Page 76 of Blindsided By You

Part of me wants to open up to Kyle, to use my own stupidity as a lesson, to encourage him to not give up on the possibility of someone special in his future. But this is Kyle Stewart, and although I can see there are changes in him, I’m not ready to have that sort of heart-to-heart with him—not yet.

However, the sudden rush of empathy still causes me to do something impulsive, and arguably stupid.

“Have you eaten?”

His head jerks up, surprise splashed across his face. He’s not the only one.

“Nah, just a bag of crisps at the club.”

“I’ve got a pizza coming. No way I can eat it all.”

“Is that a dinner invitation, Jenna Sharpe?” His lips curl into that easy smirk, one I now suspect is just part of the mask he wears.

“Yes, but nothing more,” I say, my guard snapping back into place.

We spend two hours eating, drinking—against my better judgment with the lurking possibility of a migraine—and talking in a way that is scarily close to a conversation between friends.

We don’t veer off into serious territory again, but by the time Rory, the publican, calls the last round just before eleven, to my surprise, I can admit to having enjoyed this couple of hours with Kyle. There’s the same old Stewart charm, the quick wit, the playful banter, the confident way he carries himself as if he knows his attractiveness; but he is definitely different from the cocky teenager with a reputation for collecting girls like trophies.

There’s a maturity, perhaps forged from all he’s seen and done in the intervening years. Kyle doesn’t go into detail about his time in the army, even less on the close protection role that won him a commendation, and I sense that’s deliberate. I glimpse shadows in his eyes whenever we stray too close to the reality of his past work, before he quickly deflects to some anecdote about guys he served with pranking each other, or inside gossip about a certain MP’s indiscretions that were spread all over the tabloids.

Skylar clears the table, raising a questioning brow as she picks up my empty whisky glass—I’ve had three. My first response is a hiccupping giggle.

“I may be a little bit drunk,” I confess to her knowing smile, as I gather my things.

Standing on the steps outside, the cold air slaps my cheeks with the sobering realisation: I’m more than a little drunk. I’m too drunk to drive and have no way home.

This is Cluanie, where Danny Byrne, a mechanic from the garage who moonlights as the town’s only taxi driver, clocks off at ten, and Uber is a foreign word. Our house is miles away, out on the farthest edge of town, too far to walk, and anyway, I’d probably freeze to death on the way. I fumble my keys from my bag, thinking maybe I can sleep it off in the car for a few hours, although it’s not going to be much warmer there.

Kyle’s hand shoots out and grabs the keys. “Sorry, Jenna, but cop or not, you’re not driving. And I’ve had one too many to be legal myself.”

“I wasn’t going to drive,” I protest. “I’m going to sleep in the car.”

“Don’t be so fucking daft. It’s freezing out tonight.”

“I can’t stay here.” Rory locks the double doors behind us with an emphatic clunk.

“Come stay at mine.” Kyle tips his head towards the old building next door to the pub, the original Cluanie police station. It now houses Rain’s gift shop on the ground floor, and above it a flat, former offices once turned into accommodation for the Chief of Police. The current chief lives in a nice house over by Craig Ross Park and Kyle rents this place.

I shoot him a dubious glance.

“I swear I mean nothing dodgy by the invitation,” he says, raising his hands innocently. “Just a good copper doing his job, making sure the locals get home safe. And keep to the law. Don’t want to have to nick you for drink driving.”

Our easy conversation of the past few hours, helped by the alcohol, has dulled my suspicious side where Kyle’s concerned, and I do the sensible thing, hoping it doesn’t come around and bite me on the arse. I follow him to a bright red side-door and up a set of stairsto what is a comfortable flat, homely even, not at all the bachelor pad I’d expected.

“Just got to nip back down to the yard and get Dora,” he says. “Make yourself at home.”

I sit on the couch, intrigued by the mysterious Dora. A minute later, the door swings open, and a large, gangly dog barrels through it and races towards me, planting two damp paws on my knees, and grinning up at me, all white teeth and long lolling tongue.

“Sorry, she’s a bit excitable,” he says, making no attempt to correct Dora while I fuss with her floppy ears. “Worse when I’ve been out for a while.”

“She’s beautiful. You are, aren’t you?” I coo at Dora, scrunching her soft jowly cheeks between my hands. “How long have you had her?”

“About a year. You’ve heard of Pen Farthing, yeah?”

I nod. How could anyone not have heard of the ex-Marine and his controversial evacuation of animals during the fall of Kabul?

“Seeing it on the news got me thinking. Did some reading about places that match up veterans with rescue dogs. Helps them cope with some of the shit that fills your brain when you’ve been through stuff. Thought it might help.” I don’t probe Kyle for details, but it seems he’s got some memories he’d rather forget. “So I went to the SSPCA and came home with Dora.” Hearing her name, the dog races to him and springs into his arms, where he catches her effortlessly, holding her in his arms like a huge baby, waving long legs in the air. “Like to think we each saved the other, eh? Didn’t we, girl?” The dog licks at his face and he laughs, before lowering her to the floor. He walks towards the hallway, the dog dancing at his heels. “Let’s show Jenna to her room, shall we?”

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