestly was the only way to colour in the picture...asking the right questions and really listening to the answers.
She leaned against the rail and lifted her eyes to the horizon. She and Theo had made a start and already everything felt better. Knowing what had happened between him and Eline—and, more importantly, why it had happened—had opened a door to a deeper, closer intimacy between them.
Theo! Just the thought of him made her heart swell with love, made her lips curve upward involuntarily... The green room had been full of moonlight and shadows by the time they’d got to their feet, and when he’d pulled her close and kissed her she’d felt the warm glow of his love spreading through her, all the way to her bones. He’d swept her into his arms, carried her upstairs and, as they’d lost themselves in each other, she’d realised with a shock that home wasn’t a place. Home was the feeling you got with the person you truly loved, and it didn’t matter whether you were in a vast empty bedroom or on the deck of the Texel ferry.
She heard a footstep and felt his arms sliding around her, the soft rub of his stubble against her ear. ‘Hey! Sorry I was so long; there was a breakdown on the car deck—ensuing chaos!’ He cuddled her in. ‘Are you cold? You can have my jacket, if you want...’
His body felt warm against her back. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ She nestled in, tugging the open halves of his jacket around herself. ‘See—we can share!’
‘Hmm... I like sharing with you.’ His hips pinned her to the rail. ‘You’re giving me the feels, baby.’
‘The feels?’ She giggled. ‘You’re so down with the kids.’
His lips brushed her cheek. ‘Well, now that I’m letting go of my anger, something has to take its place. I’m going to familiarise myself with millennial-speak. Maybe I’ll design an app...’
She wriggled round to face him. ‘You are so...’ There was only one word for how he looked. ‘Happy!’
He smiled. ‘I have a number of reasons for that...all of them called Mia.’
Green eyes, making her blush. She pushed her hair away from her face. ‘Not all of them are called Mia. At least one of them is called Bram.’
Bram—the brother she’d known so little about just twelve hours ago and now they were on their way to meet him. Theo had planned the Texel trip before he’d intercepted her at Eline’s apartment building, hoping, he said, to show her that he was deadly serious about letting her in, trusting her with his deepest, darkest secret.
His forehead touched hers. ‘You’re right. I’m beginning to believe that he’s going to make it this time.’
She took his face in her hands and kissed him softly. ‘He will, my love. Have faith.’
* * *
Theo pulled off his loafers and dug his toes into the cool golden sand. A simple act, but there was such a sense of freedom in it. He rolled up his jeans around his ankles, got to his feet and started walking towards the water.
Free!
A feeling of weightlessness. It was impossible not to smile, impossible not to feel euphoric. Bram was all right. After all the false starts and disappointments, this time Bram really seemed to have turned a corner. It would always be one day at a time, Theo knew that, but still, he wanted to jump for joy. His brother was back! He wanted to shout it out loud. He started to run, felt the sand scuffing under his heels, the sea breeze in his face. Bram was all right! More than all right. He looked well. Fit and healthy, lightly tanned. He’d taken up kite surfing, he said, and he was running—had actually challenged Theo to run a charity marathon with him—and he was excited about a café and gallery he’d seen for sale in De Koog. Would Theo invest? Damn right he would! Bram’s plans were totally on point: healthy food, freshly cooked. Smoothies and juices; vegetarian and vegan... He’d got it all worked out. He even had a business partner who was going to run the gallery side of things.
He slowed to a walk, dawdling at the water’s edge, enjoying the feeling of froth tickling his toes. He held in a smile.
Marta! How could he have known that the girl he’d employed to clean the beach house twice a week was a talented artist? She’d been supplementing her income through small cleaning jobs, and over the time she’d been going to the beach house she and Bram had become close. After he’d asked her to visit Bram daily, they’d become closer still, and then they’d fallen in love. Bram was a dark horse; he hadn’t told him a thing until that morning. He chuckled softly. He was an accidental matchmaker! Marta’s seascapes were mesmerising; worked in acrylics on canvas, they were vibrant, dramatic, powerful. Mia was already lining up to do a piece about her for an arts magazine, the two of them chatting away like old friends...
He’d left them to it, wanting some time to himself to take everything in. Bram in a good place at last, and himself...? He took a few steps forward until the cold water drowned his ankles. He gritted his teeth, waiting for the cold to stop biting, and then his body was unwinding like a spool of thread. He felt his limbs loosening, calmness washing over him. He lifted his eyes to the horizon, to the high, clear sky. He was in a good place too and it was because of Mia.
She was a light on the shore. A clear, bright beam guiding him home...and a home was all he’d ever wanted. He closed his eyes and saw her arranging tulips in Direk’s fancy vase; the deftness of her fingers, the way her hair touched the side of her neck, the light in her eyes when she’d looked up and found him watching her. Somehow, she’d come into his life, and since then everything had been better. He couldn’t imagine going back to a life that didn’t have her in it.
He opened his eyes. She’d turned his own phrase back on him, told him he was a person who shaped fate... He drew in a lungful of sea air. She was absolutely right. He was going to try his hand at shaping fate because some things were too precious to leave to chance.
‘That looks really cold...
’
Mia!
He spun round and felt a vigorous swell sloshing up his legs. She was standing a little distance away, her white jeans turned up around her ankles, her hair blowing back in the breeze. She had a way of looking at him that turned him inside out. A loving glow in her eyes. He’d never tire of seeing it. It felt new every time.
He glanced down. ‘My feet are numb. I can’t feel anything.’
‘I was worrying about you.’ She took a step towards him, winced as a wavelet swirled between her toes. ‘Are you okay...?’
He felt a steady warmth building in his chest, spreading through his limbs. ‘That depends...’
She took another step forward, flailing and gasping. ‘On what...?’ She steadied herself, met his eye again.
He smiled. ‘On your answer...’
She took another cautious step forward, then she looked up at him, her brow furrowing. ‘My answer...?’
She really had no idea. He took a breath then crashed to his knees in front of her. The shock of the water rushing up his thighs was nothing to the shock on her face.
‘No...’ Her hand was over her mouth and her eyes were glistening.
‘What...?’ He gasped as a wave drenched his crotch. ‘You’re not allowed to answer until I’ve asked.’
Both hands were over her mouth now, tears winding down her cheeks. At least she wasn’t saying no any more, which was a good sign.
He took a steadying breath. ‘Mia... I love you so much. You are the kindest, sweetest, most wonderful person I’ve ever met.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I can’t believe you love me. I know I don’t deserve you but, if you’ll have me, I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to deserve you.’ She was crying and smiling now. His heart leapt. ‘Mia Boelens, will you marry me?’
And then she was falling to her knees in front of him, gasping and laughing, wiping her eyes. ‘Yes! A million times, yes.’
And then her lips were on his and he forgot about the cold chewing through his bones because she was warmth and light and love... He was home at last.
* * *
If you enjoyed this story, check out these other great reads from Ella Hayes
Italian Summer with the Single Dad
Her Brooding Scottish Heir
Both available now!
Keep reading for an excerpt from Cinderella’s New York Fling by Cara Colter.
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Cinderella’s New York Fling
by Cara Colter
PROLOGUE
IT ALL HAPPENED so quickly.
But then, that is probably what most people would say of a catastrophe. One hardly gets out of bed in the morning meticulously planning for disaster. No, it has a tendency to spring on one when it is least expected. At my advanced age—seventy-four—things going awry should hardly take me by surprise.
But they do, and it did.
I was walking through Faelledparken, delighted with both my escape from my tiresome head of security and with how the famous Copenhagen park had been transformed for the Annual Ascot Music Festival, held in a different country every summer.
The park had been turned into a lovely little village of colorful tents that featured all kinds of drinks, food, trinkets and souvenirs. There were smaller stages scattered throughout for some of the less well-known singers and bands to perform. Street performers juggled and did cartwheels and magic tricks.
This year’s festival was titled Carlene to Celine and Everything in Between. I thought it was very catchy and modern, though one of the PR men—they prefer the term “marketing executive” now—had the audacity to roll his eyes when I suggested it. I wished, for a very brief moment, that the super suave, I’m the expert on everything man, with his hyphenated name, was walking with me to see how that title was displayed everywhere, eclipsed by the much larger Ascot Presents.
The name Ascot even eclipsed Carlene, which, of course, was my intention, though I would act properly horrified if anyone pointed it out as the shameless publicity move for Ascot that it was. When I took my inherited family fortune to the next level—the Ascot brand was now a household name in products that ranged from pharmaceuticals to kitchen faucets—I learned that women in business had to be shrewd and smart, and very careful not to let anyone know just how shrewd and how smart they were.
Carlene herself, the headline act, would be performing in about fifteen minutes and throngs of people were heading through the park to the stadium. Certainly no one took any notice at all of me, a gracious elderly lady in a colorful head scarf, sunglasses and a sweater that was...er...perhaps a touch bulky.
It was all very exciting, and there was a kind of energy to the crowd that was invigorating. But little by little I began to feel that familiar bombardment that reminded me why I avoided crowds.
That man needs some vitamin C.
That woman needs a baby.
The thoughts were coming faster and faster and were followed by a heightened perception of the crowds being quite crushing and the evening being very warm.
I hadn’t exactly counted on the heat when I thought of Denmark on a summer’s evening or when I stuffed Max under my sweater.
People are always so quick to offer their judgments, and I’m sure many people would say having a dachshund snuggled under my sweater at such a crowded venue was practically inviting trouble.
But Max suffers from separation anxiety and it had been made worse by jet lag and a hotel room he was unfamiliar with. The poor little fellow could hardly go pee he was so discombobulated. The only place he seemed to settle was under my sweater. I felt a bit like a mother kangaroo with her joey, a nice feeling, since I had never had children myself.
That nice feeling lasted precisely until I walked by a performer who chose the very moment of my passing to clank a pair of oversize cymbals together.
Max let out a yelp, scrambled up my belly and chest leaving, I’m sure, a trail of red welts that marked his desperation.
He exploded out the neckline of my sweater, leaped onto my shoulder and hesitated for only one brief moment before he launched himself over my back.
I whirled in time to see him hit the ground and tumble. He was wearing the most adorable little sailor outfit and the hat fell off. He found his feet and raced off, in the opposite direction of the crowds heading to the stadium.
“Max!”
You would think the desperation in my voice would have been enough to stop the little bugger, but no, he cast one glance back at me, looking distinctively pleased, not frightened in the least, and quickly lost himself in the sea of legs marching toward me.
I practically risked my life to rescue the hat from the crush of stamping feet before attempting to follow him. I can’t describe the pure panic I was feeling, clutching his jaunty little hat to my chest. That little dog is my whole world. I practically own the earth, and in that second, I was aware I would trade every single bit of my fortune for him.
The futility of trying to follow him soon became apparent. I could not make my way through the crowds. Frankly, it was like being in a nightmare where you are trying to run and you cannot move.
My invisibility was terrifying. It was as if no one saw me at all as I pushed the wrong way. I got only brief, annoyed glances, as if I had been drinking too much. As if to confirm the worst suspicions of all these strangers, I suddenly stumbled and felt my ankle turn. Pain shot through it.
I allow myself very few vulnerable moments, but there I stood, paralyzed and trembling, wondering if my ankle, which felt as if a red-hot poker had been thrust through it, was going to give out on me. If it did, surely I would be trampled.
And then she appeared, like an angel. A young woman stopped in that endless push toward the Carlene concert, and looked at me. People flowed around us unceasingly, as if we were two rocks in a stream.
I knew right away she was a good person. Her eyes were huge and brown and probably the gentlest eyes I had ever seen.
“Are you all right?” she asked me. She spoke English, without an accent, which made me think she was North American. She touched my shoulder.
I practically threw myself into her arms and instead of pushing me away, as if she was being accosted by a crazy person, her arms folded around me.
She was very slender, and yet she felt ten feet tall and enormously strong.
“My dog,” I sobbed. “He’s escaped. He went that way.”
Feeling foolish and old I stepped back from her embrace, wincing at the pain in my ankle, and pointed a quavering arm in the direction Max had gone.
It was then I noticed she was with a man. He was one of those supremely attractive types, who have an inborn knowledge of their own superiority. He had that way about him, of a very good-looking man, as if he was doing this woman some kind of favor by being with her. Even though she was being protective of me, I actually, despite my distress, felt very protective of her.
“Ralph,” she said, pronouncing it in the German way, Rolf, “this poor woman has lost her dog. Can you go find him?”
He gave her an astonished glare and looked, rather pointedly, at his very expensive wristwatch. It was clear he didn’t want to miss the opening song of the concert, had probably put out a lot of money for front row seats.
The woman gave him a look.
