Page 29

Robbie shakes his head. “Nothing’s wrong with you. Well, other than the fact you clearly don’t take no for an answer. And that wee performance you just pulled? Downright self-centred. You can’t just waltz in and act like folk belong to you.”

My cheeks warm. Suddenly I don’t feel quite so bold. “I’m sorry,” I say, and mean it. “That was . . . immature of me.”

“Aye, it was.” Robbie stands and pulls on his leather jacket. “I’m heading home.” He strides for the door.

“Wait!”

Several patrons glance our way as I hurry after him, nearly tripping over my boots in my rush. By the time I burst out onto the lamplit street, Robbie is almost at his motorcycle.

“Robbie! Please, can’t we talk?”

He doesn’t answer. Not even a glance in my direction as he swings his leg over his bike.

I decide to change tactics. “How much did you drink in there?”

“I’m quite capable of getting myself home.” He still won’t look at me. He grabs his helmet from where it’s secured near the rear of the bike.

I fold my arms and do my version of stern teacher. “I can’t let you drive after imbibing alcohol, I’m afraid. For your own safety and that of others.”

Perhaps I’m being manipulative again, clinging on when I should probably let him go. But I just can’t leave things so sour.

Robbie glowers at me. “Who says ‘imbibing’? Besides, yesterday you were the one offering me a beer from your fridge before I rode home.”

“Aye, well.” I put my hands on my hips. “You wouldn’t want to be reported to the police for drink-driving now, would you?” It’s a low blow, and I know it. With everything else Robbie’s dealing with, the last thing he needs is more trouble with the police. But still, I stand my ground.

Robbie gives me a hard look, then he sighs, secures his helmet back onto the lock by the rear wheel, and snaps it shut with a sharp click.

“Luckily for you,” I say, trying to lighten the mood, “I have a perfectly good bed in my flat. You can crash at my place.”

“No chance. If you’re not allowing me to take my motorcycle, then I’ll walk.” He turns and heads up the street, aiming for Bannock Woods and the footpath that leads to his cottage.

“But . . . that’ll take an hour!”

“I know,” he calls over his shoulder. “That’s why I wanted to ride home.”

I stand there, watching him go. I glance down at my heeled boots then back at Robbie’s retreating form.

“Wait up!” I call, breaking into a run despite the impractical footwear.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ROBBIE

“Robbie! Wait up!”

Cat’s voice carries through the trees from somewhere behind me. Fuck’s sake. Why won’t she and her poor excuse for a skirt leave me alone? I’m furious with her right now. She had no right to do what she did in the pub. And now I have to walk home? Just fucking great.

I march deeper into Bannock Woods, the moonlight filtering through the canopy above, casting shadows across the forest floor. The night air is cool against my heated skin. Somewhere in the distance an owl hoots, the sound echoing through the darkness.

“Robbie, please! Slow down!”

Twigs snap as she hurries to catch up, but I don’t turn around. Maybe if I ignore her, she’ll take the hint and piss off.

No such luck. Within moments she’s at my side, breathless from jogging to keep up with my long strides.

“Look, I’m sorry about what happened back there,” she says, “but you don’t have to storm off like this.”

“I’m not storming off. I’m going home, and you should do the same.”