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“Um, uh, that you will.”
I chuckle quietly as I follow her with my eyes down the field, running as fast as she can in her wellies, arms flailing, while bellowing, “Bye, Adam!”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
I turn to her brother. “What?”
“I’d rather you didn’t see her soon.” Trevor’s mouth twists.
Heat is forming in behind my abs.
“What’s your problem?”
“You are my problem.”
“I’m a paying guest at your campsite,” I hiss, refusing to be intimidated by his large frame.
“And Julie is a girl, she doesn’t need someone like you to—” He clamps his lips shut.
I know he’s right, but it irks me that he’s on my case. “To what?”
“To prey on her.” He huffs. His gaze roams over the campsite before it slams back into me, searing blue eyes that almost knock the air out of me. “Does it normally work for you?”
“What?”
“Using your son to catch females?”
I see red. “I do not use my son,” I snarl.
“I’ve said it once and I’ll only say it one more time – stay away from my sister.”
3
Feeding Regret
I did enjoy the day by the sea with Adam. We built a sandcastle and dug for fossils, and then to both of our surprise, cows came down on to Whitepark Bay beach. It was all too much excitement for Adam, so I had to carry him back up to the car park. He’s not heavy, but that hill is steep. We both had a nap in the car before we started the fifteen-minute drive back to the campsite.
But no matter how much I enjoyed our day – hearing Adam’s laugh and watching his clumsy attempts at building a tower with dry sand, as it was easier to get in the bucket than wet sand – underneath it all, I was fuming over Trevor’s comments.
And I hate that he’s the first thing I see when I drive past the reception. What the hell is he doing standing in the middle of the road?
I stop the car and reluctantly lower the window as he walks up to the driver’s side.
He nods at me, his eyes strangely hooded, and I grit my teeth but nod back.
“Right, Adam,” he says, his gaze drifting to the back seat. “Have you been a good boy?”
My shoulders drop at the sound of Adam’s excited gasp.
* * *
“We need wellies,” Adam shouts, half an hour later, after a quick snack and very uncomfortable change of clothes in the small tent.
“Wellies?”
“Like Trev’r and Julie.” I hide my smile at the way he mispronounces Trevor. For once, Adam doesn’t ask to be carried when we trot down the field. He bounces on his feet as I open the creaky metal door to the front room of the concrete barn. Trevor is already there in his green overalls.
It’s too small for his tall frame.
