I’m suddenly a little ashamed of myself.
‘Bram!’ I can’t help but squeal. ‘You can buy it. It’s a great book. I don’t want Peggy to miss out on it because I’m having a moment.’
He looks round at me then, green eyes crashing into mine in a way that somehow feels both gentle and very intense all at the same time.
‘I did buy it,’ he says, the gruff of his voice tugging at my chest as the corner of his mouth lifts back into a smile. ‘Betty behind the counter lives three doors down from the cottage, and she’s going to drop it off for me after her shift.’
My face crumples in confusion, and it makes his smile soften, those sea-green eyes just beginning to crinkle at the corners. ‘Now I don’t have to carry it around all day, you don’t have to look at it all day, and Peggy still gets her book.’ One leather-covered shoulder shrugs. ‘It’s win-win, only better. It’s win-win-win.’
My heart clenches, just for a beat. He did that for me. It’s like he somehow understands that while I’ll always be a huge supporter of Millie’s work, the constant reminder of her success is, well, a lot. I look back at him as one tattooed hand goes to rub his stubbled jaw.
Hegetsit.
‘Thank you,’ I say, my voice barely more than a whisper, and I know he hears me, despite the bustle of the crowded street. I see it in the way the creases by his eyes deepen, his smile twisting up as he nods once.
‘Now,’ he says, pulling his sunglasses from where they’ve been hanging on the neck of his T-shirt and slipping them back on. ‘Let’s get wandering. These sights aren’t going to see themselves.’ He holds out a hand, and I grab it before I can think of a single reason why not.
His hand is cooler than I expect– softer too. I’m not sure I noticed either thing last night when he was leading me throughthe alley, but maybe that was because I was freezing too. I can’t deny it feels strange now, but perhaps he just runs cold. Some people do, don’t they?
He pulls me away from the door and back out onto the busy street, but he doesn’t let go of my hand for a while– not until we’re out of the crowd and back on the other side of the harbour. When he does, I miss the connection immediately. I almost reach straight out to grab his hand again, but the thought that he might just be taking pity on me crosses my mind and stops me in my tracks.
‘You hungry?’ he asks as we walk back along the harbourside, and my stomach growls, almost as if it heard him. In reality it’s only been a few hours since I ate my bodyweight in cake, but something about the sea air or all the walking– or maybe the emotional breakdown outside the bookshop– is stimulating my appetite, and I nod effusively.
I see his grin out of the corner of my eye. ‘Fish and chips?’
‘At the seaside?’ I duck around a woman in a floor-length Victorian gown adorned with peacock feathers and don’t miss a beat. I’m getting into this Goth Weekend lark. ‘Be rude not to.’
‘Up here,’ Bram says before darting up a side street that climbs up away from the water. I have to dodge a couple in matching steampunk outfits before I can follow him, and he slows his pace as he turns to find me twenty feet behind him. His smile turns sheepish as I fall into step beside him.
‘Sorry about that.’ He gently nudges my arm with his, that soft touch which is becoming familiar. ‘Got a little over excited there. This is my absolute favourite chip shop.’ The excitement in his voice is palpable, and it warms my chest even beyond the way the sudden hike up the hill does. I’ve noticed he’s enthusiastic about the things he loves– this town, his bar, the end of the pier– and I like it. We’re more alike than I expected.
I smell the place before we reach it. It’s the familiar tang of vinegar that cuts through the warm scent of frying batter in the air, and I’m suddenly just as excited as Bram.
A bell rings as he pushes open the lavender-painted door, and at the sound of it, the woman behind the counter shrieks in delight. She’s older, maybe sixty or more, but I note the faded pink hair tucked into the hairnet she’s wearing, a single spiderweb delicately painted on one cheek. She props one hand on her hip as she considers Bram.
‘Liam Bramwell,’ she says, a huge smile distorting the spiderweb. ‘Always a pleasure.’
‘Good to see you, Diane.’ He turns back to me, nodding towards the older woman. ‘Diane is an old friend of my mum’s.’
‘Less of the old, please,’ Diane quips, before her face falls. It’s just a fraction, but I clock it. ‘How is she?’ she asks Bram quietly, and I don’t miss the shift in his weight at her question, either.
‘She’s ok,’ he says, a thread of something in his voice. ‘Still with us.’
‘Good,’ she says softly. There’s a strange look on her face– an expression balanced somewhere between a smile and a frown.
He huffs a breathy little laugh in response, but it feels heavy, as if he’s struggling to even push the air out. Instinctively, I take a small step towards him before I even know I’ve done it, and the movement makes Diane’s eyes move to me. There’s the tiniest twitch in one eyebrow as she looks back at Bram, a question in her expression.
But he just laughs, genuinely this time, and the sound of it sends relief racing through me. ‘This is Lucy,’ he says, motioning towards me. ‘It’s her first Goth Weekend, so I’m showing her the ropes.’
Diane doesn’t ask what the situation is between us, though I can tell she wants to, and Bram doesn’t offer her any more information either. Instead he orders us food, stopping to glanceback at me between items to check that everything’s ok. When he’s done, they chat easily for a minute or two while Diane rings up the sale and sets about preparing our order.
As I watch them, I can’t help wondering what was behind the exchange about Bram’s mum. We haven’t really talked about his family, not that we’ve talked much about anything at all, but there was something about that question in particular which made him flinch. It was almost the same reaction I had in the bookshop when I saw Millie’s book.
Not that I suspect for a second that Bram was also abandoned as a child by the household name who birthed him, of course. But there’s something there. Something that hurts him.
He leans a hip against the painted wood of the counter, one leg propped across the other, and I study him like he’s the sole focus of my story, taking in the lines of his face, the cut of his jaw. Diane says something that makes him laugh, and I notice a dimple low down on his cheek that I haven’t seen before. The more time I spend with this man, the more intrigued I am by him.
He turns just in time to catch me staring, and I style it out, plastering a stupid grin on my face that I hope will make him laugh.