Meet Me at the Lighthouse Read online

  “Not the same guy who makes the tasteful twin porno, is it?” I asked.

  He flung me another loaded smirk. “No, this is the guy who built my stage, but I can get you that guy’s details if you’re interested. And it’s not porn, it’s erotica.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “He uses classical music for the soundtrack.”

  “Heh, just what your frustrated housewife needs when she’s got a well-hung man round to fix the plumbing, sodding Vivaldi,” I said with a snort. “You’re all right, mate. Ta for the advice.”

  “No worries. Let me know if you want to drink for free, yeah? Offer’ll be open all night.”

  I furnished him with a last eyeroll as we grabbed our drinks and made our way to a table.

  Chapter 15

  “Sorry about him,” Ross said when we were seated. “Thought I was going to have to spread more rumours about you having chlamydia there.”

  “Persistent, isn’t he? That routine ever work for him?”

  “Nope. But he keeps trying all the same.”

  I looked at Travis, Edwardianly polishing a shot glass behind the bar and whistling to himself. “Odd bloke. How’d he end up like that?”

  Ross shrugged. “He used to be pretty normal. Played the same circuit as us with his band and we’d go out drinking together. Then one day he just decided he wanted to be a Character, impress girls.”

  “And the fact it isn’t working hasn’t put him off?”

  “I think he likes the attention. He’s a nice enough lad, if you’re prepared to work through the layers of laboured quirkiness.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “So how many acts before you’re on?”

  “Another three. Will you be all right on your own?”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, smiling. “Looking forward to hearing you again.”

  He twisted to face me. “How is it you never come see me, Bobbie? You haven’t heard me play since that first night.”

  Well it certainly wasn’t that I was afraid his deep, sexy voice – that voice that could always melt hearts and drop knickers like nobody else’s, singing those beautiful tunes he’d written himself – might awaken something I wouldn’t be able to fight back. Heh. Nope.

  “Suppose I just never got round to it,” I said with a casual shrug.

  There wasn’t much conversation after that, as a noisy heavy metal band, all leather and piercings, started up with their catalogue of Metallica covers and original songs that sounded like Metallica covers. After them came a Dylanesque folk duo, ageing hippy types who were actually pretty good, followed by a Britpop-inspired five-piece. You could say a lot of things about The Cellar, but you could never say it wasn’t eclectic.

  And then it was Ross’s turn. I could tell he was experiencing the familiar stage fright from his pinkened cheeks. I gave his knee a swift squeeze before he grabbed his guitar and made his way to the stool Travis had dragged in front of the on-stage mic for him.

  Once the music took hold he was fine though: calm and self-assured, as if there was no one else in the room. He started with a song I recognised, the one he’d been playing that night I’d first noticed him in the pub, then a couple of others I didn’t know.

  “Thanks, guys,” he said with a sheepish smile when the audience applauded his third number. “Er, last one before I give up the mic to someone more talented. Hot off the strings, and like all the best songs it was written for a girl.”

  Oh God, he hadn’t… had he? Was that what all the blushing had been about?

  “So this is Ivy Only Grows for the Wicked. Enjoy.”

  His face changed as he started thrumming his guitar, the look he always had when he was singing his own stuff: earnest, eyes closed, carried far away with the emotions he’d channelled into his music. Lips whispering against the microphone like a lover, like they had against my neck that night on the beach; lucky little microphone.

  The music was sweet and mournful. Something lost then found again, second chances… God, he’d only gone and written me a song. Felt like I was in a bloody Richard Curtis film.

  I let my eyes fall closed, swept away with the weeping guitar, the lilt of his voice, lifting and rolling, surging and swelling, just like the ocean. Rippling through me, making my body surge and swell too. Echoes of Ross Mason singing me a song. My song.

  That boy…

  When he’d handed over the mic to some sort of jazz outfit, he came back to join me, looking bashful.

  “You soppy, embarrassing bugger,” I said when he’d sat down beside me, leaning across to kiss his cheek. “What did you go and do that for?”

  “Dunno. For you. Did you like it?”

  “It was beautiful,” I said softly. “Can’t believe you did that for me.”

  “Um… cheers,” he said, avoiding eye contact and flicking the zip on his guitar case. “I wanted to write you something. You’re kind of musey.”

  “Why the ivy?”

  He shrugged. “Suppose it reminded me of when we started all this. Charlie and Annie, how he misses her. The lighthouse and its history.” He flashed me a fond smile. “Somehow all that stuff’s tangled up with you, just like the ivy. Bobbie Hannigan from school, and the lighthouse, and the fun, wicked things I only dare do when I’m with you.”

  I found myself blinking back tears. God, that was… why did he have to say these things? It made it so difficult.

  “When did you get so sweet?” I summoned a smile. “At school you were just another swaggering boy. Prettier than the others, maybe, but I don’t remember you going in for the sentimental stuff.”

  “Heh, that’s all you know. Back then the ‘wrote you a song’ routine used to get me plenty of action, I can tell you.”

  “Oh right. I’m not the first then.”

  “Well, technically you are. In the Nietzsche’s Jockstrap days it was always the same song. Me and the boys just used to tweak the lyrics to fit the girl.”

  “Ok, I take it back. You’re not sweet. You’re a devious little groupie-shagging sexaholic.”

  “That’s me, addicted to sexahol.” He grinned. “Come on, what lad wouldn’t? It’s called being 17, love.”

  “All right, fair point.” I nudged him. “And between us, I still thought you were pretty adorable back then. Not that you noticed me by that time, when you had so many other girls throwing themselves at you.”

  “I did though.” He looked serious now. “Did you really not know I liked you, Bobbie?”

  “What, in sixth form?”

  “Yeah. Didn’t you ever wonder what happened to that lad Sean you sat next to in English before me?”

  “Sean?” I fumbled for the memory. “With the ponytail? He got moved to the back, didn’t he?”

  “No, he got bribed to the back. I paid him a tenner to fuck off so I could sit next to you instead.”

  I squinted at him. “You never did.”

  “Yep. Still never had the balls to ask you out though.”

  “Come on, Ross, really? You barely spoke two words to me the whole time we sat next to each other. Every time I tried to start a conversation you went all monosyllabic.”

  “Heh, yeah, I was scared stiff of you. Weird, isn’t it?”

  “Bloody hell. That is weird.” I thought back to Ross at school: lanky, cocky, good-looking Ross, joking and preening with pretty girls in the common room, strutting around like God’s gift. He’d been a lot of things, but shy with girls was never one of them.

  I shook my head. “So how come you never asked me out then? You asked just about every other lass in our year.”

  “Give over, I wasn’t that slutty.”

  “You bloody were, mate.”

  “Well, maybe a bit,” he admitted. “I dunno, you felt different. Like I’d only get one shot at it and I had to get it right. And I spent so long worrying about it, I never got round to doing it.”

  “Really, Ross?”

  “Yeah.” He smiled, one
of his broad, devastating specials – sweet and warm and ever so slightly wicked in a way I wasn’t sure I had much power left to resist. “Glad I got my shot in the end. Took me a while but I made it.”

  “God, you adorable bastard,” I whispered with feeling. “Do you know how bloody much I want to kiss you right now?”

  He stretched an arm around me and cuddled me against him. “Got a window in my schedule, darling. Go for it.”

  I shook my head, trying to shift the jumble of nostalgia and songs and Ross. “No, I… better not, eh?”

  “Why not though? Is there any good reason, except a bit of paperwork that’ll be done and dusted by this time next year? I know you want to, you know I want to. Sod the waiting.” He turned another sexy Ross smile on me, green eyes crinkling at the corners, obviously intent on finishing me off. “Come on, I wrote you a song. Can’t resist that, can you?”

  I laughed. “You are pretty charming. I mean, pretty nauseatingly charming.”

  “Aren’t I just?” he said with a grin. “So, what about it?”

  “I don’t know, Ross. I do want to, but you know I’ve got previous in the being too impulsive department. Hence, you know, lighthouse. Something as important as this… I want to do it the right way, that’s all.”

  “You are doing it the right way,” he said gently. He ran a hand along my hair, flowing over his shoulder while I rested my head on him. “It’s nearly two years since me and Claire separated; even longer since we knew it was over. How long since you split with Alex?”

  I did a quick calculation. Last summer… God, was it really that long?

  “Nearly a year, I guess.”

  “Exactly. We’ve been alone long enough, Bobbie. It’s time now. Our time.”

  I tried to fight back the fog of schooldays enveloping common sense. The divorce. The lighthouse. Shagging, divorce, lighthouse, dating… seemed a bit… too much. Bad idea. Bad idea? Probably a bad idea.

  “Not tipsy, are you?” Ross asked, clocking my vacant expression. “We can talk about this another time if you want to get out of here.”

  “Yeah,” I said, smiling gratefully at him for letting me off the hook. “I mean, I’m not really tipsy, only had a couple. But I would like to get out of here. Let’s go home.”

  Chapter 16

  “Hey, can you come up to the lighthouse?” Ross asked as he turned the car back towards Cragport. “Thought since I’ve got the guitar I might as well test the acoustics, see how it sounds now the insulation’s in. Could use a second opinion.”

  “You’re going to sing?”

  Oh God, not again. I’d managed to survive the last round. Any more and I’d need a cold shower.

  “Just a few chords, hear how it resonates. I can’t really judge it myself while I’m playing.”

  “Well…” I hesitated. “For a bit then. Park down in town and we can stroll up. Something about Travis’s interior decorating that leaves you feeling a bit smothered, isn’t there?”

  We abandoned Ross’s Mini outside his flat and started walking up along the seafront road. It was a muggy summer night, stinking hot, and the breeze coming across the North Sea breathed blessed relief against my overheated cheeks.

  “Bollocks!” I said when we were about halfway, holding my hand out to catch a few plump drops that came thudding out of the cloud-bruised twilight. “We’ll get drenched without coats.”

  “Who thinks to bring a coat in the glorious British summertime?” Ross said, laughing. “Come on.”

  He grabbed my hand and we started running towards the lighthouse, just visible in silhouette against the horizon.

  “Quick, save the guitar!” I said with a giggle as I stumbled in my high heels up the shingled path, thumping raindrops churning up the clifftop around us.

  Ross unlocked the lighthouse and darted in ahead of me. Dumping his guitar case, he flicked a switch to light up the room.

  “Ta-da!” he said, turning to do the jazz hands thing. “Let there be light, eh? Anniversary present for you.”

  “Bloody hell!” I blinked rainwater out of my eyes, glad I’d worn the waterproof mascara. “It’s like Cragport illuminations in here.”

  “Illuminations?”

  “Yeah, we got another one while you were away. So when did the electrics get finished?”

  “Yesterday. Electrician rang me last night.”

  “Sly bugger, you never said.”

  I crouched to take off my rain-filled shoes. Ross did the same, stripping out of his wet brogues and socks. I smiled to myself when I remembered Annie Mason’s Granny Peggy, so houseproud she’d make visitors take their shoes off before walking on her scrubbed stone floor.

  “Was saving it as a surprise,” Ross said as he busied himself with his laces.

  “And when did you set this up?” I nodded to a grey woollen blanket on the floor, a bottle of something fizzy in the middle with a couple of champagne flutes.

  “This afternoon. Thought once I’d lured you here we could christen the place, mark how far we’ve come.”

  “Ross…”

  “What?”

  “This was a date, wasn’t it?”

  “Er, yeah,” he said with a guilty smile, standing up again. “You mad at me?”

  I sighed. “No. Still, you’re a tricksy bugger.”

  He cocked his head to one side. “Would you say tricksy? Or would you maybe say… adorable?”

  “A bit of both,” I said, smiling.

  I pushed away the damp shoes and stood to face him, flinching when I took in his appearance.

  Oh for God’s sake, give a girl a break…

  Ross’s rust-dark hair was wet through, curled by the rain, and he was raking it out of his eyes with his fingers. His chest was still heaving from our run, rainwater dripping off his gorgeous body and puddling on the floor. By the time I’d run my eyes over him, I could easily have joined it.

  Were the heavens mocking me, was that it? Surely there was only so much singing, sweetness and hot, wet man one flesh-and-blood woman could be expected to stand.

  Part of me knew we ought to wait, just until Ross’s divorce petition was filed, the lighthouse work was done and we were free to focus on us. That was the sensible thing. But unfortunately for sensible Bobbie, the other part of me – the impulsive, lighthouse-buying, currently very turned-on part of me who wanted to tear off Ross’s wet clothes and take him right there on the floor – just shrugged and thought, what the hell?

  “What?” Ross said, noticing me staring. “Is there something on my face?”

  “There will be in a minute,” I said hoarsely. “Come here.”

  I grabbed the wet lapels of his blazer and pulled his face down, covering his mouth with mine. I saw his eyes, blinking with surprise for a moment, fall closed as my tongue teased his lips apart. Powerful arms snapped round me, pressing me close.

  “Oh God, really, Bobbie?” he asked breathlessly when I finally released him.

  “Really. There’s no one to get hurt here, is there? You were right, Ross, it’s our time now.”

  He screwed his eyes closed, summoning one last effort to do the right thing that was so Ross Mason. Which just made the potent need for him that had sprung up all of a sudden even harder to resist.

  “I don’t want you to do anything you’re not completely comfortable with,” he said after a moment, wringing the words out with an effort. “Are you sure about this? You weren’t before.”

  “True.” I gazed up at him through lowered lashes. “But don’t you think we should get out of these wet things? We could catch our deaths.” I brought my voice down to a seductive murmur. “We should probably, you know… get naked. Wrap round each other a bit, warm up. Medically approved.”

  His eyes darted down my body, wet and dripping as his was, my satin top clinging to the breasts pressed against his chest, and sucked his breath in sharply.

  “Bloody hell, lass…” His voice was husky now. “That’s it, I’m done. Come to me.”

&nbs
p; I gasped as he slid his hands to my buttocks and pushed my soaked body hard against his. He started planting scalding kisses down my neck, the tip of his tongue brushing the water droplets speckling my skin. I could hear him panting against me; hot, harsh, rasping breaths.

  “What happened to your gentlemanly principles?” I breathed as I felt him fumble for the zip of my top. I raised my arms so he could peel the damp satin over my shoulders.

  “There’s a lot to be said for being a cad,” he murmured, flinging the top to one side. “You get to see girls with their clothes off, for a start.”

  Ross released me from his arms and led me to the blanket, moving the wine and glasses to make room for us. Sinking into a kneeling position, he guided me down so I was straddling him.

  “Wrap your legs round my back,” he whispered.

  I did as he said, twining my legs around him. He hugged me to him and buried his face in my hair, gulping in deep, appreciative mouthfuls of my scent: coconut and passionfruit or whatever shampoo I’d used that morning, seasoned with summer rain.

  After a second he held me back and I heard him make an odd little noise in his throat.

  “You are so bloody gorgeous when you’re soaking wet. Get that bra off and let me look at you.”

  It was oddly sexy, him being the bossy one for a change. I unhooked my bra and chucked it to one side.

  Ross reached out to run his thumbtip around an erect pink nipple. His skin was rough against the sensitive flesh, and I shivered with pleasure. Then he leaned forward to plant a cool, soft kiss, just brushing my nipple with the tip of his tongue and sucking ever so lightly. The gentlest of touches but it burned right through me.

  I dug my fingers into his hair, encouraging him to try more, explore me, but he pushed back against my hand.

  “Not yet, love. Saving you up.”

  “Cruel.” I nuzzled into his neck, relishing the flavour of his skin on my tongue. “You now,” I whispered. “Shirt off.”