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“Or Màiri after three gins,” Ruairidh added. He ducked the pigs in blankets that she lobbed at him.

“About time, though,” Donnie went on. “You should’ve heard him at sea—months of ‘when’s the right moment?’ and ‘is this the right ring?’”

“You’re a big softie really,” Màiri said, smirking. “Big brother’s a secret romantic.”

“Aye, until it stopped me sleeping. Eejit was shouting speeches through the bulkhead like we were his bloody audience.”

Dol groaned, throwing a napkin at him. “Practice makes perfect, you big shite.”

“Bet you cried when he told you,” Màiri interjected.

“Nah. Only tears were yours when you saw the bill for that ring, eh, Dol?” Donnie said, leaning back with a grin.

Dol rolled his eyes.

“Still less than you’ve spent trying to impress women who never called you back,” Màiri shot back. “And I’m much more entertaining than you lot after three gins.”

The kitchen had gone from loud to absolute bedlam in about thirty seconds. It smelled of cinnamon and roast meat, the table groaning under the weight of leftovers nobody had room for. Every conversation overlapped another, wrapping paper flew, and chocolate got passed around like currency. Donnie was trying to top up everyone’s glass—even Granny Shona’s—and getting his hand slapped for it. And through it all, Mum nudged him under the table every time Jenn’s name came up, which was far too often for his liking.

They’d agreed to do Christmas with their own families this year—likely for the best. He wasn’t sure Jenn was quite ready for the full MacLean festive onslaught, or him for the Fraser-Morrison family madness. They’d swapped presents a few days before. Jenn had handed over the package with that deceptively sweet smile that usually meant trouble. She’d found him an absolutely diabolical pilot romance, complete with a fogged-up cockpit and a couple apparently shagging their way through an aviation emergency, plus a notebook titled Ideas for My Next Romance Hero. He’d kept his face straight just to watch her lose it. Ìosa, he loved making her laugh like that—head tipped back, unguarded, the sound sinking under his skin and settling there.

He’d given her his own package: a French rolling pin and a set of fancy baking moulds he’d caught her eyeing up online. He’d wrapped it himself—tidy, deliberate. More care than he usually would for a present. Halfway through, he’d almost redone it, worried it might look like too much. The effort had been worth it for the look on her face when she opened it. Especially when she spotted the rolling pin. She’d arched a brow, and that spark in her eyes told him she hadn’t forgotten the night he’d come up with a few… alternative uses for it. Her mouth had curved, and he’d felt the pull of it all the way down. Yeah. He’d been grinning like an idiot long after she’d gone.

Back at the table, Donnie wasn’t done. “And anyway,” he’d said, shovelling profiteroles into his mouth, “Jenn’s got that bestie—Vivi. The one JJ Campbell was all over. Still waiting for her boyfriend to accept my duel at dawn for her hand.”

“Donnie!” their mum had scolded, swatting the back of his head with a tea towel. “A Leabhra! Can we get through Christmas without you trying to seduce some poor girl? I love you, m’ eudail, but with the way you behave, there’s no chance you’d get a lass like that.”

“You’d be surprised.” Donnie had smirked, a challenge in his eyes.

It had taken Ruairidh another hour to prise himself away, armed with leftovers he didn’t need and a dozen reminders to ‘bring the lass round soon’.

He could just about picture Jenn in that kitchen—wide-eyed, laughing, dodging Donnie with the bottle, hands flying everywhere the way they always did when she got carried away. The thought stayed with him as he took the long way home, boots crunching over frosty grass, skirting down to Puka’s Beach.

The air was sharp with salt, the wind curling around his jacket as he crossed the ridge. The tide was retreating, sand damp and glistening under the early winter sky. Craggy rocks jutted from the shoreline, black and slick in the moonlight, pockets of sand caught between them. He picked his way down carefully, the cries of a few gulls carrying thin and wild overhead. The machair was dulled now, the riot of summer flowers long gone, leaving a silvery-green expanse, wind-flattened but still familiar. Solid. Known.

He’d been coming this way more often lately. Partly for the quiet. Partly because this was where he and Jenn had first kissed—right at the edge of the dunes, bodies sinking into the sand, the scent of her hair caught in the wind, her mouth warm and sure against his. He could still feel it, like a live current in his memory. The kiss had started something. But the stormy night at her cottage—the firelight, the candles, her—that had undone him completely.

He never seemed in a hurry to leave when he was with her. Sat on her sofa like it had always been his place. Listened to the wind batter the windows and let himself sink into her, easy, unhurried, until there was no space left between them. Until her sighs were as familiar to him as his own breath, her warmth something he’d learned to crave, her hands cupping his face in that way he’d come to expect—and never want to lose.

It hadn’t been frantic that time. It had been something else entirely. She’d curled into him afterwards, tucked beneath the throw, and he’d let his hand drift lazily over the small of her back, while the fire blazed in the hearth and the candles flickered around them. For a fleeting moment, it had felt dangerously close to… belonging. Togetherness. Permanence. But she was due to leave in March. That’s what rattled him now.

He wasn’t entirely sure she was as invested as he was. She was clever, sharp, guarded in ways that made him cautious. But she was also the first woman in a long time who made him feel both anchored and completely unmoored at once. Made him laugh. Made him feel… seen.

This relationship mattered to him—but what if it wasn’t the same for her? Had she felt that night as deeply as he had? He thought she had. Or maybe he just hoped she had. Maybe, for her, it had been the storm. The hot chocolate. The candles. The convenience.

He dragged a hand through his hair and looked out at the dark line where sea met sky. He’d built a life that made sense—routes, schedules, quiet control. Jenn was none of that. She was instinct and wild laughter and unexpected conversations that left him off balance and wanting more.

He wasn’t twenty anymore. A messy relationship on Hellisay wasn’t just inconvenient—it was social suicide. Everyone picked sides. You couldn’t ghost someone when they lived three miles down the road and volunteered with your mother. Jenn wasn’t a fling. But she had a leaving date. Still, he wanted her, wanted every second of whatever future she was willing to give him. Not just her body, though that part was burned into his bloodstream now. But her voice, her daft observations, the way she lit up when she forgot to be guarded. And that was the problem. Especially with her leaving in a few months.

The wind rose again, catching his jacket collar and sending salt spray into his face. He stayed where he was a moment longer, eyes fixed on the water. Maybe this was already too far gone. Maybe it was too late to play it safe.

Chapter 35

“It’s an absolute beauty!” Jenn exclaimed as she took in the huge, sparkling ring proudly sitting on Màiri’s ring finger.

“I still can’t believe he knew exactly what I wanted—big princess-cut diamond and a platinum band!” Màiri replied smugly. “And he even got the size perfect. Although, I think he had Cairistìona to thank for all of that.”

“Regardless, the boy did very good indeed!” Jenn grinned, pulling her into a tight hug for the millionth time. “I’m so so happy for you both!”