The sand is damp and firm, with craggy piles of rocks lurching up out of the beach. It’s warmer down here in the shelter of the cliffs, and as Mr MacGregor leads me along the surf, still holding my hand, the only sounds are our muffled steps and the sigh of the waves.
“It’s a nice beach,” I tell him.
The lighthouse keeper grunts.
“Thanks for bringing me here, Mr MacGregor.”
“Murray,” he says, and it takes a second for my brain to catch up. His first name is Murray. It must have been on his profile somewhere, but I was so dazed this morning I completely forgot.
Murray.I wrinkle my nose. “Like the eel?”
He wheezes a laugh, and it’s the best sound ever. Makes me want to float up to the sky. “Close enough.”
I’m still grinning when he tows me away from the water’s edge a few minutes later. We pass tangled knots of seaweed and lumps of driftwood, round a bulge in the cliff, and then—
I suck in a breath. “Oh my god.”
There are shipwrecks in the sand. Submerged skeletons of boats that must be hundreds of years old, warped and worn and chewed on by barnacles. It’s a nautical graveyard, like something from one of my books, with ruins stretching as far as the eye can see.
“Before the lighthouse was built, they’d crash on the rocks on foggy nights. Still get some near misses, even with the warning bells.” The keeper rubs his chin, his beard rustling against his palm. “This is why I couldn’t offer to move. Like you did for me.”
Does he think I mind about that? Hell, if I lived in an awesome lighthouse castle, I’d refuse to ever leave too. You’d have to smoke me out of there like a weasel.
I squeeze his strong fingers. Murray gazes down at me, eyes warm.
He’s not a smiler, this man. At most, the lines around his eyes soften and his scowl lifts, but I’m getting the hang of him. Before, it seemed like he hated me, like he regretted ever inviting me here, but now I think I was probably reading his expressions all wrong.
“You like me.” I float the suggestion between us, watching his scarred face carefully.
Murray grunts, like it’s obvious. “Yeah.”
“Even after meeting me?” I press. “Even though you, uh, kind of ditched me back there?”
A flush creeps over his cheeks. His gaze drops to the sand, then back to me. “Yeah, Jessica. I like you a lot.”
Oookay then. The last few hours rearrange themselves in my brain, slotting back together in a new and improved jigsaw. The lighthouse keeper isn’t disappointed with his choice of mail order bride—he’s just kinda awkward.
Awkward I can handle.
Awkward is my natural state of being.
“That’s good.” I swallow, mouth dry, but force myself to hold his gaze. Two eyes stare back at me, one dark brown, the other milky white. “I like you too.”
His hand tightens around mine. My heart stutters under my sweatshirt.
And it’s nothing like the love stories in my books. It’s not loud and dramatic and bloody; there are no duels or abductions. But though I treasure those books with my whole sappy heart, this is good too.
This feels right. It’s warming me from the inside out, like a sip of hot chocolate spreading through my belly, and though liking each other doesn’t mean that we’ll choose to marry, it’s a start. A giddy, hopeful start.
“Don’t ditch me again,” I warn the burly lighthouse keeper, using my best bossy voice. His mouth twitches. “We only have a short time together.”
His shoulders slump at the reminder, and my heart sinks too, but you know what? We’re not going to waste these precious hours moping. No way.
“Show me your kitchen again, Mr MacGregor.” I poke his barrel chest, secretly marveling at his strength. “I’m hungry.”
Murray
It’s a dream having Jessica here, laughing and—andsmilingat me. Watching her eat the grilled cheese I make her, and hearing her hum as she sips the coffee I brew. Seeing her tuck her caramel hair behind the shell of her ear. I ball my hands into fists to keep from reaching for her.