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Only then did he let go. With a guttural sound, he surged up, flipping her beneath him in one rough motion. His mouth pressed hot to her throat, his body overwhelming hers as he drove into her—deep, hard, unrestrained. His hips drove into her in short, sharp movements, every thrust wringing out the control he had clung to, until he was shaking with it. He groaned into her skin, a broken, helpless sound, as he buried himself again and again before spilling inside her.

Then he collapsed against her, heavy and grounding, chest pressed to chest, damp skin sliding together. He didn’t rush. Didn’t speak. He just held her there, one arm banded tight around her ribs, the other braced beside her head, like he could freeze this moment in time.

Jenn pressed her nose to his shoulder, breathing him in—heat and salt and the faint trace of citrus still clinging to his skin—before her gaze drifted to the dark beams overhead. Her body still hummed, nerves alive, but she let herself sink into the silence. No masks. No jokes. Just the rise and fall of breath, the warmth of blankets, the weight of a man who somehow knew exactly when to go slow.

Afterward, they lay tangled in the nest of warm blankets and flickering candlelight. The fire crackled and spat, shadows shifting across the ceiling. The storm raged, wild and insistent, but here, in their cocoon of heat and silence, she felt untouched. Safe. Because somewhere in the slow burn of that night—under stormlight and steadiness, pleasure and tenderness—something inside her had shifted. Not in the frantic, breaking way she’d once known. This was something else. Quieter. Stronger.

She’d come to Hellisay to reset her life. What she hadn’t expected… was to feel like it was becoming hers. And maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t so lost anymore.

Chapter 33

On Hellisay, Christmas celebrations weren’t all that different from anywhere else—trees in windows, fairy lights strung up, the odd ceilidh. What made it unmistakably Hellisay was the full-glam festive tractor run that chugged merrily around the island and the massive, over-the-top creel Christmas tree twinkling in Saints Bay, both of which kept the whole island buzzing. The airport café was surprisingly busy. Islanders who usually spent most of their time on the mainland came home for the festive break, and tourists turned up hoping for a ‘traditional Scottish Christmas and Hogmanay’. That mostly meant rain, whisky, a slightly fancier dinner and ceilidh, and a local dressed as Santa Claus if they were lucky.

It had been just over six weeks since their first date, and things with Ruairidh couldn’t have been going better. As he’d hoped, he was getting more shifts on the island flights, which meant more time at home on Hellisay—and with her. They split their time between her cottage and his house, though mostly he stayed at hers since she was up baking at stupid o’clock. Still, she’d experienced his gorgeous master bedroom and bathroom many times—and not just for sleeping or showering.

The slagging and bantering from the locals had started to die down, and they were fast becoming one of those ‘established couples’. It hadn’t been an official thing. It just… happened.

Ruairidh was as maddeningly delicious and steady as ever. Hopelessly boyish when it came to her cakes. Surprisingly deep and thoughtful when it came to her. And absolutely, shamelessly insatiable—about her cakes, and about her. Half the time she’d turn around mid-bake to find him perched on her counter, flour on his jumper and an unapologetic grin, as if her kitchen had always been his. He was measured, yes—until he wasn’t. Until he was kissing her hard enough to make her burn a batch of shortbread or murmuring something low in Gaelic that she still didn’t fully understand but absolutely felt. Sometimes she swore she could still feel the brush of stubble against her throat hours after he’d kissed her goodbye—ridiculous, really, how he’d managed to weave himself into her day without even trying. One minute she’d be rolling pastry, the next she’d be wondering if he was up there in the cockpit, grinning at the horizon.

Jenn was doing her best to follow the girls’ advice and not spiral. Not that she’d ever be truly zen—she wouldn’t be Jenn without a side order of quiet fretting. Breezy, calm yogi-baker on the outside—if you ignored the hands. Mini internal whirlwind on the inside. But every so often, when he was late replying or distracted, a whisper of doubt would snake in—the kind she quickly smothered under another batch of almond croissants.

She reminded herself this was temporary. Her contract ended in March, and the cottage wasn’t even hers—it was her family’s holiday home, already booked out for spring guests. Hellisay had been meant as a breather, not a full-blown reroute. She’d always been the girl with the next adventure lined up before the current one even ended. Staying had never been part of the plan. Normally by now she’d be halfway through planning her next ‘soul adventure’—Peru, maybe, or Bali—something involving mosquito nets and regret.

But lately, the thought of leaving made her chest feel tight. She’d still try, now and then, to look for the next thing—some yoga or wellness retreat, some other coastline—scrolling half-heartedly until the guilt subsided. Because apparently even when you’d found something good, you still needed an escape plan.

Thankfully, her Christmas festivities calendar meant she didn’t have too much time to overthink. The yoga girls had their Christmas night out at the Hellisay Inn. They demolished Christmas dinner, knocked back too many festive cocktails, and swapped Secret Santa presents. Jenn unwrapped a pamper set—bath salts, lotions, fancy chocs, and a Hellisay Candle, naturally—from Jessica, which she was dying to use over the holidays.

Jessica—the nice, quiet one from the Sharks—had somehow become a yoga regular. She’d started turning up after Halloween, sliding into the back row with perfect Downward Dogs and absolutely no drama. Jenn hadn’t known what to make of it at first, but she was surprisingly lovely. Kind of shy, actually, but with a layer of no-nonsense steel. And unnervingly flexible.

Ruairidh and Jenn had agreed to do Christmas with their own families this year—probably wise. She suspected the MacLean festive gathering was some kind of contact sport, and she wasn’t entirely sure her lot wouldn’t scare him off in return. So, they’d swapped presents a few days early, in her kitchen, with Morag prowling around like she was inspecting the parcels for contraband.

She’d handed him a package with her sweetest smile—the one he should’ve learned to fear by now. Inside was a gloriously awful paperback: Throttle Me, Captain: Confessions From The Cockpit. On the cover, a fogged-up cockpit window framed the hero and heroine in a scandalously tangled embrace—her perched on the console, his hand gripping the throttle like it was the only thing keeping them airborne. Underneath sat a notebook titled, Ideas for My Next Romance Hero.

“I saw them and thought of you,” she’d said innocently.

“Purely for professional development,” he’d replied, completely straight-faced—which only made her laugh harder. God, he had that dry delivery down to an art form.

Then it had been her turn. He’d handed over a package wrapped in forest-green paper and tied with gold ribbon, the corners folded as neatly as everything else he touched. Inside: a beautiful French rolling pin—long, sleek, handle-less—the one she’d been wanting for months—plus a set of ridiculously fancy baking moulds.

“Purely selfish motives,” he’d said. “You bake more, I eat more.”

“And if you think I’ve forgotten about your other rolling pin ideas…” She’d arched a brow, letting the implication hang.

“Guess I’ll need to come up with a few more,” he’d murmured, eyes lingering for a moment too long.

Her pulse had kicked. Which was fine. Totally fine. It wasn’t as if her brain had instantly gone back to that stormy night—the candles, the firelight, the heat of him close enough to blot out the rest of the world. Or the weight of his palm over her hip like he had no intention of letting go. Absolutely not. She was far too sensible for that. Obviously.

Jenn’s parents, her brother Michael, and Granny Annag arrived on one of the last ferries before Christmas. They were staying until just after New Year. She hadn’t seen them since the summer and was ridiculously excited for some proper family time. Her cousins and Michael had promised not to be too hungover on Christmas Day—not that she believed them for a second. They’d already planned several big nights out. She had no idea how they managed it, especially while still fishing during the holidays. Then again, as more than one of them had told her, fishing while slightly drunk was ‘actually better’ when the seas were rough.

Christmas Day was one of those gloriously chaotic affairs where everyone mucked in. Granny Annag had insisted on making the soup starter—no arguments allowed. Jenn provided the bread and desserts. Obviously. Auntie Peigi had gone full festive maniac on the main course: a hulking great turkey, a ham joint, approximately a billion pigs in blankets, roasties, mash, onion rings, every winter vegetable known to mankind, plus stuffing, gravy, and bread sauce. It was less a meal and more a banquet of epic proportions. Honestly, who even had mashed and roast potatoes together? Or had onion rings for Christmas dinner? Auntie Peigi, apparently. A woman who didn’t understand the meaning of ‘enough’.

Auntie Peigi and Eachann’s house was an explosion of people, presents, food, fizz, crackers, crumpled party hats, and increasingly competitive board games. She’d laughed as her cousin tried to balance four wine glasses at once, and—before she could stop it—wondered how Ruairidh would’ve handled this lot. Probably the only man alive who could look cool pouring drinks while the world caught fire.

Later that evening, Jenn, her mum, Granny Annag, and Auntie Peigi escaped for a bit of peace and went for a moonlit walk along Tràigh Siar. The day had been unusually dry and bright, but the beach was bone-bitingly cold and blustery, so they’d bundled up in thick coats, furry boots, hats, and scarves. The sand crunched underfoot, the air cold enough to catch in her lungs. The wind came at her sideways, sharp with salt and the tang of woodsmoke drifting from the village, tugging her scarf loose.

Jenn was thinking about Ruairidh. She wished, fleetingly, that he was here now, walking this stretch of beach beside her. She could almost picture him, hair mussed from the wind, flask in hand, steadying them against the shifting sand, his coat brushing hers, his laugh carried off by the wind as he grinned at her family’s chaos. He’d been sending her regular texts throughout the day—his family gatherings sounded just as crazy as hers. Things had been so easy lately, so comfortable. They kept finding ways to make each other laugh. They chatted about all sorts together. They watched films and TV shows together. They cooked together. Like they’d been a couple for years.

She shook the thought off, tucking it away like an unopened present. This was just Christmas, just a walk. But her chest felt a little too tight, and she hated that she knew exactly why.