Damaged: A gripping short read, the perfect escape for an hour. Barbara Taylor Bradford

looked at him for a long moment, thinking it over. It had been impossible to keep up the pretence that she didn’t like him after the first five minutes. The attraction was too great, the conversation flowed too easily. Suddenly it didn’t matter if her brother had brought him home, or if she’d met him online, or in a crowded subway. There was a connection so strong it was useless to deny it.

      ‘Allison, I’m coming for you. Where are you?’

      ‘It’s okay, Dad,’ she said. ‘I have a ride.’

      ‘You sound funny,’ her dad roared. ‘Who are you with?’

      Mike and Allison smiled sheepishly at one another.

      ‘I’m with Mike Dennison. And tell Jimmy if he says, “I told you so,” I will never, ever speak to him again.’

      They didn’t talk business that night at O’Lunney’s, nor did they on the long ride back to Breezy Point. Or during the walks on the beach that weekend. There was too much to discover about one another.

      She learned about his kid brother, Kevin. Mike said he never regretted having to leave West Point to be a father to the boy after their parents had been killed. Kevin had finished Cornell University with the highest grades and dreams of becoming an architect.

      Mike, his pride obvious, told her how Kevin had put those dreams on hold to serve his country, in the same unit, in the same way he had. Mike had been a Medevac rescue pilot on duty in the Middle East.

      He learned about her big, rabble-rousing family of men and boys. There were, of course, wives and mothers, but in all the clan only one girl, Allison herself.

      She told him about the Sunday suppers, the touch football games on the beach that always ended up being tackle. She even told him how her dad and brother checked on her each morning, afraid somehow that the last vestige of Lydia had been spirited away during the night.

      And on Saturday afternoon, just before the tide came in, they sat on the sand and shared stories of loss. She confided how she had hid in her mother’s closet after she learned about the shooting. About how the whole family was searching for her, and she knew it. But she just couldn’t bring herself to leave that special place she and her mom had shared, not even to put her family’s minds at ease.

      And she explained how, when they moved out here to Breezy Point, one of her cousins took over the apartment in Manhattan. He had left Lydia’s closet just as it had been the day she died. It was locked and only Allison had the key. That’s where she went for inspiration and to focus on her designs and her dreams.

      They talked about pain and grief and how you might think you were done, had finished grieving. But still that terrible sorrow wasn’t finished with you.

      And, finally, they admitted the attraction that had frightened them both the night they met in her family’s kitchen. But for now, holding hands on the beach was all the intensity they could handle.

      They were soaking wet when they first kissed on Sunday morning, ten days after their ‘strictly business’ meeting at O’Lunney’s.

      Mike had driven out to Breezy Point just as the sun was rising. He had a backpack that held a thick chunk of Irish Cheddar, a soft Brie, two kinds of sausage and a long loaf of bread he had purchased, still warm, from the City Bakery on Eighteenth Street. He also brought a cold bottle of fine pink champagne. A colleague had given it to him after his commercial for a new electric car had won a Clio, his third win.

      There was also a change of clothes and a blanket to sit on. And the promise of a sunny day.

      Allison was on the porch when he drove up. She held two clamming rakes, carried a metal pail, and wore a sweatshirt and cut-off jeans. Despite the casualness of her attire, she looked to him like Hippolyta personified.

      He loved that she was tall. At six feet three, he had spent his high-school years bending over to try to kiss a girl. While he hadn’t yet held her, Mike knew they would fit together perfectly.

      Allison took him to her secret clamming spot, a rocky outcropping about ten feet from shore. It wasn’t visible when the tide was in, but when the tide was out you could walk there without getting wet.

      ‘When it turns,’ she warned, ‘you need to get out very quickly before the rocks are covered in water. Because if they’re covered with water, we will be too.’