‘I don’t want them. I can barely look after myself.’
It was nice to know he wasn’t the only one who didn’t plan on settling down. Most of the people he’d gone to school with were married with children now, and while they looked happy, it wasn’t the life Struan had ever longed for. He wanted to find someone, but he’d much rather raise a few cows and chickens than wee bairns.
‘My uncle has kids now,’ Rae continued. ‘Like my mum, he fancied something different. They barely even visit.’
‘Must be difficult for your gran and your dad,’ Struan said. ‘I’m sure it’ll end up in good hands, though.’
‘Not if it carries on like this.’
He wanted to ask what she meant, but had a feeling he already knew: no shop stock, no pickers, no eager successors. No wonder Rae was so determined to help out while she was here.
‘You know, it’s not your responsibility to carry it on if you don’t want to,’ he offered, because the downturned curve of her lips made his chest ache. ‘It’s a great farm, but sometimes creating the life you want means disappointing a few people. If your heart is in the chef thing, don’t let it go. God knows you’ve worked hard for it.’
She stopped, eyes flickering with surprise. He kept waiting for them to settle on him, but they didn’t. Maybe it was only him who felt the tug. Wasn’t that always the case?
And then, quietly, she murmured, ‘I don’t know where my heart is anymore.’
‘I know that feeling.’ His knuckle brushed her arm, the only attempt at comfort he was brave enough to offer. Despite the sunrays bleeding through the trees bordering the farm, goosebumps dotted her skin. ‘If anyone can figure it out, it’s you.’
She stepped closer, gaze catching on something on its journey up. It took him a moment to realise it was his lips, and a sweat broke across his hairline. His empty stomach suddenly felt like a knot. All of him did. Like a craving, his body had decided it wanted her without explanation, without reason.
Her hunger made itself known with a loud grumble, and she turned away. He couldn’t decide if he’d imagined the shake of her head as she looked around. ‘I know a better spot, if you still want to eat together.’
He smiled softly. ‘Lead the way, Little Rae.’
10
‘This might be the best meal I’ve ever had.’ Struan’s announcement was muffled by the pasta stuffed into his mouth, but it didn’t ease Rae’s bristling response. Her fork paused beneath her chin as she glowered, and Struan drew back with wide eyes.
‘I meant today. The best meal I’ve ever hadtoday. Nothing comes close to last night’s lamb, of course.’
Admittedly, it was excellent pasta, though she would have described compost as delicious at this level of hunger. When she was focused on something, she forgot her body needed sustenance and bathroom breaks to keep going, and her meal schedule was usually based on her restaurant shifts, so she rarely ate at the same time as most people. Someone making sure she was fed was a novelty – a welcome one, despite her grumblings.
She shoved his hand away to grab another forkful from the bowl they shared. ‘Gran is a great cook, but don’t tell her that, otherwise she’ll never let me in her kitchen again.’
With Dijon mustard and sun-dried tomatoes, the pasta salad burst with enough flavour to make her mouth water. She leaned back against the cherry tree to enjoy the view of the orchard.Beyond the apple trees, a river meandered all the way from the green-gold peaks to the farm, forming a natural border between the flat and elevated land. The constant flow fed minerals into the soil, making it easy to understand why Granddad had called it sacred so often. Memories were locked into every acre, every branch, every stone, right down to the cherry tree they currently sat under, which had first blossomed the day she was born. Every birthday, she’d walked here hand in hand with Granddad as he’d told her the story, adding a twist of magic to the tale with so much fervour that she’d believed in fairies for far longer than her school friends.
And then there was the oak draping shadows across the corner of the orchard, transporting her back to the day that Martha had picked a sharp-edged stone from the river so they could carve their initials into the trunk together. As the tree got sturdier with age, they’d climbed up the branches, perching on the thick bark with scraped hands and knees until Gran would catch them and order them down.
She’d gravitated here often even as she’d gotten older: through the stress of exam studies, her mum’s abandonment, her father’s sickness. The sound of the burbling water made it easier to focus on the ground beneath her feet and the cool blades of grass between her fingers, the perfectly neat rows of plums and pears satisfying her need for order. Everything else was steeped in uncertainty, but the blossoms of April, the ripe fruit of summer, and the golden leaves of October were the few changes she could predict.
Overwhelming nostalgia pulsed through her suddenly, the past and present intertwining. She was so afraid of losing Sweetbriar’s magic.
She’d tried to find new havens during her travels, but the cities she’d worked in were so hectic that she usually ended up hiding in the kitchen’s freezer or a pantry cupboard, or, her latest one, under her bed. The world felt so big sometimes that she needed to be contained somewhere small. Here, she was cradled on all sides by fences, trees, and hills; she didn’t need to worry about what was beyond them, but still appreciated the vast sky’s reminder that somethingwas.
‘Your secret is safe with me,’ Struan vowed, tugging her out of her thoughts. He currently lay on his side on the picnic blanket, spearing the penne pasta with his free hand while the other propped up his head.
‘She’s the reason I wanted to be a chef.’ She set down her fork and crossed her legs, licking the salt from her lips. ‘She used to make the best comfort food whenever I was tired or stressed.’
Struan smiled softly. ‘Aye, there’s nothing like a big bowl of carbs to cry into. Though I can’t say I get the whole fine dining thing, honestly. Why are the portions so small?’
‘Because the flavour is intense, and chefs work hard to make sure it’s appreciated without distractions. You wouldn’t decorate an art gallery with patterned wallpaper.’
‘Bollocks. If you give me a pizza, the cheese isn’t a distraction. It’s gooey, melty goodness.’
‘Oh, are those the technical terms?’
‘Aye,’ he grumbled.
