Page 31 of September’s Tide (Island Tales #2)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Taylor opened the boot and reached for the bags of shopping. The guys had demolished the contents of his fridge the night before like a pack of starving wolves, and he’d made the trip into Ventnor to restock, though he’d planned it anyway.

Tonight’s dinner was going to be something special.

He shut the boot with a soft clunk and threaded his fingers through the handles of the bags, wincing a little as the plastic dug into his palms. No way he was making more than one trip down those steep steps.

As he neared the path, he spotted a man standing ahead of him.

He was tall, tanned, with bleached blond hair and dressed as if he’d just stepped off a yacht.

There was a subtle air of discomfort about him, as if the wild coastal breeze buffeting him was offensive.

“Can I help you?” Taylor asked, keeping his tone polite but distant.

The man’s face lit with exaggerated relief. “Oh, thank God. I haven’t seen a single soul for ages. I’m looking for Steephill Cove. Is it close?”

American. Not only that, the accent proclaimed him to be a New Yorker.

Taylor nodded. “There are two paths down. I’m heading that way now.”

“Perfect.” The man grabbed an overnight bag from the ground and fell in beside him. “I’ll follow your lead.”

Taylor said nothing as they started the descent. The plastic handles were already cutting into his fingers, and he focused on his footing as the path grew steep. Behind him, the stranger muttered, mostly to himself, but Taylor only caught fragments.

“…this had better be worth it…”

Taylor didn’t turn around. “Did you say something?”

“Just wondering if I took the wrong path,” the man replied quickly, as if realizing he’d been overheard.

Taylor’s gaze flickered to the man’s bag. It was a little large for a day trip.

“You staying in the cove?” he asked casually.

“I’m looking for the Lighthouse. A friend is staying there,” the man said, then with a slightly bitter edge, he added, “Not that it’s any of your business.”

That stopped Taylor in his tracks. He blinked, startled, not by the rudeness, but by one word.

Lighthouse.

It took less than a second for everything to click into place.

This wasn’t some tourist. This was him .

Clark.

Taylor didn’t need confirmation: what he saw was enough. The smug set of the jaw. The expensive sunglasses. The casual entitlement. It all lined up with what David had told him.

And what he didn’t.

Taylor resumed walking, his voice even. “I’ll show you.”

At the bottom of the path, he paused and pointed toward the far end of the cove. “That’s it. The Lighthouse.”

The man gave him a curt nod and moved on, not bothering with a thank you this time. Taylor didn’t move but watched as Clark made his way along the pebbled path, and up the steps onto the deck where he rapped on the kitchen door.

Taylor stood rooted to the spot as the door opened. His breathing hitched.

Clark stepped inside without hesitation, flinging his arms around David, leaning in fast and close, like he owned the place.

Like he used to.

And David didn’t pull away.

Taylor’s throat went dry. He knew what he was seeing. The familiarity. The history. Even if David didn’t welcome it, he hadn’t stopped it.

Not yet, at least.

Taylor forced himself to look away, to walk the few paces to his own door and set the bags down. The edge of one split slightly, a box of pasta nudging loose. He crouched to gather it, the movement automatic, mechanical, half-expecting to hear a noise as David ejected Clark from the Lighthouse.

Nothing. Not a sound.

Taylor reached for the handle and paused. The image of Clark hugging burned into his head.

You have a dinner to prepare, remember?

The groceries were warming fast. He pushed the door open, stepped inside, and let it shut behind him with a quiet click.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t rage.

Instead, he walked through to the kitchen, set the bags on the counter, and began to unpack them, each item a small defiance.

Because whatever was happening across the cove, he wasn’t going to give up so easily.

Not yet.

He’s going to be here for dinner, regardless of his guest.

Taylor wouldn’t accept any alternative outcome.

David froze as Clark threw his arms around him, the familiar scent of his cologne hitting him like a wave. He stepped back, his hands raised, his heart pounding, not from emotion, but sheer disbelief.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Clark blinked, pulling a hurt face that had an air to it, as if it had been rehearsed. “That’s how you greet me?” He curled his lips into a pout. “After I came all this way to find you?”

David shook his head. “Clark. Don’t.”

Clark ignored the warning, stepping forward with a practiced smile. “I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks . Emails, texts—nothing. I was so worried.”

David took another step back, his arms folded. “Worried. Really.” He didn’t bother to keep the sarcasm from his tone.

“I swear,” Clark protested, his eyes wide, all innocence. “I couldn’t stand not knowing if you were okay. In the end, I went to Michael. He didn’t want to tell me, but when he saw how upset I was…”

“Michael told you where I was?” David’s voice was flat. He made a mental note to have that conversation later.

Clark beamed. “And here I am.” He spread his arms as though he expected applause.

David didn’t return the smile. “Why?”

Clark’s expression shifted instantly, his eyes soft, his tone low. “I’ve been a mess since we split. I haven’t been sleeping. I’ve barely eaten. I’ve really neglected myself.”

David’s gaze swept over him, taking in the smooth, moisturised skin, the perfectly fitted clothes, that expensive tan. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Clark faltered for half a second, then regrouped. “Babe, I know I messed up. I let that whole thing with Miguel happen, but it didn’t mean anything. You’ve always been the one I wanted.”

David didn’t flinch. “That’s not how I remember it.”

Clark edged closer. “It was a mistake, okay? One stupid night. I’ve been so lost without you.”

“You weren’t lost,” David said coolly. “You were bored. And when I stopped playing the part, you moved on.”

Clark’s mouth opened, but David cut him off with a look. Those old Clark tricks—batting his lashes, the soft voice, the sad tilt of the head—none of it worked anymore.

The spell was well and truly broken.

“You don’t get to rewrite history,” David said. “Not here. Not now.”

Clark’s tone turned beseeching. “I haven’t been with anyone since you.”

David raised a brow. “And I’m supposed to believe that?”

“I haven’t ! I swear?—”

“Clark.” David held up a hand. “Don’t insult us both.”

In the silence that fell between them, Clark’s mask slipped slightly, only for a second, but David saw it: the calculation behind the eyes, the shift in strategy.

“Okay,” Clark said softly. “I get it. I hurt you. But I had to try. I had to see you, talk to you in person. And now that I’m here…” He let the sentence hang.

“You’re leaving,” David finished for him. “I’ll call you a taxi. You can catch the next ferry back.”

Clark’s lips parted in disbelief. “David, come on. I just got here.”

“I didn’t invite you,” David replied. “And I’m not starting this again.”

Clark’s voice wavered. “I couldn’t get a flight back tonight. Earliest one’s tomorrow.”

David exhaled through his nose. He knew where this was going.

Clark gave a sheepish smile. “And I, uh, kind of used all my money getting here. I thought… I don’t know, maybe I could crash here? Just for tonight. I won’t be any trouble.”

David stared at him for a long moment. Part of him wanted to laugh, another part wanted to scream.

Mostly, he felt tired .

He pushed out a sigh. “Fine.” He jerked his head to the right. “The spare bedroom’s through there. And you’ll leave in the morning.”

Clark blinked. That clearly hadn’t been the answer he’d expected.

“You’re serious?”

“Oh, I’m dead serious.” David stepped aside, giving him access to the door that led to the second bedroom. “And don’t get any ideas. This isn’t anything. You’re not staying. You’re not starting something. You’re sleeping in the spare room tonight, and in the morning you’re gone.”

For once, Clark had no clever reply. He went through the doorway with only the faintest mutter.

David stood motionless by the bifold window, staring out at the cove.

The lights were on at West View.

Taylor.

He looked down at his phone and saw one unread message.

Everything still okay? Should I start prepping dinner?

Sent ten minutes ago.

David’s stomach twisted. He was supposed to be there. He wanted to be there. But leaving Clark alone in this house was out of the question, and he didn’t want to explain anything.

Not yet, not like this.

David didn’t know what Clark wanted. Hell, maybe Clark didn’t even know. But David knew one thing with absolute clarity: whatever he’d once felt for Clark was gone .

He looked back toward the window, his throat tight.

He only hoped Taylor would understand.

Taylor glanced at the table where two place settings gleamed in the warm light, the snow-white napkins folded just so, candles untouched, the wine slowly warming in its bottle.

No David.

He checked his phone again. Still nothing. No message, no apology, only silence.

Taylor stood for a moment, his arms folded, staring at the carefully laid dinner. The kitchen still held the scent of roasted garlic and herbs, a low, comforting warmth from the oven. Taylor had even baked bread, for God’s sake.

He turned out the overhead lights and crossed to the front windows.

Through the deepening dusk, the Lighthouse was visible at the outer curve of the cove, its white paint tinged silver by the moonlight.

The interior lights were on—he could see the soft glow of the living room lamps—but there was no movement within.

Taylor poured himself a glass of wine and sank into the recliner by the window. He wasn’t angry, not exactly. What filled him was disappointment and fatigue. He’d let himself look forward to tonight more than he’d realized.

When David’s bedroom light blinked on, spilling its light onto the path beneath it, his heart jumped, only for a second but long enough to sting.

He stayed where he was, the glass in hand, his legs pulled up beneath him, wrapped in one of the throws from the sofa.

He didn’t turn on the TV. He couldn’t bear to listen to music.

He sat in the hush of the house, watching the Lighthouse.

He didn’t even know if Clark was still there.

It wasn’t as if he’d watched the place like a hawk.

Well, not for most of the time.

Maybe something came up.

Maybe he’s sick.

Maybe he lost track of time.

Maybe—

When the light in the bedroom went dark a little after midnight, it was as if a door closed.

Taylor let out a long breath and rested his head against the back of the chair. He didn’t bother going to bed. Instead, he carried the wine bottle outside and dropped into the recliner on the deck, the night air cool on his skin. He drank slowly, letting the sea breeze numb his thoughts.

It wasn’t heartbreak, not yet, but it was the beginning of a bruise.

By the time the bottle was empty, his eyes were heavy, and the Lighthouse was nothing but a pale blur in the dark.

He fell asleep watching it, hoping for something—anything—to make sense of the quiet.