This is another ridiculously short chapter - I'll end up drabbling at this rate - but it seemed an appropriate place to pause. Thank you very much as ever for all the reviews, and hope you enjoy!
It was early. Far too early. Rolling onto his side, he groaned as his back registered its complaint at the unfamiliar mattress. At some point during the night he'd crawled underneath the covers and the top sheet was twisted round his legs. Another restless night, then; but whatever dreams had played out had evaporated from his memory as he began to waken. Dragging his arm from underneath the pillow he squinted at his watch. 6.03am.
'Bollocks to that,' he muttered, and closed his eyes once more, only to become aware of the pressure in his bladder. At that point he knew resistance was futile, and wearily he threw back the quilt, disentangled himself from the sheet, and padded through to the bathroom.
The crumpled, bleary countenance that greeted him in the mirror was not exactly full of the joys of a weekend out of harness and in pastures new. Briefly, he contemplated a shower, then realised that an early morning dip in the fresh air would probably achieve far more, far more quickly. Fossicking in the depths of his bag, he pulled out a beach towel, swim shorts, cargo shorts, a pale blue tshirt and - eyeing them in distaste – a pair of flipflops. Thus accoutred, he put his wallet and mobile in the safe and ambled downstairs.
Not at her sharpest after four hours' sleep and a three hour drive, it took Ruth a moment to register that someone had just left the guesthouse, and a moment more to realise that the ageing surfer who'd just appeared in her wing mirror was Harry.
A brief flutter of panic swirled within her, as she belatedly contemplated his reaction to her arrival. After all, if he objected so vehemently to her entering his office unannounced, he was hardly likely to do handstands at her gatecrashing his weekend away. But then turning her gaze towards him once more, half expecting him to have spotted her and be striding, apoplectic, towards the car, she was distracted by the sight of his bare arms, surprisingly toned calves, and a backside that, perfectly accentuated by shorts that fitted him far better than his generously cut suits ever did, just cried out to be admired. And so unashamedly Ruth did exactly that, until along with its owner it disappeared from view.
She took a moment to compose herself, then grabbing her bag from the passenger seat she clambered out of the car. As she turned to close the door an incongruous image floated up to the top of her consciousness.
'Flip flops?'
Harry spread out his towel on the sand, then stripped to his swim shorts and deposited his tshirt, shorts, and flip flops on top. With more brio than he felt, he marched down to the shoreline, unleashing a torrent of profanity as the water eddied around his legs. At that moment his father's voice came back to him, the summer he'd taught him to swim. 'Never mind moaning, get into the bloody water!' Smiling at the memory, he plunged through the shallows and then launched himself, not entirely athletically, into the waves.
He was all too aware that this was purely a displacement activity, that he was simply putting off the whole reason he'd come to Weymouth in the first place; to work out what the hell he was going to do about Ruth. Despite her rejection of him, he knew that however much he battened down the emotional hatches he was still in love with her. This was a love that, after a brief flicker of hope, had been bittersweet; at best giving him fleeting, lonely pleasure. Now, however, it gave him only pain. He supposed it boiled down to which was the least unbearable option; a life without Ruth in it, or a life with Ruth tantalisingly, tormentingly on the periphery, a constant reminder of the choices he'd made and of what might have been. Flopping onto his back he let the tide buffet him as he roared his despair to the heavens.
If he was expecting inspiration to materialise from the deep he was sorely disappointed, and as the cold began to seep into his tiring limbs he turned and headed back to the shore. It wasn't until he clambered to his feet and waded the last few yards that he realised there was someone else sitting on the beach.
On his towel.
Watching him.
Ruth.