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      PROLOGUE

       Fremantle, Western Australia. Thirteen years ago

      NOT EVEN AS she stood outside Jake Donner’s bedroom window, watching the flimsy and slightly askew aluminium blinds smack rhythmically against the glass in the gentle breeze, did Eleanor Cartwright—even for a moment—have second thoughts.

      Which wasn’t to say she wasn’t nervous. Of course she was. Declarations of love, she imagined, were always at least slightly nerve-racking.

      But tonight, nerves didn’t matter.

      She had to do this.

      You should tell him, honey. Love shouldn’t be kept secret.

      She hadn’t paid much attention to her mum when she’d said that a couple of months ago. She thought maybe she’d even laughed?

      I don’t love him, Mum, don’t be stupid. We’re just friends.

      And her mum had done that annoying thing where she raised her eyebrows as if she were the all-knowing, and gently shook her head. It had made Eleanor feel about twelve, not sixteen.

      Whatever, mum. He’s leaving anyway. There’s no point.

      And maybe there still wasn’t.

      But the pointlessness—or not—didn’t matter any more.

      Since exactly twenty-nine days ago, a lot of stuff didn’t matter any more.

      Eleanor took a deep breath. She could do this.

      Letting Jake leave Fremantle—and her—without knowing how she felt was no longer an option.

      A larger pre-dawn gust of air made Eleanor shiver, and it slipped through the opening in Jake’s window to make the blinds rattle loudly.

      No sound came from his room. Which wasn’t all that surprising, given it was about three o’clock in the morning. Plus, Jake slept like a log.

      She stepped closer, the dew that coated the long, unmown grass around his house damp against her legs. Jake’s bed was right below the window, so, on tiptoe, she slid it open. The window—and the house—were old, and it gave its usual shriek of protest.

      ‘Jake?’ she said, hoping the sound had woken him.

      No such luck.

      So she continued with her plan, gripping the edges of the window, and hoisting herself upwards. Then she would perch on the window sill, reach for Jake, and gently shake him awake.

      This, however, was not what happened.

      Instead, her momentum propelled her upwards—and inwards—not at all in the way she’d imagined. In the cacophony of the blinds, her own surprised yelp, and then Jake’s much louder shout, she found herself bounced from the bed and onto the floor, Jake’s body pressed against hers from chest, to hip, to toes. Her glasses had parted ways with her face, but even so Jake’s confusion was apparent even in the—slightly fuzzy—moonlight.

      ‘What the hell? Eleanor?’

      She nodded, temporarily incapable of speech for two reasons: the impact of hitting the worn carpet, and the realisation that Jake was only wearing boxer shorts.

      But then he was up, and away from her, the overhead light coming on a second later. She stared at the naked bulb, doing her best to breathe and think at the same time.

      ‘Eleanor,’ he said, ‘why are you here?’

      He crossed to her, reaching out and pulling her to her feet. He met her gaze with confusion. ‘Why are you still in your uniform?’

      She looked down, taking in her crumpled white shirt and knee-length tartan skirt. She’d barely registered what she was wearing. That day, the week—the past month—it had all been a blur.

      ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

      ‘So you decided to jump in my window?’

      Eleanor just looked at him.

      Jake sighed, and he scratched at his belly absently. That belly had changed a lot since their many trips to the beach last summer. Now it was firmer, leaner—she could see the angular jut of his hipbones just above where his boxers hung low on his body.

      Following her gaze, he hooked a finger in the waistband and tugged them a little higher. But he didn’t look embarrassed.

      He never did.

      In contrast, Eleanor usually felt like a walking bundle of self-consciousness.

      His dark hair was a mess, but he still looked really, really great.

      Eleanor knew she didn’t look great. But at least she’d washed away the evening’s worth of dried tears on her cheeks. Besides, her mum had always told her that it didn’t matter what she looked like. It was what was inside that counted.

      ‘I wanted to talk to you,’ she said softly.

      Jake’s gaze darted away. ‘About your mum?’

      ‘No,’ she said. And did he look—relieved?

      In the almost month since her mum had forgotten to look before stepping out onto a busy Fremantle street, Eleanor had barely seen Jake.

      That had been her choice—hadn’t it?

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