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Jenn opened her mouth again, but Màiri beat her to it, scooping out a clam. “He’s charming. Deliciously low-stakes. And powered almost entirely by vibes.”

Jenn bristled, hands giving a sharp little flap before she forced them down onto the table. “It’s casual. That’s the point.”

“No judgement,” Màiri said, calm as anything. “But Ruairidh’s not casual.”

Jenn went still, didn’t reply. She stared at the candle for a moment, feeling the warmth of it on her face and none of it anywhere else. The table had gone quiet—the dangerous kind of quiet, where people were thinking more than they were eating.

Cathy Ann broke it gently. “You get quiet when we talk about him.”

Jenn shrugged. “I get quiet when I’m outnumbered.”

Màiri smiled, a little too knowingly. “You get twitchy. And weird. And start reorganising the tray bakes like they’re going to save you.”

“I like cake,” Jenn muttered. “That’s not a crime.”

“Cake is neutral,” Lizzie added, tone flat. “Cake doesn’t judge.”

Jenn flicked a glance at Lizzie. Of course, she would get it.

Màiri smirked but clearly decided to ease up—just a fraction. “He’ll be buzzing around the cake tent post-race,” she said lightly. “Might even let you offer him a flapjack.”

There was a faint chuckle from the others, but Jenn didn’t respond straight away. She caught the shift—the way Màiri’s voice softened; the quiet mercy tucked beneath it as she eased the conversation in another direction. And beneath the flicker of embarrassment, she felt a strange sort of gratitude.

“I’ll be hiding behind the tray bakes.”

“You won’t get far,” Lizzie said. “He likes cake.”

“He likes hovering by the cake table pretending it’s about the brownies,” Màiri added, deadpan.

“While casually eyeing up anyone with flour on their hands,” Cathy Ann said, reaching for another crab claw.

Jenn groaned, pressing a hand to her face. “You’re all feral.”

Màiri tilted her head. “For what it’s worth… my brother notices more than he says.”

Jenn looked out the window, willing her expression blank. “Good for him…” she said—but her breath hitched, just slightly, like the words didn’t sit quite right in her chest.

Outside, the wind pressed against the windows, rattling the fairy lights. Across the harbour, Faernish’s rainbow-coloured houses were sea-scuffed and weather-soft—but still holding their ground.

And Jenn, somehow, was starting to do the same. Even if the ground beneath her feet wobbled every time someone said his name.

Chapter 19

By early autumn, Hellisay had slipped into that hazy, golden kind of chaos—fundraisers, ceilidhs, bonfires, anything to keep the community buzzing until the late autumn storms hit. Just as she had been all summer, Jenn had been roped into half of the events, usually balancing cake trays or ticket rolls like a one-woman catering van.

Today was no exception. The Tri-Beinn Challenge wound its way through Hellisay’s heart—a rugged, beautiful trail across the island’s three storied peaks: Beinn Beira, Beinn Nicneven, and Beinn Seilie. Modest in height but steeped in legend, they rose from the landscape like silent guardians. The landscape blazed with colour—golden bracken, crimson leaves, and russet heather turning the hillsides mythical. Mystical. If you ignored the bogs, midges, and the occasional sheep giving you side-eye.

The air was crisp, the sky a clear, cornflower blue, with the kind of chill that kissed the cheeks and made runners grateful for the occasional climb. The route wasn’t gruelling—not quite—but it was testing enough to earn bragging rights. Locals and visitors alike laced up their trail shoes, trading summer’s long days for a new kind of rhythm: breath and bootfall, laughter and wind.

The race began and ended outside Nicneven’s Distillery in Hellisburgh, its whitewashed walls festooned with rowan branches, autumn bunting, and flags bearing the names of the three peaks. Volunteers handed out juices, protein bars, and bananas, whilst a duo played the accordion and fiddle beneath a fluttering gazebo. It was all in aid of Hellisay Mountain Rescue—and the island turned out in force. Not just for the run, but for what came after: the annual post-race family dance and ceilidh, held in Hellisburgh hall, with steaming plates of mince and tatties, trays of cakes, and the odd sneaky dram to warm up sore muscles.

Jenn, naturally, had never been tempted. Runners claimed the views were ‘life-changing’. She figured they could keep their existential clarity—she’d take the traybakes.

Hellisburgh village hall had never looked so lively. Bunting zigzagged across the rafters, fairy lights twinkled along the beams, and the scent of fresh food and baking hung in the air like a comforting perfume. Torran Rocks had already started tuning up in the corner, and the bar—manned by Nicneven’s distillery staff in kilts—was doing a roaring trade. Jenn was helping man the cake table—naturally. So many people had begged for cake after the Hellithon that she’d agreed to do the baking for this.

Lizzie was chatting beside her and finishing her well-earned slab of Victoria sponge cake for completing the challenge.

“Jenn, that was incredible—as per usual.” Lizzie sighed, brushing some cake crumbs off her face. She looked exhausted—but glowing.