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And to see if Nick would forgive her.
Her heart ached with the thought that he wouldn’t. Nick had been so gentle and caring when she burned her hand. He didn’t have to be, not when she had been so prickly, so…unforgiving.
But my reasons are still valid. Aren’t they?
Even so, in light of Nick’s terrifying brush with anaphylaxis, Evie couldn’t pretend any longer. She still had feelings for him…conflicted, messy, unrequited feelings she needed to douse before they blazed out of control and suffocated her again.
Dread soured her entire weekend, rousing sinister cramps in her belly, which carried through to Monday morning. She tried her best to ignore them as she drove the fourteen miles to Stromness, grateful that today’s shoot didn’t involve a half-hour ferry trip to another island and an extra sixty minutes tacked on to an already long stressful day.
Parking the truck around half six on Ferry Road, a narrow street hugging the harbor, Evie kept her fears and discomfort hidden, and her hands—well, her good one—busy. Sunita pitched in as per usual, cooking scrambled egg and sausage sandwiches for the breakfast rush while Evie stuck to her tried-and-true oatmeal, praying her one and only chance to make her mother proud wouldn’t land her in court and tarnish their reputation.
As meals were handed out, a knock on the door reverberated through the truck’s metal shell and Evie’s chest.
They’re here. She swallowed hard, scoping out the closed-off street and chatty crew beyond the window. “That’s probably for me.”
Sunita gave her a sympathetic smile then handed a breakfast sandwich to a sweatsuit-swaddled actress, her boned bodice and sloping bustle still waiting on a hanger in the wardrobe trailer.
Evie smoothed her freshly laundered apron, fighting the pesky static that made the creases cling to her tunic and tummy-friendly leggings. She held a breath in and slowly let it escape, releasing the latch on the door.
When she slid it open, Nick—and only Nick—was revealed like some wannabe boyfriend on one of those TV dating shows she used to watch with her mum. Instead of a bouquet of roses, he gripped a takeout coffee in front of his leather jacket and slim-fit charcoal trousers, obviously giving the fresh pots Evie had made for the crew a wide berth. He glanced up with a brooding squint, a hot rebel with a cause decked out in Prada.
Evie’s heart skipped an ill-advised beat.
“Was it how you imagined?” he asked flatly, a muffled buzzing escaping from inside his jacket.
She blinked and stepped down from the truck. “Excuse me?”
“Stabbing me with a sharp object.” His wince dissolved into a wry grin. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it…”
This moment was neither the time nor place to go there. Instead, Evie plunged headfirst into groveling mode. “Nick, I am SO sorry! I should’ve checked the muffins—”
“No, I should’ve. My allergy is uncommon. I never leave it to chance.” His pocket whirred again. “But I was mid-phone call and someone texted and I was careless”—he shrugged—“and paid the price for being a hungry, impatient twat.”
“But you wouldn’t have had I checked.”
“It was a fluke. Don’t worry about it; I’m not.” Nick waved his hand in front of his mouth. “See? Completely fine. No hives, no swelling—”
“Nick?” His assistant swept around the front of the truck, her heart-shaped face bare except for a tint of mascara and a lick of lip gloss. Her shiny dark hair was wind-gust-ready in a low, neat ponytail, and her cropped, black leather motocross jacket, which kissed the top of her high-waisted black jeans, mimicked Nick’s outfit to a T.
Fashionable and sophisticated—exactly Nick’s type. Evie’s head-to-toe perusal leapt up from the woman’s western-style ankle boots. I was delusional for ever thinking he and I would work.
His assistant squeezed his arm, silver rings gracing every manicured finger. “You need to pick up! Wardrobe has been trying to reach you for ages”—she held up her phone—“and now they’re calling me.” Her accent sounded similar to the American tourists who visited Marwick’s.
Nick flashed an uncomfortable smile as the woman let go of his arm. “This is Ashley, assistant extraordinaire.”
“Hi.” Evie nodded. Ashley stared back, her sour gaze pinging to the hairnet on her head.
“And this is Evie,” said Nick, “head of catering and…”
Her stomach tensed. The girl I left behind.
“…an old friend.”
The polite way of putting it.
“Aw.” Ashley wrinkled her nose. “That’s nice.” If her tone was anything to go by, “nice” was something contemptible.
Evie had met Ashley’s type before: outsiders who poked fun at islanders and wrote them off as backward and unsophisticated, inbred and boring, assuming (wrongly) that they led meaningless, insignificant lives and didn’t have a clue about anything happening beyond their shores.
