Summer Sky (4 page)

"Wales."

"You don't sound like you're from Wales." His accent is a strange mix – sometimes, he sounds English, at others, he has an American twang.

"I left a while ago. I've been living overseas quite a bit."

This I'm interested in. "Oh? Where?"

The amused smile I don't understand reappears. "In LA, Sky."

"Why's that funny?"

"No reason." He walks away, sloshing through the breaking waves and I stride to catch up, aware the conversation is over.

We reach a part of the beach where the path leads through the low sand dunes towards roughly carved stone steps. Souvenir shops and cafes border the street at the top.

Close to the top of the stairs is Mrs Hughes’s shop. A metal ice cream sign perches at the edge of the brow of the hill, waving and squeaking in the breeze.

"How about you get us ice creams?" asks Dylan.

"How about
I
get them?"

"I made breakfast," he says, biting away a smile.

His look knocks the breath from me for no other reason than I’m struck by how beautiful he is. I know beautiful isn’t a word used for guys but Dylan is. If I had any artistic skill, I'd draw the classic lines of his face but struggle to find a colour to match his eyes. They're blue but edging towards green and seem to change colour with his mood. Due to my lack of art skills, if I tried to draw him, he'd end up looking like a Muppet; his sensual mouth would be lost in translation. I stare at his mouth and wonder what his lips would feel like on mine.

"Are you okay?" He frowns and I get the impression he knows what I'm thinking and isn't impressed.

A young couple head towards us, hand in hand, interrupting the charged atmosphere between Dylan and me. Dylan swears under his breath and turns towards the sea, his broad back to the passers-by. The young woman reins her long brown hair in and doubles her head back as she looks at Dylan. Yeah, a tattooed Adonis doesn't adorn Cornish beaches often, I guess.

The crunching footsteps on the sand fade as they move away, and Dylan turns back and glances at them. "I think I'll go back to the house. You okay to get the ice creams?"

I dig my hands into my shorts pocket and study the coins I pull out. "I've only got enough for small ones."

When I look up, Dylan's tall figure is retreating, back down the beach, towards the house.

*****

The inside of Mrs Hughes's shop never changes. I swear there are items on her shelves that have been there since I was a child, such as tinned stew and butter beans. The half-empty rack of postcards contains faded pictures of the town in the 1970s and postcard views of the beach that could lead to the creators being sued for misrepresentation. Colouring the sea blue will not make Broadbeach a tropical paradise.

I spend ten minutes in the small shop attempting to extricate myself from Mrs Hughes, who also never seems to age; she seems to be stuck at sixty in appearance and clothes. The dog Dylan mentioned pants heavily as it lies at her feet.

Mrs Hughes bombards me with 101 questions about my life, followed by 101 memories of me as a child. Of course, she asks where Grant is, the last few times I came here was with him. Surprise cracks the foundation in her wrinkled face when I tell her we're over, and I pray she doesn’t start prying – or even worse – commiserating.

"Never liked him," she remarks, scooping vanilla ice cream from the ancient fridge and mashing it into cones. Well, that was unexpected.

When we came here, Grant never wanted to collect shells on the beach, or visit Mrs Hughes for ice cream. All he wanted to do was eat, watch TV and have sex. Thinking about it, that's mostly what he wanted to do even when we weren't on holiday. You'd think with all the practice he'd be good at it, but he isn't. The sex I mean, he’s a master of the eating and TV watching.

I bet Dylan knows what he's doing in that department.

What the hell?
I admonish myself. Just stop this. Now.

Leaving the grey-haired Mrs Hughes and her one-eyed dog, I walk back to the house along the beach as quickly as I can. I'm puzzled by Dylan’s sudden desire to go back to the house. The ice creams melt, sliding down the cone and across my fingers. Outside the house, Dylan reclines on one of the slatted wooden chairs, looking as if he's in a beachside photo-shoot. Like the magazine ads for underwear. An image of Dylan in underwear pops into my mind.
Ohmygod, Sky, stop
.

"Here." I hold out his semi-melted treat.

He takes the cone and his eyes zone in on the action as I lick the melted ice cream off my fingers. When he switches
that
look to my eyes, I'm positive the heat ignited inside me is enough to melt the rest. I have never been looked at like this before; I don't understand the meaning, not fully. Desire, yes, but there’s something more.

"Thanks," he says in a low voice, shifting his scrutiny to the flaking wooden table.

Silently, we sit and eat; something just shifted in our atmosphere and a different kind of energy flows between us. I twist my body away slightly, so he can't watch me eat because Dylan's reaction when I licked the stickiness from my fingers added something sexual to the action.

"So, where are you from, Sky?"

I drop my train of thought. "I live in Bristol."

"What do you do there?" He bites halfway down his cone, ice cream smearing his lips. An urge to lick him reappears; his mouth this time.

"I thought we weren't going to talk about this stuff?"

"Just curious. Can I guess? And if I guess right will you tell me?"

A game. I like games. "Okay."

Finishing his last mouthful of cone, Dylan stretches his long legs out. He cocks his head and taps his fingers on his lips in a deliberately thoughtful way.

"Teacher?"

"No."

"Hmm. Nurse?"

"What? No."

"Do you work in an office?"

The realisation strikes - I don't have a job anymore. "No. Not really."

"You do work?"

"Yes!"

"Lion tamer?"

“Ha, ha."

He shrugs. "No idea then."

"How about you?"

Dylan's eyes widen. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"About?"

He sits forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands under his chin as he scrutinises my face. "I thought you recognised me but were pretending you didn’t."

I knew it.
"Are you famous or something?"

He laughs a belly laugh that annoys me. "A little."

I scour my mind, trying to match this man with anyone I've seen on TV. Unfortunately, this means I need to study him again and trip the switch allowing my attraction to him back in. "Are you an actor?"

"Nope."

"Musician then?"

"Correct." He straightens, as if he's waiting for me to reveal I know who he is.

"I don't listen to much music so that's probably why I have no idea who you are."

"Never heard my name?" His amusement grows, his smile sharpening those amazing cheekbones.

"I don't know band names, never mind the people in them." I bite down on my cone, getting annoyed.

"Seriously? Well, I'm glad then." He reclines in his chair, lacing his hands behind his head, "because now you'll keep being you."

I think back to Grant's Sky, the one who attempted to mould herself to someone's ideal and lost herself in the process.

"So what sort of music?" I ask.

"Loud. Guitars."

I wrinkle my nose. "Heavy metal?"

"Hmm. More rock than metal."

"Which band?" I could pretend I knew if he tells me.

"Guess."

"I told you, I don't know band names."

"Then why ask?"

I shrug. "Maybe so I can tell people about my secret holiday with the famous rock star." I snort and Dylan's amused look disappears. "Or not, I really don't care."

Dylan fixes me with his ocean eyes. "And that, summer Sky, is why I like you."

We sit silently, and I concentrate on eating while ignoring the giddy, giggly feeling of sharing ice cream with someone famous. Even though, I have no clue who he is.

Chapter Four

After our beach walk and snack, we make lunch. Well, I make lunch since apparently it's my turn. I complain that I bought the ice creams and Dylan says this doesn't count. The relaxed banter continues, but beneath the laughter, I catch his intrigued looks. Does Dylan believe I don’t know who he is? I inform him he’s just an ordinary man with a few too many tattoos as far as I’m concerned. He seems happy with the opinion, and munches on the cheese sandwich I reluctantly make him.

I spend the afternoon lazing around the house, curled up on the lumpy brown sofa with a book and endless cups of herbal tea. Dylan tries a cup of raspberry and mint, holds the tea in his cheeks with a pained expression on his face before swallowing and tipping the rest down the sink. Now he sits in the matching armchair opposite with a pen and A4 pad, scrawling words. I glance over occasionally, at the crease of concentration on his brow and the way he mouths words as he writes. The calmness of the atmosphere and the lack of need to fill this with awkward conversation are odd.

Inexplicably, after such a short period of time and the underwear situation last night, I'm more comfortable with him than people I've known years.

Who is he?

I am clueless. I, genuinely, pay zero attention to the music scene. I mean, I know the famous bands - the old ones who hang onto their stardom by the fingernails - but modern ones? Nope. I went to clubs when I was younger, before Grant decided the places were a waste of money, but even then, I'd recognise the songs and have no idea who the artists were. The only time I see musicians I recognise is if they're X Factor winners. Dylan must be moderately successful if he's lived in LA and drives a fancy car. And if he felt the need to run away on the beach this morning.

Of course
.

"Did you think I was a groupie when you first found me in the house?" I blurt.

Dylan looks up from his writing, blinking in as if I've dragged him back to the here and now.

“When I discovered a girl's underwear strewn across the bed, I was suspicious. Although normally, the underwear people throw at me is a little...lacier. And smaller."

Sofa, swallow me up. Now.

"That would be some determination, tracking you to a Cornish seaside town in the back of beyond."

"You'd be surprised. They've done a lot worse." He clamps his mouth shut, and returns to writing.

When we finished lunch, I hoped he'd go out somewhere because I itched to sneak off with my phone and search Dylan's name on the internet. He never left and I resisted anyway. I like my bubble with the mysterious, sexy guy; I don't want to know who he is.

There is one big issue hanging between us.

"What do we do about the house?" I ask.

He sets his pen on the pad. "I'll leave if you want. How long are you staying?"

"I don't feel comfortable kicking you out. You’ve paid." I pause. "Where would you go?"

He stares at the paper, a muscle twitching in his cheek. Dylan came here for a reason. Like me. "Are you hiding?" I ask.

"Kind of."

"And if you stay at a hotel..."

His distant blue eyes squeeze my heart. "I won't be hidden anymore."

I can't afford a hotel, or particularly want to stay in one. I'd need to go back to Tara's. "I can come back down here next month when you're gone."

I stand and he does too. "But you're hiding as well, Sky?"

"Not from knicker-throwing harpies, no. I'll be okay."

"Fuck, you’re funny." I frown at his language and he puts his hand over his mouth, eyes shining again. "What if I want you to stay around? There are two bedrooms."

His voice is soft, pleading almost. Not suggestive. Unfortunately. I'm sorely tempted, partly because I don't feel like facing the no Grant and no job situation and partly because well... Dylan. Who would say no to a hot as hell, famous whatever-he-is who personifies sex on every level?

Sensible people, Sky, that's who.

"Why do you want me to stay?"

"For the same reason I think you want to stay. I feel like I've escaped to a different time and you remember that time too." He bites his lip before continuing. "And you don't know how refreshing it is to meet a girl who'd rather talk to me than fuck me."

I reel at the word - the strength of his tone when he says ‘fuck’. Stunned into silence, I pick my book from the sofa, and take my red-faced self into the kitchen. Dylan follows. Turning and leaning against the sink, I watch him warily. He runs his hand up and down his tattoo-sleeved arm, studying me with the intensity I can't cope with because the look is too damn sexy.