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She throws me off so badly. Her wide gray eyes, blinking up at me from behind those glasses; the freckles on her nose; the way she kept tugging her sweatshirt sleeves down over her hands and bunching the fabric in her fingers. Jessica’s so fucking perfect, and I can’t have her, and it makes me want to roar at the waves.
“Asshole.” I growl at myself under my breath, wiping down the lantern with a cloth, rubbing hard at the glass until my elbow twinges. It’s all in working order already, but I needed to get up high to clear my head and feel the wind whistling against my ears. Needed to keep my hands busy. “She came all that goddamn way.”
My chest aches every time I catch a glimpse of her beat up car, stuffed full of books and bagged clothes. Her whole life must be in the back of that car. Such a leap of faith.
And here’s me, hiding up on this tower like the world’s biggest coward. Scared of a shy young woman with a button collection. Scared to disappoint her.
I drop my hand, elbow throbbing.
It’s still early. I’ve wasted an hour up here, but the sunshine is still clean and bright; the wind is salty and fresh. When I shade my eyes, peering out along the grassy cliffs, I find her easily: Jessica Brown, maybe-would-have-been-MacGregor, head bowed against the breeze. She walks slowly along the coast path, a distant figure in her white sweatshirt and jeans.
She’s been out there this whole time. Wandering. Thinking.
Probably lonely again.
I shove the cloth in my back pocket with a curse.
Enough brooding. I may not be the man she wanted, but I can still give that sweet girl an enjoyable stay.
Jessica
Mr MacGregor disappears from the top of the lighthouse tower, and I sigh and stare at my sneakers in the tangled grass. Maybe I put him off, stealing so many glances up at him. Watching my mail order match so shamelessly, practically vibrating with longing down here on the cliff side.
I won’t go looking for him. A girl needs some pride, and I won’t beg that man for his attention.
Butlord,I want it. So much I barely recognize myself. Sure, I’ve had crushes before—when I was growing up, I found a few of the guys at school attractive. They never noticed me, obviously, but I saw them. Doodled their names in my planner and all that, before they inevitably said or did something stupid and the shine wore off.
Those fleeting fixations were nothing, though, compared to this. It’s like a switch has flipped somewhere deep in my body: I’m hot and tingly and achy all over, and every time Mr MacGregor disappears from view, I can’t breathe right until I see him again.
Ridiculous. At this rate, he won’t even let me stay the full twenty four hours, I’ll have put him off so badly.
When Mr MacGregor marches toward me across the grass ten minutes later, at first I think he’s mad. His big shoulders are hunched; his thick eyebrows are lowered. The wind tugs on the ends of his long hair, and I wipe my clammy palms on my thighs. What’s the proper way to apologize for staring at someone like a creeper? Is there a script for that?
But: “Jessica,” he rumbles, coming to a stop in front of me. Not close enough to touch, but still looming over me so much my head tilts. “I want to show you something on the beach.”
I’m nodding before I can think straight, and most humiliating of all, my hand reaches for him. Stretches out without my permission.
Mr MacGregor blinks, visibly surprised, but before I can snatch my hand back, he wraps my fingers in his own. His grip is warm and dry, surrounding me, and as soon as he touches me, something anxious inside me settles.
I manage a weak smile.
Mr MacGregor darts a glance left and right, like he’s waiting for a crowd to jump out and yell “Gotcha!”. But when he finds the cliffs still empty, he peers down at me again, and this time his gaze is warmer. He steps closer, boots crumpling the grass.
“You okay going down rocky steps?”
“Uh-huh.” Probably.
The lighthouse keeper sets off without another word, tugging me gently along in his wake.
* * *
Alright, I amnotokay going down rocky steps. Not when they’re wet and slippery and uneven as hell, and nesting seabirds scream at us from close by the whole way. Assholes. Three times, my feet slide out from under me, the seagulls cackling at the sight—and three times, Mr MacGregor catches and steadies me without a word.
He doesn’t point out that I’m crap at this. That’s something, at least. But every time I land in his arms and whisper “Sorry,” he huffs a little louder.
“Stop apologizing.” He’s scowling out to sea and his voice is gruff, but his hand is gentle where it cups my elbow. “You’re doing fine. And I don’t mind.”
Sorry. The word bubbles up my throat again, but I press my lips together and choke it back. Yikes. I really do apologize too much.
