‘Good morning, Constance.’ He glanced into the pan on the hotplate. ‘Porridge—good! I’m absolutely starving.’
Constance swung round, her eyes widening. ‘What are you doing here?’
Arlo felt a stab of irritation. First Frankie...now Constance. Why did everyone keep asking him that?
Turning towards the table, he frowned. ‘Eating breakfast, I hope. Is that yesterday’s paper?’
Constance ignored his question. ‘I thought you were with Frankie.’
With Frankie!
Two small words. One big implication. Bigger than was necessary or welcome, he thought, as a tantalising image of what being with Frankie might encompass popped into his head.
Keeping his tone even, he shook his head and replied. ‘I haven’t seen her.’ He glanced up at the window. ‘Storm’s picked up.’
The wind sounded like a trapped animal whining and the rain was hitting the window with great wet smacks.
‘She said you were taking her to the station...’
The cheeky little...
His jaw tightened. ‘And I will. After breakfast.’
‘But she left twenty minutes ago.’
It took two strides for him to reach the window that overlooked the causeway. The sky was the colour of a twelve-bore shotgun now, and it was raining so hard that it was impossible to see clearly. But he didn’t need to see clearly to spot the blur of red inching along the raised cobbled road.
* * *
Gritting her teeth, Frankie gripped the handle of her suitcase more tightly and gave it a small, sharp tug.
Arlo Milburn had to be the rudest, most loathsome man she’d ever had the misfortune to meet, not to mention the most hard-hearted. What kind of host turned a guest out of their bed in the middle of the night? she asked herself angrily, for what had to be the hundredth time.
And as for his accusations—
She felt her heart scrabble inside her chest as her memories coalesced. Her shocked realisation that he was Johnny’s brother... His cold-eyed disdain... That moment when the key had caught in her pocket and he’d tried to help her...
She replayed it silently inside her head, her fingers flexing involuntarily. His hand had been warm—warmer than she’d expected—the skin rough like sandpaper, and there had been a tiny but definite jolt of electricity.
Her mouth twisted. Arlo had been so tense with fury he could probably have single-handedly powered the entire coastline from here to John O’Groats.
She had no idea how he could be related to Johnny. But, then again, look at her and her super-high-achieving siblings. The twins had both been super-academic, sporty, and had won every prize going. Harry had been head-boy at school, and Amelie was practically a saint. With her blonde hair and sweet smile, she’d looked like an angel. Everyone had always been so surprised to find out Frankie was a Fox...
And now she was the only one left.
But this was not the time to go there. Right now, all that mattered was getting back to the mainland.
Screwing up her eyes against the rain, she stared down the causeway, trying not to give in to the panic ri
sing in her chest. The wind was blowing so hard she could hardly keep hold of her suitcase and the rain felt more like hailstones. Worse, the waves were starting to slop over the cobblestones.
Was that supposed to happen?
Her lower lip trembled. This whole trip had been a disaster. Basically, she’d spent five hours on a train to get shouted at and soaked to the bone. Twice. And to top it all, she’d overslept.
This was all Arlo’s fault.
If he hadn’t got her so wound up last night she wouldn’t have slept through her alarm, and then she wouldn’t have bumped into Constance, and Constance wouldn’t have insisted that Arlo take her to the station...