Page 11 of Second Song

“Yeah.” I squint at the plans. “But you must know how to take additional precautions. How to stagger the work around inserting new steels that can carry the load.”

“I do. I just can’t take a single risk with this rebuild.” He makes a confession, and maybe today is a day for bravery because he plainly states what might be easier to keep private. Or maybe it’s a test of my reaction. “My husband works at the school. He’s very invested in the library rebuild. That’s why I need the right person to get the project started. Someone super-careful. Not only a true demolition expert, but someone who understands the whole rebuild process. You know all about construction, right? And how to come up with creative solutions?”

That’s one way of describing what it takes to be a Sapper. We forge roads and landing strips from craters, and clear rubble to rebuild bridges out of almost nothing. Creative? Conflict is the mother of invention, and I’ve seen plenty, so I nod and he continues.

“Jason says you’re the right man for the job. Can you fit us into your schedule?”

He turns a contract towards me to show me a figure that isn’t as much as the York job would net me. But it also doesn’t have the same explosive potential to fire me into orbit, even if some days the silence of outer space is tempting.

At least, it was for a while.

I’m learning to live with tinnitus. With being alone with it instead of sharing constant barracks chatter.

Now I drag in a breath, considering as Dom asks, “More to the point, would you want to?”

“Let me think about it.”

His shoulders don’t slump. They straighten, and I like that about him. Gotta respect someone who doesn’t give up.

Like Rowan.

I spend the next ten minutes in a kitchen negotiating contract clauses and timings but, like earlier, part of me is busy wondering how the rest of the day is going for someone whose wary gaze still hasn’t faded for me. Especially when Dom shifts, and I glimpse a framed photo of someone who could be Rowan. At least, the traffic-stopping smile of the blond in the photo could be his.

Maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about him. The contrast between the blinding smile he gave me after that kiss and all the cautiousness I also witnessed intrigued me.

It still does.

Another glance at the photo shows a different man pictured with Dom, his daughter wearing a bridesmaid dress held snug between them. Dom shifts again, blocking my view of that wedding photo. “When could you let me know your final decision?”

“I won’t keep you waiting.” I need to think about reasons that don’t only come down to money—like Matt, and having more miles between his meetup reminders than less. “I’ve got a few smaller jobs I’m already committed to, and one longer-term potential contract. Can I let you know?”

“Do that.” He walks me back to the path leading to those cliffside steps. “Message me. Doesn’t matter how late,” he tells me. “The timings are all a bit crucial if we’re going to have scope to gut the inside of the main building during the summer holidays. That’s why the library has to come first. No point renovating the rest if it’s all going to end up as a pile of rubble. Austin will sleep better once we know where we stand with getting the project started by an expert.”

“Happy wife, happy life, right?”

Dom’s bark of laughter carries, cutting through tinnitus static for a welcome moment. Then that internal roar is back, complete with high-pitched whining that threads through what he tags on. “He’d have your bollocks for calling him that, but yeah. I’m all about marital bliss, so I hope you’ll decide in our favour.”

We shake again, and I head back down the steps to the beach. It’s thinner now, just a sliver of sand left, the waves foaming so much closer to Matt. He leans on one of those twin boulders, his hair damp with sea spray. “You took your time. Finally found your voice, Mr. Chatty?” He casts an eye upwards. “Don’t tell me. You couldn’t drag yourself away from another blond and pretty muppet.”

Matt’s still got my number.

I’ve still got his too. “More like a sizzling, salt-and-pepper Daddy.”

“Shit.” Matt pants with his tongue out. “I should have come up there with you.”

We head back to the campsite as I knock my shoulder against his. “But seriously, why didn’t you wait for me in the van, you wazzock?”

He knocks my shoulder with his in return, the great lump, then catches my elbow when I stumble. “Because someone had to make sure you made it back in one piece.”

That’s another reminder of someone I can’t stop picturing.

I hope Rowan’s okay.

It’s also why I change back into a poop-stained wetsuit as soon as we’re back at the van.

“Haven’t you had enough for the day?” Matt bitches because he’s a lazy fucker. He also frowns with concern. “Or is Radio NSFW getting louder?” He must decide that’s why I head back to the beach with my longboard, where the sound of the sea almost, but not quite, negates my internal racket.

But here’s really why I can never ditch him, and why I keep circling back to the West Country between projects even though staying away would surely be easier on all of us—Matt guesses why I want to get back into the water and doesn’t take the piss out of me. He just says, “You dirty, dirty dog,” before ruffling my hair and grabbing his own longboard.

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