‘I don’t think we’ve –’ she murmured, knowing she would have remembered that face. In fact, it would be a problem to forget it. He was mesmerizing to look at.
He reached to his side and held up a battered, sun-bleached baseball cap.
‘Oh.’ Oh no.
‘Yes,’ he said after a moment. ‘Hello again.’
‘I . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you without the cap.’
‘Generally I prefer it when people don’t recognize me with the cap.’
She smiled politely. It was clearly a joke, although she didn’t quite get it, unless he fancied himself as a bit of celebrity (which, given those looks, was fair enough really).
‘I almost didn’t recognize you with your hair down. I wasn’t sure. I saw you earlier at the maypole.’
‘That’s right. You were with your family.’
‘Yes, it was fun.’
‘Yes.’ Confirmation he was married then. In spite of the fact that she disliked him on a personal level, the reflexive twinge of disappointment in her gut told her she’d still been rather hoping he was single. She didn’t need to like the guy; one night staring into those eyes would have been just the kind of comfort she needed. ‘Midsommar’s for families really, isn’t it?’
He paused. ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’
‘If ever there’s a time to be with the ones you love, it’s tonight,’ she murmured, feeling her loneliness wash over her again, taking her away from him, here . . .
He was quiet for a moment. ‘So, do you want that beer?’
She looked back to find him holding out a bottle for her. ‘Oh, I should probably be getting back . . .’ But her gaze met those eyes again. Even if she could only look at him . . . ‘But I don’t suppose one would hurt.’
She took it, and self-consciously adjusted her floral crown. Suddenly it seemed a ridiculous thing to wear, even though she’d had it on all day with no embarrassment at all.
‘Are those the flowers you had in the basket yesterday? They look good.’
She touched the crown uncertainly again. ‘Oh, well . . . it all seems a bit silly when you’re nowhere near the maypole.’ She swigged the beer and felt him watch her.
‘I’m Emil, by the way.’
‘Oh. Bell.’
He arched an eyebrow. ‘As in . . . ding-dong?’
‘Yes,’ she chuckled. ‘As in that. It’s short for Isobel. With an “o”.’
‘Boll.’
She laughed at the joke, feeling the awkwardness of yesterday’s encounter begin to dissipate. He might have been a reluctant hero, but she supposed she’d hardly been the sympathetic damsel in distress either, indignantly demanding he give up the trike as her arms almost gave out.
A breeze rippled over her and she shivered, her little sundress not such a great idea after midnight.
‘You can come and sit in here if you like,’ he offered, nodding towards the bench opposite his. ‘I promise I’m not a serial killer. It’s a lot warmer down here, out of the wind.’
‘Is that why you’re here?’ she asked, deliberating for only a moment before getting up and jumping onto the boat. It was one of the less glamorous ones in the marina. Most were navy-bellied gin palaces with white leather and drinks cabinets. This was an early eighties cabin boat with yellowing paint, upholstered in a shocking green-and-white zig-zag cloth that seemed to have been inspired by Culture Club, and it would be good going if it had a first aid kit on board. ‘Keeping down, out of the wind?’
‘I’m keeping my head down in every sense.’ He drank some more of his beer.
‘Oh dear. Did you upset your wife or something?’
His gaze was direct, flashing on her like a torch beam. ‘My wife?’
‘Yeah, the dark-haired lady I saw you with earlier . . .? You said you were with your family.’
‘I was.’ A small smile flickered on his lips. ‘She’s my sister.’
‘Aaah!’ She couldn’t quite contain the happy relief that statement brought her – he wasn’t married! – and she quickly drank some more. There was nothing else to do, and she needed to distract herself from that face.
He watched her fidget nervously. ‘You’re not from here.’
‘Nope. I’m English.’
‘Your Swedish is excellent.’
‘Thank you. Swedish grandmother.’
He nodded.
‘Do you speak English?’ she asked.
‘Only when I’m trying to impress beautiful English girls,’ he said in faultless English, no trace of an accent.
‘Oh my God, you speak it better than most of the English!’ she laughed.
‘As I understand it, so do most Swedes . . .’
She laughed. ‘Hmm. You’re not afraid to be controversial, I see.’