Page 7 of Second Song

He either doesn’t hear that or ignores me, which should set old alarm bells ringing, but the only chimes come from a bell above the pub’s front door. It tinkles as I bypass the entrance to the main bar and head straight for the staircase.

I don’t climb them on my own.

He’s one step behind me all the way up, my shadow when I get out my room key, and I can feel his eyes on me. Can see them too once I find my spare glasses. He’s still on the threshold, his gaze unwavering as I empty the pockets of my jacket before dabbing at it with a wet wipe. Then he’s in the bedroom with me, the door closing behind him, and again, alarm bells don’t start up with their old clamour until one of his hands covers mine to stop me. His voice also stops that siren before it can shriek louder.

“Leave your jacket to me. You got another shirt?”

I nod.

“Change into it. I’ve got this.”

Maybe I should think twice about breaking a promise I made to my stepdad. I told him I’d never strip in front of a virtual stranger again, but I don’t have to worry. He isn’t here to watch me. Liam doesn’t watch me either. He takes my jacket to the bathroom. A tap runs as I get busy dragging off my dirty shirt. I drag on a clean one even faster. That only leaves my trousers, which aren’t half as dirty. I wipe them off, then pull on a much cleaner jacket, thanks to Liam who says, “Here.”

He holds out what I emptied from my pockets and tossed on the bed.

I take my keys, almost leaving the tin whistle he also offers. My flute’s a more impressive way to showcase my skills than that battered old keepsake. I pocket it rather than explain, in a hurry to get that showcasing started. I lock the door behind us and rush downstairs, only pausing when I open the door to the harbour and that bell tinkles again.

I look back then to see that Liam’s followed me as far as the foot of the staircase. Now he hangs back, letting me go.

Tourists pass by on the harbour, life going on as normal outside, while I feel like I’ve lived through warfare, a skirmish I only survived because of this man who nods at the door I still hold open. He tells me without words to make tracks while I still can, and I should, especially when he checks his watch.

“Twenty-seven minutes left on the clock.” His voice is lovely and low. I wish I could hear him sing even if I couldn’t harmonise with him now my singing days are over. He isn’t done speaking either. “Make the most of every minute, Rowan. Go.”

“I…” I do make the most of it, only not by leaving.

Not yet.

I go back to him instead.

He tilts his head, watching, his brow creased, and his lips part as if to repeat his order. I clasp his arm before he gets to, and he doesn’t say no, but I haven’t exactly asked him for permission, have I? I do that as laughter drifts from the main bar and seagulls cry behind the now closed door to the harbour, but all I truly register is my own voice cracking. “Can I?—”

I don’t get to finish.

He dips his head, and our mouths meet.

We kiss while a clock ticks. His lips are soft, his stubble rougher, the slick tip of his tongue there for a fleeting moment. That’s an electric sensation. It’s also testing. Cautious. Wary, like I’ve seen in my own mirror all too often since fucking up so badly. For once, I want this more than the peace of mind that being alone brings, so I go up on tiptoe to open to him.

Our tongues touch, and I know I’ve done this before. There’s a whole court injunction detailing graphic sex from start to finish. I’ve locked that kiss-and-tell away so tightly that this feels like a first time—so much so that I don’t know what to do with my nose. Ours bump, then bump again until he shifts, and that’s better, even if my glasses slip and steam up. I don’t need to see, not while I’m busy feeling, and this slipping, sliding sensation lights me, heating me all over, which is weird because I shiver.

I wind my arms around his neck and he holds me just as tightly, hands skimming my sides next, sliding around to the small of my back until he’s got two handfuls of what last got me into trouble, and I like him squeezing my arse about as much as I like his tongue in my mouth.

Like it?

His kiss is still electric, still close to lightning zipping through me, and just as shocking as the bell over the front door suddenly tinkling.

I lurch away, immediately wanting to lurch back, but as customers enter the main bar, I settle for telling him what still feels more important. “Thanks again. For everything.”

The door closes behind them. We’re alone again—could get back to what I started—but he murmurs, “Tick-tock, Row,” and I know he’s right. I still dart back for one more quick kiss, my hold sliding from the curve of his biceps down corded forearms to the big, square bones of his wrists before I finally break contact. That’s harder than it should be. I shove my hand into my pocket where that old tin whistle is a good reminder of the second chance I’m really here for.

I take one step away followed by another. A third brings me to the harbourside door, which I open, but I still don’t cross the threshold. I nod towards the bar door instead. “Feels like I should buy you a drink to say a real thanks. I mean, I’m not a fan, but whatever your poison, it would be on me.”

“Not a fan, Row? What are you gonna celebrate with?”

“Celebrate?”

“When you get the job.”

He’s so convinced I still stand a chance. That warms me inside. Maybe that’s why I’m reminded of what Mum always made on cold nights. “With a hot chocolate?”

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