Page 14 of Swept Away

“What are you doing?” comes Zeke’s voice from the doorway to the deck.

I spin, Zeke’s knife in my hand. He pauses on his way down the steps as he clocks my raised weapon. With his ripped-knee jeans, beanie hat and bare feet, he looks more hipster than murderer, but the blood is pounding in my ears and I can’t think straight anymore. I’m in a fighting stance, crouching low, knees bent and feet set.

“Stay there,” I bark.

He frowns with a slow head tilt, as though he’s just taking me in, knife and all.

“Lexi? What’s…going on?”

He looks sleepy from the sun, his eyes still adjusting to being indoors, his face already kissed with the start of a tan.

“Where are all the kitchen knives?” I ask, my voice raised.

“I’ve got them,” he says, nonplussed.

I raise the small knife a little higher. This isn’t feeling quite right, but he’s just told me he’s got all the pointy things, so a raised knife feels wise.

“Why have you got my knife?” he asks.

“I have your knife because you’ve gotallthe knives. Why do you have all the knives? Why do you have a bagfullof fucking knives?”

Realization dawns on Zeke’s face. “Oh. Oh. Lexi. Really?”

My blood pressure is slowly dropping. It is very hard to imagine this man murdering me right now. But his surprise is irritating, too—is it that difficult to believe that I might feel at risk?

“You didn’t answer my question.” I lean my hip against the counter, arm dropping to my side. The ready-to-fight pose is starting to feel a bit ridiculous in the face of his open bewilderment.

He pulls the beanie off and pushes his ringlets out of his eyes.

“I’m making us lunch,” he says, gaze steady on my face. “There was a disposable barbecue in the cupboard, so I’m cooking on the deck. My knives are in my bag, but you were having a moment to yourself in there, so I thought I’d just use the houseboat ones.”

I swivel to look at the kitchen counter, noticing what else is missing besides the knives: the chopping board, the net of onions.

“What do you mean, your knives?” I say, my voice hoarse.

“I’m a junior chef,” he says. “My boss got me my own set of knives at the end of last year, and they always come home with me after a shift, so…they were in my bag. I came straight from London to Gilmouth yesterday.”

I absorb this, my breath still coming fast. I hope he can’t see how much my chest is heaving.

“Why would you— Did you really think I’d hurt you?” Zeke asks, his voice raw now.

My hand is shaking and sweaty on the knife.

“You’re a man, Zeke,” I snap. “A man I don’t really know.”

His hand flies to the back of his head, staying there, braced.

“God,” he says, after a moment. “I didn’t think about it like that.”

“No. Such is the joy of being a man, I guess.”

“But…you’ve…We…” He rubs a hand across his mouth, frustrated with himself, I think. He stays on the steps, that beanie resting against his knee as if he’s just doffed his cap. “You’re older than me.”

It’s interesting how uncomfortable it makes me to hear that out loud.

“And you’re so…tough. And—I don’t know.” He pauses for a long moment, eyes down, thinking, then he looks back to me. “Have you felt safe? Please tell me you’ve not felt unsafe today.”

“On this boat in the middle of the sea?” I hedge, rubbing my thumb along the handle of the knife.

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