“I went to the bank that day. Deposited something in my safe. I had sex that night—”
I frown immediately, and I do wish that I didn’t because it’s an obvious frown, and he catches it, lets it hang there, the invisible implication of my frown, what it’s saying without saying, and he—that terrible, beautiful twat of man—says nothing for a full, hideous, awful six seconds. And then he takes a step towards me, eyes locked. He gives me a steadying nod.
“And you, Daphne Belle Beaumont-Darling, fell from the sky forty-one days ago at twenty-seven minutes past the hour.”
“What was the hour?” I ask him, just to be petulant.
“Two,” he says, holding my gaze. “In the afternoon.”
My cheeks go a bit pink. “Why do you remember that?”
He breathes out, quiet for a second before he nods his chin at me. “Do ye not remember it?”
I twist my mouth up as I think hard as I can back to it. “I remember you didn’t have a shirt on,” I say without really thinking.
His eyebrows shoot up, pleased. “Aye, ye would remember that.”
I roll my eyes. “Stop—”
“It’s very memorable.” He grins.
I cross my arms over my chest.
He laughs and I like the sound so much. Like you’re sitting by a fire with a drink in your hand that you love, that’s how his laugh feels when it hits you—it warms you up from the inside out. And even though I’m trying my best to appear as apathetic towards him as I can muster, his laugh unfurls me a tiny bit, and another peculiar confession escapes me.
“I remember your eyes too.”
His head tilts a bit, and he takes another half a step closer to me. “What about my eyes?”
I swallow, lick my bottom lip, drop my eyes from his gaze. My heart’s beating away now, like an impossible, treacherous little drum.
He pinches his bottom lip mindlessly, then takes a conscious step away from me, nodding as he does it.
He takes a big breath. “Sure, but I’m impressed that ye remember them at all.”
“Why?” I shrug airily, as though I don’t think about his eyes sometimes how I think about his hand on my waist that day too.
His face goes a bit serious. “Because over on thon part of the island, there’s something in the water.”
“Jamison.” I roll my eyes.
He gives me a look. “A’m no’ lying to ye.”
“Stop,” I tell him, feeling a bit hot around my neck.
“A’m telling ye—” He gives me a tight smile. “The wee man puts something in the water.”
“Jem!” I growl.
“Daph.” He shakes his head. “He does.”
I glare at him. “No, he doesn’t.”
“How do ye ken?”
“He just doesn’t.” I shrug.
“But how do ye ken?”
“Because he wouldn’t!” I stomp my foot.
“Aye.” He nods, a bit vindicated. “So ye d?nnae really know.”
I shake my head at him. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“Because ye know I’m right.” He gives me a look.
“No.” I give him one back. It’s deliberate and controlled. “Because I’m quite sure you’re very wrong.”
Jamison shakes his head, watching me closely. “I can see it, ye ken. Right there.” He reaches over and taps me between the eyebrows. “Yer worried it’s true.”
“Stop.” I whack his hand away. A bit because I want to, a bit just because I felt like touching him. “I didn’t come here for this.”
“What did ye come for?” he asks, eyebrows up and looking impatient.
I cross my arms over my chest and square my shoulders.
“I need some new clothes.” I gesture down to myself. “This is the only outfit I’ve got here, and it’s filthy.”
“Aye.” He nods solemnly. “True, the first time I saw ye I thought ‘that is a filthy lass.’”
I balk and he chuckles, grinning because he wanted a rise and I rose. I think I quite like giving him what he wants.
Then Jem shakes his head. “What’s wrong with yer clothes?”
“Nothing.” I shrug, staring down at myself, feeling stupid and embarrassed again.
Jamison ducks to catch my eye. “What?”
I shake my head and look back up at him, brave as I can. “It’s nothing.”
Then I look around the town square for the seamstress. I know I saw a shop here the other day; there was an oversize bobbin sitting on the roof—a bit misleading if it’s not a tailor. I look past Hook’s shoulder, then over mine. This stupid place is so confusing.
I think my eyes might look glassy, and I wonder if they do because Jamison doesn’t seem to drop them.
“Did someone say something to ye?” He takes my wrist in his hand, keeping me still.
I roll my eyes like the whole thing is stupid—which it is. It is stupid. I can be stupid, I know that. But stupid things can still be hurtful.
I spot the shop and walk towards it.
“Was it him?” he calls after me.
I stop walking. I don’t say anything, just turn back around to face him.
Jamison’s head pulls back. “He teased ye? About what yer wearing?”
I say nothing, but our eyes hold.
“How?” He shakes his head. “There’s no’ much there of it to tease,” he says, barely with a straight face before he puts his hand on my waist, grabbing my eye again. “Thon was a joke.” He ducks more to make sure I know it, flicking his eyebrows up in this playful way. “Sure, but I like it.” He shrugs, looking me up and down. “Probably prefer there to be less, if I’m being honest.”
My jaw falls open, and my eyebrows go up.*
“Joking!” he says again, shoving me playfully. That’s flirting, I think. “No.” He shakes his head. “I am joking.” He pauses, licking his bottom lip. “Till November first, and then a’m probably no’ joking anymore.”
My eyes go wide again, and instead of laughing how I’d like to, I take a quick breath. Jamison’s face falters, and I feel an exciting kind of important.
He swallows a bit nervously. “Ye have no’ said anything in about a minute.”
I shrug breezily. “Well, you’re just saying so much for the both of us.”
He squashes away a smile, nodding a couple of times. “There’s no’ a single thing wrong with what ye’ve got on.” He gives me a look and pauses briefly. “Or not got on.”
I fold my arms over my chest and give him an unimpressed look,? and he laughs again.
I sigh and swing open the door to the shop. The door closes behind me, and I check over my shoulder only to see that he’s not followed me in.
That won’t do.
I crack open the door and poke my head back out.
“Are you not coming?” I say to him.
Half a smile crawls up the left side of his face, then he walks in after me.
“Morning, Bets.” Jamison beams, walking right over to the older woman at the shop front.
She’s got sort of golden, wispy hair, sparkly blue eyes—ones that have wrinkles around them that you trust—and a lovely mouth.
“Jam.” She gives him a warm nod, and her eyes fall to me. Her eyes flicker down me how I worried everyone’s would, but she is a seamstress, so I suppose it’s situationally okay.
“This here is my dear friend Daphne.” He gestures to me. “She’s looking to procure some new clothes, ’acause she’s under the thumb of a maniacal misogynist.”