Page 68 of That Island Feeling

Jack’s eyes flash. ‘What makes you think they’ll be any safer there?’

There’s a sourdough starter on Jack’s bench top.

We’ve left the swans to fend for themselves when the suite’s occupants inevitably reach the ‘make-up sex’ phase of their evening. During our short walk back to his cabin, Jack floated the idea of a late-night snack since we missed dinner, and my tummy grumbled unsexily in agreement.

‘So, you’re roommates with a parasite?’ I rest my lilies on the counter next to the beige mixture bubbling away in the glass container. It’s thick like pancake batter.

Jack ignites the hob. ‘He pays his way in delicious bread.’

The cabin smells of oranges, the same scent that covered his skin, and I notice the peels in the sink.

‘Sorry. I should have cleaned up,’ he says. ‘I told you it’s the only thing that gets the fish stink out.’

Jack uncovers a loaf of sourdough, identical to the one he used for his bruschetta, and proceeds to cut thick slabs of bread with a serrated knife.

‘Are you making me a grilled cheese?’ I ask.

‘A grilled cheese?’

‘You know, like a melted cheese sandwich.’

‘So, a jaffle?’

‘Mm, not really. You use an iron skillet, not a sandwich press. It’s what every guy in every cheesy American rom-com makes for the girl when he invites her back to his place. Usually with a tea towel casually flung over a shoulder like he’s a Michelin-starred chef.’

‘Like this?’ Jack plucks the tea towel that was covering the bread and throws it over his broad shoulder.

‘Exactly.’ I beam.

‘And then what happens?’ he prompts.

Why does this feel like phone sex, but in real life?

‘Wellll,’ I purr. ‘Often, the cheese is still too hot, so the sandwich is dropped mid-bite and famished mouths find each other instead. Other times, things heat up in the kitchen before the grilled cheese does . . .’

Jack holds my gaze, knife still in hand.

‘Too bad I’m not making a grilled cheese, then.’

His cheeky smile tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing. Our little cat-and-mouse routine is starting to feel like torture.

‘I’m making you my take on the bacon-and-egg bap. Make sure you tell Charlie it’s superior.’

‘No promises,’ I say. ‘I’ve grown quite fond of the bap.’

More accurately, the dog-door delivery of said bap, I think to myself.

‘Take a seat please, Ms Alcott. You’re well aware by now that I deliver,’ Jack instructs.

I leave him to his culinary pursuits in the kitchen and settle onto the well-worn sofa. The cabin is so small that I’m only a few steps away from where Jack is cooking. The heat from the stove warms my back as my gaze drifts around the room. In the corner, the desk with the orange tackle box is overrun with more oyster shells. Adjacent to it, a sturdy wooden table is pushed up against the wall and surrounded by three mismatched chairs. On the table’s scarred surface, marked by coffee rings, sits a fruit bowl. Propped up next to the door is a collection of fishing rods and reels. I enjoy collecting the individual pixels that make up the picture of who Jack is: rustic, wholesome, uncomplicated.

Jack joins me on the sofa, presenting me with a hefty plate holding a mouth-watering bacon-and-egg sandwich. The bread is a perfect golden-brown colour and glistens with a buttery sheen. A sweet micro-herb garnish has been added to the side.

‘Yum. Thank you.’

Jack’s eyes are on me as I take my first bite.

‘Fuck – I mean, ah! It’s so hot!’ I feel like I’m breathing fire.

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