lets my statement and its meaning sink in. I know it has when he blinks rapidly, as if pulling himself from a daze. He releases me, being quite gentlemanly about it, and pulls me up, before grabbing a pillow and pulling off the cover, wiping his nose.
“You can’t ruin something that’s already broken, Rose.” His words are soft, not cutting, but they still hurt. And he’s wrong. He could destroy me completely. But I don’t challenge him.
Pointing to the wardrobe, Danny takes backward steps toward the door. “Get ready. We’re going out.”
“Where?”
“My boatyard.” He opens the door and leaves, and I remain where I am, my mind racing. He’s taking me? I hurry to the bathroom, flipping the shower on. Then I stare at the drawer for an age, torn. I decide against it. It’s not like I have anything to tell him, anyway.
You can’t ruin something that’s already broken, Rose.
He just has no idea how broken I actually am.
Jeans and a sweater. It seems like a suitable wardrobe choice for a boatyard. The jeans are Armani, low-rise, and hug my ass tightly, and the gray sweater has the Union Jack on it. Very . . . British. Like him. I can only imagine Esther is responsible for my new wardrobe. Who else?
I slip my feet into some tennis shoes and pull my hair into a ponytail as I make my way downstairs, and I nearly tumble down the damn things when I spot him. In a baseball cap. Danny Black in a baseball cap? It’s sounds so very wrong, but it’s looks very right. He’s in jeans too; his are an easy-fit as oppose to my skinny things, and he’s also wearing a sweater. His is navy, emblazoned with the Union Jack too. He looks casual. Relaxed. It suits him. I discreetly pull my British sweater away from my chest to circulate some air as I approach him, my feet careful on the marble steps. I can’t help but wonder if the flag on the front of my sweater, the sweater he had put in my wardrobe, is The Brit making a point. But what point? This is all very . . . couplesy.
I can see Danny’s subtly taking me in as Brad talks to him, pointing at his slightly swollen nose. When I’m close enough, Danny clasps the top of my arm, just above the bandage under my sweater, and leads me out to the car. “I can tell this is going to be a romantic date,” I quip, falling to the back seat once he’s opened the door for me.
He ignores me, gets in, going straight to his phone, and that’s where he stays, engrossed in the screen the entire way.
* * *
The sea smells good. The breeze feels good. Loose strands of my hair whipping my face feels good. I stand by the car, looking back at the dirt road that led us down to this little haven. A station wagon pulls up behind us, a trailer hooked to the back. And on it, a jet ski. A surfer type jumps out and starts toward one of the huge containers set to the left. I frown, continuing to take in the boatyard. The name suggests a few rickety sheds, maybe a jetty and a few old boats thrown into the mix. But there’s none of that. A huge log cabin is by the shore with a raised decking area that juts out over the water, supported by stilts. There are endless huge metal containers, and a sandy shore leading to the water. We’re in a cute cove. It’s all really very pretty and idyllic . . . if it wasn’t for the noise.
I cast my eyes across the water and see jet skis. Lots of them, zooming across the sea, circling, spraying water when they sharply turn. Endless jet skis bob on the water on the shore, and endless people in wetsuits are milling around.
“Coming through,” a man shouts, hanging out his truck window as he reverses his trailer down to the water. I move aside and get an endearing wink. “Come for lessons?” he asks as he rolls past.
“She’s with me.” Danny moves in and takes my hand, pulling me toward the cabin.
“Hey, Danny.” The guy smacks the side of his truck, a cheerful smile on his face. “It’s busy out there today.”
“European competition season is on the way,” Danny says, only further deepening my frown.
The guy’s trailer hits the water and a few more