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She wasn’t entirely sure if it was the beer or the sea air or the fact that Javi looked like a literal Greek statue, but later, when they walked along the beach and he kissed her—just once, slow and sweet and salty—Jenn let herself kiss him back. Just because she could. And more importantly, because he was uncomplicated.

It was a good kiss. No fireworks, but pleasant enough. It didn’t make her head spin, or her heart race.

Which was… fine? And right now, wasn’t that exactly what she wanted?

Chapter 15

Summer on Hellisay had a completely different energy from spring. The island buzzed in its own way—less frantic than the city, but no less alive. Events and fundraisers popped up like midges, and Jenn had somehow been roped into helping with most of them. She’d manned raffle tables, sold cupcakes from a floral tray like a vintage usherette, and once accidentally insulted a very elderly local by calling his prize-winning potatoes ‘adorable’.

At least she wasn’t alone—Màiri, Cathy Ann, Lizzie, or someone from her growing circle of friends was always there too. No one was safe from ‘community service’. There was something unexpectedly satisfying about it all. Everyone mucking in, laughing over cups of tea in mismatched mugs, stealing bites of leftover cake. It wasn’t the kind of thing she would’ve imagined herself doing a year ago—she’d have scoffed at the idea, in fact. But here? It just… worked. It felt right. Most of the time.

She’d also acquired a cat. Morag, sleek and almost pure black, with a signature star-shaped splash of white on her chest—a classic ‘Hellis cat’—had simply appeared at Jenn’s doorstep one morning after Beltane. Morag had jumped up onto the windowsill, midway through a catch up with Vivi, and given her a look that clearly said, ‘Well? Are you going to let me in or not?’

Auntie Peigi had nodded in that all-knowing Hebridean way when Jenn told her. “Aye, she’s chosen you now. Best buy her a bowl.”

Jenn had. Two, in fact. Morag was very fond of mackerel.

Morag had a knack for weaving around Jenn’s ankles in the mornings, demanding treats like a furry overlord, or curling up by the fire at night like she’d lived there forever. Sometimes Jenn found herself talking to her like she was an old friend—which was fine, totally fine. A single woman chatting to her cat? Nothing tragic about that at all.

And then there was Javi. They’d been on a few ‘dates’ so far—if you could call lying on the sand with ice cream and drinking kalimotxo. Honestly, mixing red wine with Coke was genius. Javi had converted half of Hellisay to the cause. There had also been one calamitous surf lesson, in which Jenn discovered her yoga balance didn’t translate to moving water. Javi had laughed so hard he’d fallen off his own board. He’d stayed over a couple of times too. Hot. Enjoyable. And not remotely serious. Which suited Jenn just fine. She still felt like a cougar, though…

Auntie Peigi’s voice popped into her head: “When I said you should meet an island man, I meant Hellisay, not the Balearics.”

“He’s from Bilbao, Auntie Peigi!”

“Pah. Same difference.”

Javi was fun. Easy. Safe. He didn’t ask questions that made her chest ache or look at her like he was peeling back layers she wasn’t ready to show. He wasn’t complicated, and she told herself that was what she wanted. But sometimes—quietly, annoyingly—she wondered if she was lying to herself. Maybe the problem wasn’t Javi. Maybe it was her. She wasn’t ready to add anything heavy into her life. Not yet. She was still finding her feet—both emotionally and literally. And maybe Javi was exactly the kind of temporary, no-strings distraction she needed.

She liked her quiet mornings in the kitchen, Morag overseeing the baking like a judge in a reality show, the scent of cinnamon buns drifting from the oven. She loved her yoga classes, even if Màiri still toppled over during every single Warrior III. She liked bumping into familiar faces at the shop, at the post office, at the community events where gossip was currency and Dallas would trade secrets for scones. The rare quiet evenings were her favourite. Just her, Morag, a blanket, a serial killer documentary, and the fire on—yes, even in summer. It was Hellisay, after all.

She was happy. She could see that. She could feel it in her bones. But it wasn’t the same as being whole. There was still a corner of her life that felt blank, like a page she hadn’t started writing yet. And even if her dating life had taken a detour via the Basque Country… her heart? Her dreams? Her future? Those were another matter entirely.

Sometimes, when she let herself think too hard, it felt like she was standing on the edge of something. Something new. Something terrifying. And no amount of cinnamon buns or casual beach flings could tell her what that was.

Chapter 16

As well as the Island Games, the Boat Race, and Hells Fest, one of the most popular island events over the summer was the Hellithon. The Hellithon wasn’t just one race—it was three overlapping disasters with wildly optimistic signage. You could do the full thirty-odd-mile lap around the island if you hated your knees and wanted to die dramatically on a beach somewhere. Or you could take one of the ‘shorter’ loops, though ‘shorter’ was doing some very heavy lifting. The north and south loops both cut inland along an old crofting road between Beinn Beira and Beinn Nicneven that was manned by some very aggressive sheep, but that was where the similarity ended. The north loop looked easy until the Atlantic crosswinds chewed you up and spat you out. The south loop was shorter, but brutal—Tràigh Beira’s roaring surf and sideways rain had sent more than one runner tumbling into the dunes. Either way, your thighs burned, your lungs hated you, and someone’s smartwatch always disagreed with the official distance. There was also the extremely popular dance in the hall afterwards, and tonight there was a double bill of Torran Rocks and Kenavara!

It attracted ‘serious runners’ from all over the UK, the kind who called bogs ‘technical terrain’ and got excited about unpredictable weather systems. Jenn, meanwhile, would rather chuck herself into the Minch than sign up for anything involving cardio. Cardio upset the cake in your tummy. That was just science.

So, here she was, manning the water, juice, and snack stall just up from the finish line outside the high school with Auntie Peigi, her cousin Calum’s wife, Laura, and a couple of Auntie Peigi’s cronies—Flòraidh and Nellie. Flòraidh was one of The Puffins, and her nephew was the Hellisay ranger, Uilleam. Nellie was Buzz’s granny. He was called Buzz because he was an electrician. His best friend? Naturally, a joiner called Woody. Jenn doubted even their mothers remembered what was on the birth certificates. She half-expected Mr Potato Head to wander in after the potato competition. Because of course, there was one.

Listening to Auntie Peigi, Laura, Flòraidh, and Nellie was like listening to a foreign language. Keeping track of names, nicknames, and how everyone was related—all intermixed with Gaelic, gossip, and side stories—was akin to solving some horrendously complex mathematical problem. Every time someone came to the stall or went by, Jenn would get an MI5-style dossier and breakdown from them. Her head was spinning.

Today was a scorcher, and Jenn was slightly worried for the runners. She had a cheek to be standing sweating and flushed at the covered stall in a strappy vest top and long flowing trousers. Luckily, the fun runs had already finished, so the kids were all in the playpark, playing football, and eating ridiculous amounts of ice cream and ice lollies. One of Flòraidh’s grandkids had come first in one of the children’s categories, as had one of Cairistìona’s kids. Extra treats for them! The adults were beginning to trickle through. The winners were all heading to the Hellisay Inn or The Ghillie Dhu to celebrate.

Suddenly, there was lots of cheering and shouting as two men raced to the finish line. She was certain one of them was Ruairidh. Her pulse jumped, sudden and ridiculous, even though the blazing sun made it hard to tell for sure.

She hadn’t seen too much of him since ‘Mischief-gate’ as she was calling it—or ‘Dildo-gate’ as Dallas, DJ, and Eòin called it. They were still laughing about it. She’d had weeks of terrible jokes and innuendos at every opportunity. Thankfully, it was starting to die down as all the summer gossip and stories started to kick in. But she didn't think it would ever be forgotten. It’d make it into Hellisay folklore at this rate.

Ruairidh had been called upon to help out on one of the other island routes as a couple of their regular pilots were retiring. He also hadn’t been home much, although according to Auntie Peigi and the airport busybodies, this was because he was apparently planning to move back to Hellisay on a more permanent basis. And so, he was sorting out things down in Glasgow. At least he knew what he was doing.

A huge and final cheer erupted from the spectators as the two racers crossed the finish line. It was Ruairidh. Her stomach gave a small, traitorous jolt.

It looked like he had just beaten his opponent—Housty, of Dallas, Austin, and Housty fame—by an inch. Their families were hugging them and laughing and bantering with each other. She could see Màiri, Cairistìona and her kids, and their mum there. They’d been helping man one of the first aid stations at the finish line.

“It’s been a few years since Ruairidh’s done the Hellithon,” Laura said.