Summer Sky (3 page)

"Okay. But I'm not talking about anything to do with my normal life."

"Oh, that’s such a good idea." Why do his eyes darken when I mention reality? "Ask me something. Anything."

"Um. What's your favourite colour?"

He splutters. "You can do better than that! Black. If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?"

"Here. I came here every year as a kid so I see this house as my happy place. Where would you go?"

"Here."

"I don't believe you."

Dylan frowns. "I've travelled a lot and seen a lot of places. But I always came here too, when I was a kid."

"Oh?"

"My summer childhood too, Sky. We rented this place."

He stands and wanders to the tall bookshelf in the corner, stacked with books I doubt anyone has read for years. He pulls one forward and drags it out. "I left this here one year."

Dylan places the book on the table, a book about animals and the seaside. He opens to the first page. "See."

In childish scrawl is his name - Dylan Morgan.

"Huh." That’s not what I expected.

"Funny, how we're attracted to the places of our childhood when we need to get away."

The guy standing in front of me has a strange vulnerability, and for a moment I imagine him as a ten-year-old boy fishing in rock pools and collecting shells on the beach. Carefree.

This is not what I expected, from today, from him, or from fate. He's a mirror too, when I think about his ten-year-old self, I picture mine. He has to be who he says or has concocted a lie worthy of MI5, which would be a bit extreme to commit a crime against a broken-hearted girl from Bristol.

"Did you go to Mrs Hughes for ice creams?" I ask.

He sits back down. "Yes - and she made those ice lollies, great big ones in cups that melted down your arm before you finished."

"Yes! And she had a dog - I think she might still have it..."

"...has one eye. Buster."

We grin in unison, and suddenly, we don't seem as far apart as we once did.

Chapter Three

Firstly, I'm aware of the drool creeping out of my mouth. Next the sensation of being scrunched into a bed half a foot too short. And the smell of bacon.

I open an eye and ground myself. I'm lying on the sofa of my gran's cottage with a blanket over me. Sitting, I turn towards the kitchen area. Through the door, Dylan stands over the stove, pushing sizzling bacon around the pan and singing to himself. Shirtless. I have never seen a back like his, how does anyone have muscles in their back like this? Sinewy, strong and sexy as hell.

Who is this guy? And why is he still here? I stumble to my feet and creep past him, up the stairs and into the small bathroom. I study my bleary-eyed self in the mirror. Dark smudges rest beneath blue eyes, flushes of pink on my cheeks contrast pale lips. The night of pizza, wine and sofa slumber hasn't improved my generally tired appearance. Or my hair. I pull the straw-coloured blonde mess through my fingers, wishing I'd left my brush in the bathroom, not in my rucksack in the bedroom.

Peeking around the corner, Dylan is nowhere to be seen, so I sneak into the bedroom to recover my toiletries bag. A sinking in my chest accompanies the realisation I have to pack soon. Or is Dylan going? I can't remember; the evening is hazy. The bedclothes are scrunched, so he slept there last night. I wonder if he sleeps naked.
What the hell? I need slapping.
My clothes have been piled into a corner, and my cheeks flare red again at the thought of him picking up my underwear. Dylan's bag is a black rucksack, placed under the window and unpacked.

"Please tell me you're not throwing your knickers around the room again."

I spin round. Dylan leans on the doorframe with mussed hair but a brighter expression than yesterday. I've no idea if he's changed as he's wearing similar clothes, but I'm in a creased up and not so pleasant smelling summer dress.

"No," I squeak.

Squeak?

Rubbing a hand across his face, Dylan scrutinises me. "You look tired. I should've woken you. Let you go to bed."

"Doesn’t matter."

"The sofa is shorter than you - can’t have been comfy?"

"I didn’t really notice; I was so… tired."

He grins at my embarrassment. "Okay. Well, I made breakfast."

I gape at him as he wanders back downstairs again. Grant never made me breakfast. He'd get a bowl and spoon for my cereal and stick a teabag in a cup but that's as far as his culinary skills went. I follow the inviting smell and equally inviting body downstairs.

"I hope the bacon’s okay. Kind of been a while since I cooked." Dylan scrunches his nose, looking as if he's a kid trying to make a meal for the first time.

"I like bacon crispy..."

The image of a tall, tattooed, shirtless guy holding a spatula and a concerned expression amuses me and I giggle.

"What's so funny?"

I don’t think he’s used to people laughing at him. "Nothing. Well, you."

He purses his lips. "I guess we're both funny then."

As we eat our surprisingly good bacon sandwiches, I'm aware of a new aura around this guy. Dylan's loosened physically but also in his demeanour. Maybe, because he got a good night's sleep unlike some of us.

"Why was I asleep on the sofa?"

"Ask those empty bottles of wine." Dylan tips his head to the two by the sink.

"Ah."
Shit
.

"Don't worry; all you did was fall asleep with your mouth open. Nice look by the way, the little drool hanging down the side of your mouth was special."

I refuse to blush every time he teases me. "So you left me and went to bed?"

"The bed I paid for, yeah. Once I removed your underwear." He pauses, and a glint of something appears in his eye.

Now that is what I think is termed a 'panty-dropping look'. Involuntarily, my mouth parts and a soft breath escapes. In response, Dylan shifts his eyes and frowns at the floor. I should be relieved he left me on the sofa and didn't take advantage. Not that I think I'm his type; something tells me he's not into girls with a natural look. And there's nothing more natural than the state I’m currently in. As a teen, I dreamt of long legs and a skinny body like my friend Tara, but I ended up average height with plenty of curves. Nowadays, I’m happy with my size and shape and have no desire to emulate the girls in magazines. Looking like that would take sacrifices I could never make - such as not eating the food I love. I exercise and I’m a healthy weight, and that’s all I want to be. Why try for the unattainable and be miserable? The one thing I would change is my hair - I can never get it to behave unless I have the wild blonde waves captured in a ponytail.

"Anyway, what should we do today?" He slaps his large hands on the table and smiles.

"We?"

"I thought we could revisit some childhood haunts and see if ours match?" he continues, as if we're best buddies.

"No, I mean...we? I thought one of us was leaving?"

"Hmm." He taps his ringed fingers on the table. "Later? I'd like to spend some time with you."

No 'panty dropping' look accompanies these words, and a secret happiness this man wants to spend time with me sneaks in. Okay, so I came here to be alone and lick my wounds but I'm flattered. And intrigued.

"Spend time doing what?"

"Like I said, revisiting some of the places we chatted about last night."

I clench my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut. "I don't remember a lot of what was said last night."

A knowing smirk crosses his face. "Yeah, you ramble on after a few glasses of wine. Mostly about your childhood though, I still don't know why you're here."

That's one good thing, I suppose. But the drool, that’s downright embarrassing.

"How about a walk to the beach?"

"I smell. I need a shower," I say.

Dylan smiles the kind of smile I rarely see on anyone, happiness filling his face. I have no idea why.

"Get your shower, summer Sky. Then you can come to the beach and search for shells with me."

*****

Pulling my damp blonde hair into a ponytail, I head downstairs in my denim cut-off shorts and plain pink T-shirt. There’s no sign of Dylan in the kitchen or lounge and my stomach sinks a little. Did he leave?

The sea breeze blows through the open front door, the salty scent of the ocean pulling me back to childhood. The sun decided to shine today, and the breeze is warm. One of the rare and perfect English summer days to match my brighter mood. I stand in the doorway and close my eyes, letting the sound and smell wash over me.

A noise around the side of the whitewashed house alerts me, and I wander around. A pile of shells rests against one the house walls, a white and pink mix of flat and spiralled, some intact but mostly broken. Dylan crouches on the sandy ground, pushing through the mound, and spreading them across the floor. He's swapped his jeans for blue board shorts and the colourful, mash of tattoos on his legs catch my eye.

"Why do you have so many tattoos?” I ask.

"Don't you like men with ink?" He straightens, holding a shell in his hand.

"Doesn't matter if I do or not. I'm curious."

"I like them." Offering no additional explanation, he returns to his digging.

The sound of shells scraping together as he digs around triggers another childhood memory. "I think I made this pile," I say

"Or you added to it. I think I made the pile," he says not looking round.

"No, I'm pretty sure it was me. Look."

I crouch next to him and scoop to the bottom of the pile. There's a small, rusty steel tin that once contained shortbread biscuits. I prise open the lid. Inside are three spiral purple and white shells. These are intact and bigger than the others in the pile are; and they have vibrant purple winding around the edges. Perfect specimens I sought for days on the beach. My forgotten treasure.

"That's what I’m looking for," he remarks holding a hand out toward me.

I grip the box in a childish manner, like I did to stop my brother getting hold of my prized finds years ago. "Why?"

"I remembered finding the box one year. I thought it was someone's secret stash." He peers inside. "I left a shell in here too but it's gone."

I know where the shell went. I blamed my brother for stealing my secret treasure box and contaminating it with his inferior shell. Then I yelled at him never to touch my stuff again and in a fit of anger, I stomped on the shell until it broke. Okay, so I was eight. That's normal, right?

"Oh?" I ask innocently.

Dylan picks one of the shells from the box, and I'm hyperaware of his proximity; his freshly showered smell with a hint of Dylan. His toned arm is almost touching mine, and I picture myself licking him. I've no idea why. I'm not often overwhelmed by an urge to lick strange men's biceps.

"I was eleven and spent hours combing the beach for unbroken shells," he says. "The perfect ones you find in the souvenir shops. It was the summer my parents spent the whole holiday arguing, and our last summer we came as a family. My Dad left us later that year." He pauses and inhales. "Anyway, after a week of finding half-broken ones, I finally found this huge shell - as big as these. The purple on the spiral was awesome." He curls his hand around the one he picked out of the box. "I left the shell here, because it seemed right to leave it with the other treasure."

I want to cry, which is totally weird. I feel so guilty, picturing the sad little boy searching the beach alone for something I later destroyed.

"We can look for one now?" I suggest.

Gently placing the shell back in the box, he snaps the lid shut, fingers brushing mine. I jolt, his touch sparking something odd but not unpleasant when he lingers his fingers on mine. I stare back into those gorgeous blue eyes and I'm gone. He's a part of my past I never knew about, and now he's here. And I think I like him. Just a little.

*****

The shell search isn't fruitful. The tide is in so most of the shore is covered by seawater. We trudge through the sand, waves dragging seaweed across my feet. Dylan laughs as I jump away from the slimy tendrils, but seaweed has always grossed me out.

We reach the rock outcrops blocking the end of the beach. I suggest we come back later, when the tide is out and we can see the rock pools too. Dylan grins like a kid and suggests we get nets to catch crabs. I can’t tell if he’s serious, so I explain we have no nets. He informs me there may be one in the attic so we head back towards the house.

We’ve known each other twenty-four hours – less than – but I feel I already know Dylan. Even though I have no clue who he is, the absence of the outside world and the natural, easy-going atmosphere between us means as each minute ticks by, I want him to stay around.

"Where are you from?" I ask, as we stand in the foaming sea. The beach is empty, apart from a solitary family camped out under windbreaks on the tiny part of available sand, the children squealing as they run in and out of the cold water.