Every free moment he had over the next few weekends was spent with Libby. When he couldn’t be with her, he found himself daydreaming about her. When his phone buzzed during the long, lonely evenings in his flat, he resented the fact she wasn’t there to tell him to switch the damn thing off. Even his enthusiasm for the restaurant project was starting to wane. He couldn’t let Sam down, though, so he’d forced himself to spend the whole day in the sweaty heat of the old skittle alley helping him rip out the old fixtures and fittings.
‘That’s the last of it,’ Sam said with a groan as he knuckled his back. ‘I reckon we’ve earned a beer.’
Owen checked his watch. Libby was covering the early shift in the chip shop and would be finished in a few minutes. ‘I might take a pass on that, mate, if you don’t mind. I’ve got a few things to catch up on, so I’ll head down to the hut once I’ve had a shower.’ It didn’t feel right lying to him, but he’d promised Libby they could keep things on the down-low.
Sam shook his head. ‘Don’t you ever stop?’ There was no censure in it.
‘Joys of being the boss, as you’ll find out for yourself soon enough.’ Owen tied the top of the last rubble sack and stacked it in the corner with the other rubbish. They’d booked a Wait and Load skip for Monday so there wasn’t much more to be done until then.
‘Don’t remind me.’ Sam clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Thanks again for pitching in like this, I didn’t expect you to get your hands dirty.’
Tugging off his work gloves, Owen tucked them into the back pocket of his filthy jeans. ‘A bit of hard work never killed anyone, and I don’t believe in paying someone to do something I can do just as well myself. This project will start eating up our money soon enough.’
‘That’s very true, but I’m glad you’re here all the same. Well, if you’re sure about that beer, I’m going to grab a shower and go and see my gorgeous girlfriend.’
Me too. ‘I’ll catch you later.’
A shower and a quick change and ten minutes later Owen perched on the railings a few feet along from the chip shop. Libby let herself out the front door with a wave over her shoulder then started along the prom, hands tucked into the pockets of a pair of black-and-white tartan trousers she’d teamed with a black vest top. He felt a smile stretching his mouth at the shock of scarlet hair feathering around her face. She’d been at the bloody hair dye again. Thinking back to his early days on the building sites, he stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled his appreciation. ‘All right, love, fancy a drink?’ He’d tried hard over the years to smooth the rougher edges of his accent, but he exaggerated them for her now.
Jerking to a halt, Libby stared at him in surprise before glancing around. A few early evening strollers were watching them, but no one he recognised. Striding over to him, she folded her arms across her chest. ‘I thought we were meeting in the hut?’
He slid down from the railing to curl an arm around her waist and tug her close. ‘What if I said I couldn’t wait a moment longer to see you?’
Eyes bright, she shook her head. ‘I’d say you were full of it, or after something.’
Grinning, he hooked his fingers through the belt loops of her jeans and spread his legs so he could settle her between them. ‘I’m always after something, but I thought we could take a stroll along the beach first.’
‘That sounds nice.’
Keeping one arm around her waist, Owen steered them along the prom towards the step that led to the beach. His nose started itching, probably from all the dust and dirt in the skittle alley and he drew a white handkerchief from his pocket. Releasing his hold on her, he turned away to blow his nose.
When he turned back she was giving him a funny half-smile. ‘How is it that you’re the only man I know other than my dad who still uses a hanky?’
Shrugging, he folded the cotton into a square and tucked it away once more. ‘One of the few helpful lessons I learned from Mrs Travers was to always keep a clean handkerchief in my pocket.’
‘Mrs Travers? Who was she, one of your teachers?’
His harsh bark of laughter seemed to echo off the quiet buildings behind them. ‘You could say that, I suppose. Mrs Travers was my foster mum for about six months until the social worker found out she was a proponent of cold baths and starvation techniques as part of our training regimen.’ Okay…soul-baring hadn’t been on his agenda, but it was out there now, and he was so tired of pretending he had everything together. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, he wanted Libby to know him—the real him.
‘Foster mum? What happened to your parents?’ The gentle concern in her voice felt like a stroke over his skin.
Not sure how much he wanted to say, he kept it to the barest of facts. ‘I was given up at birth; got bounced around the system until I was old enough to get myself out.’
‘I…I can’t imagine.’ Her voice took on a harder, almost angry tone. ‘How old were you when you were with this Mrs Travers?’
‘I went to live with her a couple of weeks after my ninth birthday. Hers was the seventh foster home I’d been in by then.’ At her gasp, Owen shrugged. ‘It wasn’t the worst place I lived, and when it all got too much, I had Mr Buttons to cry to.’ When she blinked up at him, he realised what he’d let slip. Embarrassed, he kicked a small pile of sand by his foot. ‘He’s just some silly teddy bear. I don’t know where he came from, only that I’ve always seemed to have him. He’s got this row of buttons on his chest, so I called him Mr Buttons.’ And that was all he was going to say about that. She didn’t need to know that the tattered old bear still sat on the chest of drawers beside his bed. ‘Come on, let’s walk.’
Having made their way down to the beach, they removed their shoes. Dangling his trainers from the fingers of one hand, he took Libby’s free hand with the other. They strolled in silence for a few minutes before Libby halted at the edge of where the sea lapped against the sand. The fading sun glinted off the vibrant colour of her hair as she stared down at neat toenails painted the same vivid red. ‘I don’t know what to say to you,’ she admitted on a sigh. ‘I mean, I never know what to say to you, but now it’s even worse.’
Dropping his shoes onto the sand, Owen bent to pick up a pebble and send it skipping out across the waves. Beneath the glorious splendour of a sky streaked in glorious shades of pink, purple and orange, the terrified little boy who’d been shunted from pillar to post seemed almost like a stranger. ‘There’s no need to pity me, Libby, it was a long time ago and I’m still the same colossal arse slash sex god you know and love.’
She laughed. ‘You’re so bloody arrogant.’ On her lips, it didn’t sound like an insult.
‘Confident.’ He countered, wondering if this was going to become one of those inside jokes other couples shared.
She nudged a gentle elbow into his ribs. ‘Irritating.’
Owen snagged her elbow then swung her around until they were barely inches apart, the palm of his other hand splayed across her lower back in case she had any idea of escape. ‘You can be, but I’m willing to overlook it.’ Ducking his head, he pecked a kiss on the tip of her nose, then another on her cheek, her temple, the delicate skin of her ear.
A shiver rippled through her, but she didn’t pull away from him. ‘Wh…what are you doing?’
Turning the kiss on her lobe into a little nibble, he murmured, ‘I would’ve thought that would be obvious, Miss Stone. I’m seducing you.’
There was that little shiver again, and he chased it down the side of her neck with his lips. Her skin was so soft, and he knew he’d found his latest obsession. He began to skim his way back up to her ear, keeping the pressure a gentle question rather than a demand. ‘God, I love you like this,’ he murmured into the curve of her shoulder. ‘All sweet and soft and pliant.’
She quivered like a rabbit spotting a predator, torn between freezing and flight. ‘No one’s ever called me sweet before.’
Owen pulled back to meet her shy gaze through the floppy fringe she wore like a shield. ‘Maybe I’m the first one to see past the camouflage.’ Blowing softly, he stirred the colourful strands to reveal her periwinkle eyes.
Her shoulders were up in an instant. ‘It’s not camouflage, this is who I am.’
Capturing a scarlet-streaked lock, he smoothed it behind her ear. ‘It’s part of who you are, but it’s not all you are. And you can’t deny you use your appearance to manipulate people’s first impression of you.’ When she opened her lips to protest, he pressed a finger against them. ‘That’s not a criticism, Pixie, I do the exact same thing with my designer suits.’
The tension melted from her frame as she gave him a little nod. ‘Mum used to do my hair every morning. Even when she got really sick, she still insisted. I used to sit on the side of her bed while she brushed it out then plaited it into all these intricate designs. The other girls at school were always jealous of it. After…’ She glanced away, swallowed, then met his eyes once more. ‘After she died, my dad tried his best, but he was all fingers and thumbs.’
She didn’t need to elaborate. He could already picture her with wonky pigtails trying to put a brave face on what must have been a devastating loss. Christ, he had a hole in his heart where his mum should be, and he’d never even met the woman. How much worse to have known such love and to have it wrenched away? ‘They teased you.’
Libby nodded. ‘A couple of them cornered me after school. I ran all the way home in tears, but when I got there I couldn’t bring myself to tell Dad why I was so upset. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so I went to the chemist that weekend and bought a load of cheap dye. My hair was almost down to my waist at the time, and I hacked it off with the big scissors Dad uses to trim the fish fillets.’ She laughed, a wet painful sound that struck Owen like a blow to his solar plexus. ‘God only knows what he must’ve thought when he saw me, but all he said was “You look nice, lovey” and asked me what I wanted for my tea.’
He knew how cruel kids could be to anyone who looked a bit different. When he started secondary school, the money his social worker had slipped him to spend on his uniform had been confiscated by his adoptive parents and spent in the local corner shop on vodka and cigarettes. He’d ended up in what the school secretary had been able to put together from the lost property box. Too-short trousers and a jumper three sizes too big had set him up as a prime target for the bullies. By the end of the first day, the trousers had a hole in the knee, and Owen had spent his first of many afternoons in detention for fighting. When he’d got home, there’d been no warm welcome waiting for him, though.
Using the edge of his finger, Owen caught a tear before it could spill off the edge of her inky-black lashes. ‘Sam told a story the other week about your dad storming up to the school when they threatened to send you home because of your hair.’
She leaned back to study him. ‘You were talking about me?’
‘I might have made an enquiry or two when I first came back.’ And found out much more than he’d bargained for in the process. He should ease off before they took a step they might not be able to come back from. Talking about stuff like this was almost unbearably intimate, far more so than the sex they’d been enjoying together. Things would be a whole lot simpler if he made a joke and coaxed her back to the hut for another night of passion. It was the percentage decision, and would make things a lot easier when it came to dealing with his purchase of the chip shop in a few months’ time.
He hadn’t made it this far in life playing the percentages, though. Owen relied on his gut—the way he had when he’d walked away from the deal with Alvin Taylor. And his gut was telling him there was something special about this funny, feisty woman. He’d just have to feel his way carefully and try not to show her too many of the vulnerabilities he masked from the world too quickly. Not an easy prospect. Her gentle response to the little bits he’d told her about his upbringing so far made him want to spill the whole ugly truth out at her feet. He took her hand before he did just that. ‘Come on, lets walk some more.’
‘I love the feel of sand between my toes.’ She wiggled them with a happy sigh. ‘Especially after a long day.’
Owen splashed his feet in the light, foamy waves coming in on the evening tide. ‘Idyllic’, that was the word people used for places like this. Under the breathtaking palette of the sky, it was easy to believe it. But he knew from bitter experience not to be deceived by appearances. When he’d first looked up his birth records and begun dreaming of escaping from London to find his roots, this was exactly the kind of scene he’d painted in his head. It couldn’t really be this perfect though, life never was. ‘Don’t you ever get bored living in the same place all your life?’
A scoff told him what she thought of that. ‘Spoken like a true city boy.’ She gestured towards the water. ‘How could I ever be bored with this? The sea has a million different moods, so every day is different. You should see it in the middle of a storm. I come down here and the full force of nature is on display; it’s breathtaking, like I’m standing on the very edge of the world.’
He could picture her, wild hair blowing, laughing as the rain lashed her cheeks pink and the wind threatened to lift her off her feet, and swore to himself he’d be standing there beside her the next time. ‘It was a stupid question. I’ve moved around so much it’s hard to understand what it must be like to belong somewhere, I guess.’ Until now.