Page 3 of Hooked On The One That Got Away (Miss Lovelock’s Agency for Broken Hearts #3)

Chapter Three

Willow hadn’t been bothered by swans up till now. They were quite intimidating, with their long, strong necks and black beady eyes, but until Geillis had warned her about them, Willow hadn’t been at all concerned when they were nearby. She’d given them space, and they’d cruised on by. No problem.

This morning, almost as if Geillis had willed it, there was a pair of swans on the bank beside the willow tree, and they were not happy to see her.

Both instantly raised their wings up high, pulled their necks back and hissed .

Willow had thought mute swans were just that – silent.

These swans not only hissed, it now appeared they also made snorting sounds.

Then they started racing towards her , hissing and snorting and flapping their truly enormous wings!

Willow turned and ran. She wasn’t proud and she also didn’t want to become the first human killed and eaten by irate waterfowl.

She made it back to her car, and once inside, hit the button that locked all the doors.

Panting, she looked back but, embarrassingly, the swans seemed not to have followed her.

Willow guessed they didn’t want to leave their nest. The nest by her favourite riverbank spot that she’d now need to avoid.

Dammit. Where could she go now? There was limited public access to the river round here.

One side was entirely bordered by very large private mansions.

Or at least, by their gazebos and boat ramps.

The houses were usually miles back beyond a stretch of perfect lawn.

There were other swimming areas not too far away, but they didn’t have a willow tree with big gnarly roots you could hide your car keys in.

Oh well, that was what search engines were for.

Willow entered her specifications – and lo, a suitable match appeared.

A twenty-minute drive, but needs must when your spot has been overtaken by fearsome swans.

Besides, it would be good for her to explore and get out of her comfortable rut. She was moving forward, right?

The new spot turned out to be suspiciously ideal.

Suspicious because Willow had a sudden sensation that she was being manipulated.

That forces beyond her control were aligning to shape her fate.

Good thing Maeve wasn’t here. She’d have laughed in Willow’s face, then possibly slapped it to bring her back to her senses.

Willow shook herself vigorously, and the feeling passed. Time for a swim.

She’d checked the route – upstream first for about three miles, turning back before she got too near to the lock.

Looked like she’d mainly be in open water, though there were some overhanging trees about midway that she’d need to avoid.

Getting tangled in hidden branches was a known risk for wild swimmers.

It would be ironic if she’d escaped death by swans only to be drowned by trees.

Acclimatising to cold water had been a gradual process.

Willow could now tolerate much longer swims on cold days than when she’d started, which meant swims on warmer days felt positively easy.

Today, the weather was calm and bright, and her later start meant the sun had already warmed the top layer of the water.

Willow felt buoyant, cutting easily through the water with smooth, even strokes.

The automatic nature of the physical motion freed up Willow’s brain, which proceeded to start an argument with itself.

Maeve was right: Charlie had behaved unforgivably badly.

No decent man leaves without warning, with only a note that says nothing really, except that it wasn’t Willow’s fault.

There’d obviously been a side to Charlie that he’d kept hidden, a devious, deceitful and – let’s face it– yellow-bellied coward side.

If he’d had an ounce of courage, he’d have been honest with Willow, told her how he felt.

Given her a chance to change, to fix things.

All of that was true, her brain acknowledged.

But then so was the fact that Charlie was genuinely kind, sweet and loving – and you can’t fake that for five years unless you’re a complete psychopath.

Charlie was not a psychopath; Willow had looked up the warning signs when Maeve made that suggestion, and he didn’t tick any of the boxes.

He wasn’t superficially charming; he was often awkward and shy.

He wasn’t manipulative and predatory; he bent over backwards to help other people and volunteered for community conservation efforts, like tree planting and litter clean-ups.

He didn’t purposefully make people uncomfortable with inappropriate sexual comments.

He might have been fond of mildly rude jokes, but he picked his moments for those.

Usually, he whispered them in Willow’s ear because he loved to make her laugh. And she’d laughed so often back then.

So, which was the real Charlie? The cowardly deceiver or the kind, loving helper? That was the question Willow’s brain couldn’t help her answer. Which meant no answer to the other question that bothered her more: had Charlie truly believed that she was not to blame?

Willow would have to suck up not knowing, because she had no idea where Charlie was.

He’d left no forwarding address, and he’d disconnected his mobile phone.

He was an only child, and both his parents had died when he was eighteen, in a car crash.

Willow might have been able to track down other family members, but would Charlie have told them anything?

If he’d wanted anyone to know where he was, he’d have said so in his note.

The lock was close now. The oldest locks dated back to the 1600s and were still an object of fascination for people.

It was hypnotic, watching the water in the lock gradually lift or lower the boat, to give it easy passage to the next stretch of river.

The currents could be strong around locks, so swimmers were advised to keep clear. Time for Willow to turn around.

She bobbed, treading water for a moment, and looked about her. A few walkers on the towpath, most with happily panting dogs. One kayaker in the distance. A couple on the lock overbridge. They appeared to be fastening something to the wire railing – Willow squinted to see. A padlock ?

The couple then kissed, passionately and joyfully.

Oh. It’s a lovelock. They’ll have their initials engraved on it.

How romantic. The lockkeeper would probably remove it with a bolt cutter the minute they were gone, but that didn’t matter.

It was the gesture, and the symbolism. Of their love and commitment to each other.

Willow sighed. Her arms felt suddenly leaden, heavy like her heart.

It had been so long since she’d been kissed.

A year today, in fact. A whole bloody year.

The night Charlie left, she remembered too well.

He’d come to bed after her, pulled her to him and kissed her so hard her entire body flooded with desire.

Charlie normally put her orgasm first, but that night he’d been almost rough, taking just enough time to ensure she was wet before entering her, and filling her to the brim with strong, urgent thrusts.

He’d shoved his hands under her rear and yanked her closer to him, his muscled hardness connecting bang on with Willow’s centre, igniting a sudden orgasm that burst through her like fireworks, leaving her stunned and breathless.

She’d gazed in astonishment at Charlie’s face above hers, his eyes black with lust, his mouth taut apart from a small, satisfied hitch to one corner.

Then he’d closed his eyes and come, almost lifting her off the bed with the force of his final thrusts.

For a moment, he’d rested his head on the pillow beside hers, and then he’d lifted it and stared down at her.

‘I love you, Willow Taylor,’ he’d said.

She’d laughed. At the joy of the unexpectedly intense, perfect sex. At Charlie’s unusually serious expression, and at the strength of love she felt for him.

‘Love you, too, Charlie McKay,’ she’d replied, and stroked his shaggy hair off his damp forehead. He’d lifted himself out of her, and they’d curled up together in a warm tangle and fallen asleep. And when she’d woken in the morning, he was gone.

Willow was annoyed to find the memory had made her cry, and even more annoyed that she couldn’t wipe her eyes owing to her hands being as wet as her face.

Get a grip , Willow ordered herself. And get moving before you get hypothermia.

Slowly, she kicked off again, back upriver, every stroke feeling like an effort.

The kayaker she’d spotted earlier was paddling her way, so Willow kept over to the right.

She calculated that they would pass her close to the cluster of trees.

There was enough room. Willow wouldn’t have to go too near to the bank.

Without warning, the kayaker suddenly changed course – and started heading right towards her ! At speed ! It was the swans all over again. Only this time, she was pretty sure the kayaker wasn’t murderous; they just hadn’t spotted her.

No point in yelling out. The kayaker had a helmet on, and probably earbuds in underneath. Nothing for it except to seek shelter beside the trees and wait until they’d passed.

As she approached the tree-lined bank, something small flicked past her vision, and she felt a sharp sting on her shoulder.

A wasp? A horsefly? Whatever it was, she could still feel it, tugging now on the cross-back of her swimsuit, caught by whatever insect part might get trapped.

Willow didn’t want to give that too much thought, but she really did want it off her.

Trouble was, she couldn’t see it, and she certainly wasn’t going to try to grab it.

Yikes, it was pulling at her! As if it was trying to tow her towards the bank!

What kind of monster bug was this ? Panicked now, Willow flailed her hand around over her shoulder in the hopes she might knock the insect off her – and made contact with a taut, thin plastic thread.

A fishing line! Some stupid idiot had hooked her!

‘Oy!’ Angry now, Willow yelled towards the bank. ‘Stop pulling! Your line’s caught in my swimsuit!’

From among the trees, she heard a distant, ‘Shit.’ A person emerged, holding a fishing rod. Their face was filled with concern.

Their face was also horribly, gut-churningly familiar. Willow felt her stomach clench and fought the urge to throw up, but she managed to croak out one word. ‘Charlie …’

The mouth on the face dropped open, then said, ‘ Willow ?’