‘You could always try to kiss me, see if it triggers the old gag reflex.’
‘For the sake of my own self-esteem, I’d rather not know.’ He offered her an amused sidelong glance, finding she was smiling around the lip of the water bottle. He didn’t understand how, half-cut and covered in melted make-up, she could still be the most beautiful person he’d ever seen.
He would keep breaking the rules for her, tomorrow and the next day and the next, even if only as her friend.
Anything to be around her. Anything to be the person she called when she needed help.
18
Rae halted on Struan’s muddy doormat, curiosity battling through her bleary mind. She’d assumed Martha had been exaggerating when talking about his ‘wee bothy’ out in the middle of nowhere, but she hadn’t been too far from the truth. Located at the foot of the Grampian Mountains, the house was nothing more than ruddy cobblestone walls and white-framed cottage windows surrounded by overgrown ferns. The interior was far cosier than the crumbling paintwork suggested, but it was clear the squat building hadn’t originally been designed for comfort. For starters, the bedroom was also the living room, and the bathroom faced the microwave as though Struan might like to multitask, an image she’d rather not have in her brain.
‘You live here?’ she questioned, leaning against the kitchen counter, which was right beside the front door.
Struan hummed a ‘yes’, before brushing past her to flick on the kettle.
‘By choice?’ she couldn’t help but add.
He raised his brow. ‘Is something wrong with it?’
‘Is somethingrightwith it?’ She eyed the brick fireplace warily. It looked as though it had been built by some poor Victorian child’s hand.
Struan clucked his tongue, heading to the bed to straighten out his crumpled duvet. ‘I’m sorry it’s not the Ritz, but it’s right enough. For me, at least. Sit down.’
She didn’t, instead wandering further in on wobbly legs. Struan’s personality brightened some of the dark corners: photographs on the walls, a shelf of mostly guidebooks by the window, underpants on the floor. He swiped the latter up, along with a pair of odd socks, a grey towel, and wrinkled jeans.
‘I don’t get visitors very often. Especially not ones used to luxurious studio apartments in the middle of the city.’
‘You overestimate my fanciness.’ Propped on the armchair was a worn acoustic guitar. She plopped down on the flat cushions and rested it on her lap, strumming one flat note. ‘Be honest. How many women have you “Wonderwalled” with this thing?’
He wrinkled his nose, making it harder to contain her silly, drunken smile. Here, the weight of the day had finally slipped away. She was outside of Belbarrow, away from the farm and her dad and all the things she was worried about. She wondered if that was why Struan liked the mountains so much: they kept him contained, separate, while also allowing him the space to breathe, like her orchard did for her.
‘I don’t think “Wonderwall” is a verb.’
‘Your refusal to answer the question speaks volumes.’ She could imagine him, hair falling over his face, bracelets clacking together, tanned fingers plucking out a gentle melody. It made shivers roll across her skin,or maybe that was just the first draught she’d felt all day whispering through the stone wall.
‘Are you really drunk, or did you just pretend so that you could attack me in my own home?’
She snorted and held out the guitar. ‘Will you play me something that isn’t Oasis?’
Struan took it, perching on the edge of his bed to balance it on his knee. His gaze met hers, mirth dancing across his lips. All she could do was stare, probably quite obviously considering she didn’t currently have control of her facial muscles. She should have been panicking. They were alone together again, and there was a near-painful heat between her thighs, and her composure had disintegrated hours ago – yet all she could feel was gladness.
All she could feel was him.
He tucked his bottom lip between his teeth and strummed a few chords, head nodding to the stuttering rhythm, before he trailed off with a wince. ‘Okay, I don’t actually know how to play anything other than “Wonderwall”.’
Her laughter ricocheted through the room, too high-pitched, barely recognisable, but she couldn’t stop. ‘I knew it!’
‘I tried to learn more, but I’m not the best at sticking to one thing. Get distracted too easily.’
With an understanding hum, she kicked her legs over the arm of the chair, the room spinning around her.
He crouched beside her, brushing her hair off her cheek. ‘How’s the headache?’
‘Headaching,’ she admitted, eyes closing without permission. His featherlight touch trailed over her temples, to her cheek, her chin,and a soft sigh escaped her. She couldn’t remember the last time anybody had touched her so delicately, and she needed it more than she’d known.
She’d been relieved when he’d called, if also embarrassed by her own drunkenness. For a moment, the dark night had been endless, and she’d wondered how she’d ever get home. If she even wanted to.
With that thought came the memory of her dad kissing Myra, followed by his anger earlier that day and the lance of hurt he’d driven through her chest.
