She weaves through the few remaining people while Rory passes her, not trying to be subtle about the way he stands directly in front of Lewis. They’d never liked each other.
“We’re leaving.”
“I heard.” Rory rubs his hand over his chin, his eyebrows dipping together. “You’re being careful, aye?”
He could mean that in a variety of ways. I’m debating asking him to clarify when he continues.
“I don’t want you to end up hurt when she goes back to the States.”
It’s touching, really. He cares. I want to say he’s overreacting and worrying about nothing, but this isnothinglike the last time. Rory, of all people, should know that.
“She isn’t Blair,” I say. “And there’s no Liv. It’s not the same.”
Rory doesn’t look convinced.
“I’m ready,” Callie says brightly, appearing behind Rory. Her smile is wide. Too wide. How much did she overhear?
It’s too late to worry about this. I take her hand without overthinking the consequences and tug her toward the door. We cannot be out of there soon enough for my taste. “Good night, folks,” I say, lifting my free hand in a general wave to the room. I ignore Blair, but I can feel her watching us leave.
As we walk from the house toward my Land Rover, Callie’s fingers stay intertwined with mine. I’m certain it’s just in case anyone is watching us through Katie’s windows, but I let myself sink into the feeling anyway.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CALLIE
I’m beginningto wonder if Gavin stress-bakes. I woke up to a divine quiche Florentine, shortly followed by the smell of baking sourdough. When I popped into the kitchen a few minutes ago to fill my water bottle, I found something else rising on the counter beneath a large cloth.
I lift the cloth to find some sort of bread roll. Why would he make a loaf of sourdoughandrolls if it wasn’t a stress response?
The kitchen door swings open, and Gavin stops on the threshold with a guilty look. He pauses before stepping in front of me and pulling open the oven to remove the sourdough loaf. A plume of warm air hits me in the legs and the scent of baking bread washes over the room anew, full and yeasty with a twinge of sour.
“Do you think you have enough bread?” I ask, leaning against the counter and hooking a thumb toward the rolls.
He ignores that. “They’re halfway here, Callie.”
My heart leaps. “You’ve spoken to Hamish?”
“Aye, and I need to have something to feed them.”
I don’t process what he’s saying, because all I can think of is my sister in a car somewhere between the Cotswolds and here. Ican’t wait to hug her, to squeeze my nephew, to see my brother-in-law. “We need to decorate. We need a tree! Where’s your tree?”
Gavin pulls a second loaf from the oven and sets it on the stove to cool. His blue eyes find mine with more patience than I have for myself. “There are plenty in the hills behind the house. I thought you’d like to wait for them to arrive so you can choose a tree together.”
“Oh, yes. Good idea.” Luna will love that, at least. “What about the boxes of decorations?”
“They’re waiting on the sofa.”
How did he know? How did I not see them when I passed through the living room? I hurry out of the kitchen and find the boxes we’d pulled out of the shed, lined up precisely where he said they’d be. Tinsel garland that had seen many years of holidays, red velvet ribbons, and greenery fill the boxes, along with nutcrackers and wreaths. Wide red and green tartan ribbon and a tartan tree skirt take up space in one of the boxes, so I set those aside with ornaments and twinkle lights.
Gavin follows me into the living room with two steaming mugs, handing me one. I take it, inhaling the scent of peppermint, and sip at the tea. It feels festive, all we’re missing is?—
Wham! fills the room. A startled laugh bursts from me.
Gavin shoots me an innocent look. “What?”
“This song? Really?”
“You love it.”
