Snowflakes at Lavender Bay. Sarah Bennett

the beach filled up with visitors in a few hours.

      His hand stilled on her back for a moment, before he withdrew it. ‘Sure. Right, let’s try and find your jeans.’ Was that a trace of hurt in his voice? It couldn’t possibly be. She could count her number of awkward post-coital experiences on one hand which was a damn sight less than him, of that she had no doubt. So, he should be better at this than her. She felt him crawl away, felt the loss of his warmth against her side and was suddenly desperate to scramble after him and tumble them both to the floor.

      She didn’t though. Instead, she removed her top and began to fumble around with her bra until she had it the right way round to clip it back on. Her top was halfway over her head when Owen gave a little crow of triumph. ‘Here they are! Now I just need to work out where the hell you are again.’

      Finally dressed, they left the little haven of the beach hut. Libby paused to lock the door and replace the key back in its hiding place before turning to survey the sky. The moon had set, and the first streaks of indigo and pink showed the approaching dawn. She could’ve sworn they’d only been inside for an hour. ‘What time is it?’

      Pale luminescence flashed as Owen turned his wrist to study his watch. ‘About half three, I think.’

      ‘Bloody hell, come on, I’ve got to be up in a few hours.’ She broke into a jog, keeping the dark outline of the promenade to her left. The lampposts had dimmed to pale orange, another sign of how late—or how early—it was.

      When they reached the steps leading up to the prom, Owen grabbed for her hand and tugged her around to face him. Cupping her jaw with his other hand, he feathered a kiss across her lips. ‘I’ll find us somewhere a bit more comfortable for next time.’

      Next time. He said it as naturally as breathing, as though of course they would be seeing each other again. She’d been refusing to think beyond the next few moments, getting dressed, finding their shoes, saying goodbye…only it didn’t sound like he had any intention of saying goodbye. The sex had been good. Ha! Who was she trying to kid? The sex had been blow-the-top-of-your-head-off incredible. He’d certainly seemed to enjoy it as much as she had, so maybe he was on the lookout for a repeat performance. Or maybe he was looking for something more.

      But what could that be, in truth, because even with him getting involved in Sam’s restaurant, didn’t he have a whole other life in London? He would be there, and she would be here. They could hook up for the odd weekend, she supposed, until the restaurant was up and running, but then what? It was too much to think about, and she was too tired right then to think about it. Or maybe just a bit scared of how she would feel if that was really all he wanted. She could always ask him and find out. The words stuck in her throat.

      ‘You’re very quiet all of a sudden.’

      ‘Am I? Sorry, I’m just a bit tired.’ Hating herself for the cop-out, Libby began to make her way up the stairs. ‘Well, my bed is calling to me.’

      ‘Hold on, I’ll walk you back.’ Within two steps he’d caught up with her and taken her hand in his.

      They walked in silence to her front door, where she disentangled her fingers ostensibly to fish her key out of her pocket. She had the door open and one foot inside when he stilled her with a single finger beneath her chin. Hopeless to resist, she allowed him to tilt her face up for the briefest kiss. ‘Goodnight, Pixie.’

      As she crept up the stairs to avoid waking her dad, Libby tried to convince herself it was a good thing that despite his promise of ‘next time’ he hadn’t tried to make arrangements to meet again—and failed miserably.