Page 83
Jenn’s stomach did a wary uh-oh.
Ealasaid ‘thinking’ usually meant something like Jenn had cocked up the rota or gone too experimental with the cake flavours.
“You’ve got a knack for this place.” Ealasaid carried on bustling around in her usual sharp, no-nonsense manner, catching Jenn off guard. “The customers like you. Even those weird cake concoctions you keep dreaming up. You’ve got the head for the chaos and the hands for the graft. Business is booming, and I…”
She hesitated, just for a beat. “Well, I’m not getting any younger. I’d like to slow down a bit. Maybe not retire, but… step back. I’d sleep a lot easier if I knew someone like you was here to keep it running.”
Jenn froze, the tray of clean mugs in her hands suddenly feeling heavy. “You mean… stay on? As in… not just for the year?”
Ealasaid shrugged, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Why not? You’d have more responsibility, of course. But I can see you here, Jennifer. You fit. Like you’ve always meant to be here.”
The words landed like a stone tossed into a still pond—ripples everywhere, unsettling everything.
Jenn’s first instinct was an almost desperate yes. She loved this café, these people, her yoga crew, this wild little island. She could picture it—mornings of coffee and chatter, evenings of bonfires and laughter, Ruairidh coming off the plane, scanning the café for her, that slow smile breaking across his face when he spotted her…
Her stomach tightened. Because that was the thing. What would staying mean for them?
Things with Ruairidh were still… complicated. The closeness, the easy laughter, the late-night confessions—had lessened somehow. It wasn’t gone, but it was different. In its place was something more physical—hungrier, more desperate, more frantic. Like they were both afraid of something neither dared name. His hands on her skin felt like fire—like both stay and go in the same breath, giving her freedom and holding her captive all at once. Her body answered with the same contradiction, nails digging into him: make me stay, give me a reason, even if I’m too scared to ask.
Last night had been feral. They’d fucked like they were trying to outrun it—whatever it was. Eyes locked, daring the other to say the unspoken first. Silently begging, don’t say it, don’t ruin this. Just letting their bodies do the talking. Over and over again, until her muscles ached and her heart felt raw.
It felt like standing on the cusp of a season, like the island itself—one breath away from thawing into something lasting, one breath from freezing solid again.
What if this—them—only worked because she was temporary? What if staying changed the rules? What if it broke the spell entirely?
She set the mugs down a little too hard, catching herself before they rattled. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything yet,” Ealasaid replied with an uncharacteristically small smile, reading her hesitation like an open book. “Think about it. The island has a way of letting you know when it’s where you’re meant to be.”
Jenn nodded, but her chest felt tight. She’d been craving clarity, some sign of what to do next, but instead it all felt more complicated.
A flicker of movement on the tarmac caught her eye—a dark jacket disappearing behind the hangar. For a heartbeat she thought it was him, and her stomach dropped before she could stop it. It wasn’t, of course.
Right now, it felt like she was caught between tides—the pull of one shore, the promise of another, and no idea which would sweep her away.
Chapter 40
Ruairidh shoved through the door of the Park Bar in Glasgow—the warm fog of beer and sweat hitting him like a wall. Some lad stumbled backwards straight into him, fell on his arse, and got a faceful of Tennent’s. His mates roared with laughter. The session band kicked into The Lights of Lochindaal.
Ruairidh let out a short laugh. Aye, this was what he needed.
Ally already had a table and two pints waiting. Of course he did.
“Do Clan Chiefs get special privileges?” Ruairidh said, settling onto the stool.
“Just my charm.” Ally grinned, raising his glass. “Slàinte!”
“Slàinte.”
Ruairidh took several large gulps of his pint.
Ally’s eyes narrowed, taking him in. “You look like shite. And like a man who needs that pint.”
“Cheers for that.” Ruairidh dragged a hand down his face.
They sat in the easy noise for a moment, watching the absolute chaos on the makeshift dance floor, people shouting over the din, bar staff serving whisky after whisky.
“You want to talk,” Ally said eventually, “or let me talk shite first?”
