I follow his line of sight. A blue awning across the street reads, “The Lobster Pot,” with a chalkboard promising “Chips & chat, rain or shine!”
Cold rain soaks my hair as we make a dash for it. Zane keeps his arm around my shoulders like a shield.
Inside, it’s warm and crowded. Typical seaside town clutter marks the walls. Things like knotted ropes and oars on the walls, along with black-and-white photos of fishermen. The place smells of malt vinegar and wet wool. But it’s homey.
The woman behind the counter waves us to a table. “You two look like drowned otters!”
We follow.
She plunks down menus. Zane orders fish and chips for both. Honestly, nothing at this moment sounds better.
We peel off our soaking-wet raincoats. I press napkins to my hair and eventually get it all to a manageable level. Zane watches with an amused smirk.
The food comes. We eat in silence at first. The cod is fresh and the batter light. It is, as always, too much for me. Zane waits until I’ve picked at my plate, then slides his leftovers to minewithout comment. His fingers brush mine. His knuckles are still pink from the cold.
The rain shows no signs of stopping. By the time we finish, the street is a river.
“We’ll make a run for it,” Zane says. “At least it’s not that far.”
I roll my eyes. “Back to the storm shelter, then.”
He grins, and I realize I’ve never seen him look so unburdened. “After you, Helena.”
We sprint the half-mile to the cottage. The cold gets everywhere—between my toes, down the neck of my jumper. I’m gasping when we reach the porch. Zane’s hair is plastered to his forehead, which makes him look softer. It suits him well.
Inside, we track puddles across the kitchen tiles. Zane tows me to the radiator and peels off my coat, then his. I want to collapse, but he’s already moving, setting kettles and fetching towels with military precision.
“I can manage,” I say, but he ignores me.
He wraps a towel around my shoulders with gentle hands. “You’ll get sick.”
“Not unless you’re harboring germs.” I attempt the joke, but I’m not sure it hits. I don’t know why I suddenly feel like I should befunny around Zane instead of just being myself.
Nerves, Helena. Duh.But why only now?
Zane doesn’t laugh. His attention is fiercely locked on me. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
“I am.”
“I could call?—”
I put a finger to his lips, shocking us both. “Don’t. I swear, I’m fine.”
His lips are warm under my touch. He looks at me, searching forsomething. Intent? Permission? I don’t know.
He steps back, letting the air settle.
The thunder is closer now. Rain pelts the windows louder than before.
Then… I hear it before I see it—adrip, drip, followed by a sharp splatter as water pools on the floorboards in the sitting room.
Zane investigates and then curses loudly upon reaching his discovery. “A leak.”
He drags a chair beneath the worst spot and examines the ceiling. “This wasn’t on the inspection.”
“It’s an old house,” I say, not sure why I’m defending it.
Zane shakes his head and draws out his phone. Before I know it, he’s on the phone to the rental company. I mop up water with towels, the rain beating a rhythm overhead.
