Page 33
Lizzie sighed. “He’s not my running rival. He’s just annoying. Intense. Competitive. A walking North Face advert.”
“And yet he seems to be living in your head rent-free,” Màiri said, popping a mussel.
Lizzie made a face. “Don’t even. He cornered me after yoga to brag about shaving thirty seconds off his Beira climb. Like I care.”
“He’s trying to impress you,” Màiri said with a smirk that could slice bread. “That’s him flirting. It’s terrible.”
Lizzie scoffed. “If that’s flirting, he needs retraining. He argued with me about footwear.”
Jenn blinked. “Were you wearing inappropriate footwear?”
“No! He just didn’t like that I disagreed with him. You should’ve seen his smug little face when I told him I’d beat his time.”
Cathy Ann cackled. “Now that’s foreplay.”
“It’s not,” Lizzie said flatly. “It’s hill-running hostility.”
“Sure, hen,” Màiri murmured, grinning.
Jenn was too busy laughing to ask questions—but she clocked the colour rising high in Lizzie’s cheeks. Not that she’d press. Yet.
“And Ruairidh’s doing it too, obviously…” Màiri added, far too casually.
That name pulled like an unexpected current—subtle at first, then hard to ignore.
“Sweet Nicneven, I can’t wait to see them both dripping sweat at the summits,” Cathy Ann said. “Abi’s already cleared space on her phone for the shirtless photos.”
Jenn wouldn’t mind seeing those either. She reached for her wine again, hoping no one could read the entirely inappropriate image playing out in her head—Ruairidh, flushed, grinning, shirt clinging, or hopefully no shirt—
“He’s on full island-lad mode lately,” Màiri continued. “Hill runs. Wild swims. Cold dips at sunrise. Pretends it’s all casual, but he’s training like there’s a medal.”
“Sounds exhausting,” Jenn said, a touch too fast.
Cathy Ann raised a brow. “Or maybe… motivating?”
“I’m motivated by carbs and central heating,” Jenn said. “Not wild swims and smug men chasing glory and endorphins.”
Lizzie raised an eyebrow. “Sure. But if Ruairidh turned up at your door in nothing but a towel and a flapjack, you’d cave.”
Jenn choked. “Jesus Christ.”
“Oh, come on.” Cathy Ann grinned. “The man’s basically cardio bait.”
Jenn stabbed a scallop like it had personally offended her. “Fine. He’s fit. So what?”
“Look, we’re not judging. I’d do terrible things to get stuck between Ruairidh and a flapjack. Beinn Nicneven would never recover,” Cathy Ann added, eyebrows waggling, absolutely feral now.
“Ist!” Màiri winced. “Can we not objectify my brother while I’m holding shellfish?”
Jenn coughed into her wine, red to the ears.
Cathy Ann leaned in, tone softer now but still sharp. “Just saying—he’s out there looking like a Hebridean thirst trap, and you’re acting like cake is the only thing you’re craving.”
Jenn opened her mouth, but Màiri got there first—watching her carefully. “Maybe he’s keeping his distance because he’s not into third-wheeling your summer situationship.”
Jenn froze. “It’s not a situationship.”
Cathy Ann raised her brows. “You’re joking, right? You’ve been living out a full summer special. Javi turning up like clockwork—all tan, teeth, and no idea what day it is.”
