Page 92 of Scotlander

He wished they could stay here and talk. Really talk. He’d tried a couple of times, but whenever he’d attempted to ‘pull a Jamie’ as Fenella had taken to calling the deep and meaningful chats he and ‘Claire’ had, Willa brightly reminded him how much work they had to do, then went out and immersed herself in yet another project.

‘You alright?’ he finally asked. ‘I feel like we’ve barely seen one another.’

‘We have,’ she countered.

‘Not really, though.’ Not the way they had a few days’ back when the two of them sat in the pig pens and talked and laughed and shared things with one another knowing whatever they said, they’d be heard without judgement.

‘Finn.’ She frowned at him. ‘The rain is coming tomorrow. Deadlines are deadlines.’

‘Aye, but—’ He floundered. The weather wasn’t the only thing that was closing in. Her flight was on Saturday. Three short days away. And the last thing he wanted was for Willa to get on that plane.

Without waiting for him to finish his thought, she began reeling off a list of things that were happening in advance of the ceilidh Fenella and ChiChi were organising. The band was already here. Volunteers were hanging up yet more fairy lights round the castle courtyard. A local distillery wondered if it was all right to send over a barrel of whisky. A beef farmer who specialised in Highland cows was offering a massive spit roast. ‘But he needs to know, like, now, because of timing, yeah? Finn? Hell-loooo? Earth to Finlay Jamieson?’

He heard her. Nodded. Answered her questions. But through it all, all he could think was, Stay. It ran on a loop in his head. Staystaystaystay with me. It was a huge ask. Expecting someone to upend her life, leave behind her friends, her family, her country.

But more than anything that’s what he wanted.

Was it something he’d be willing to do for her?

His gut twisted as if someone had literally reached in and wrenched it tight.

No. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. This was home.

Would it feel that way once she was gone?

He watched her lips as she floated someone’s plan to offer deep-fried Mars bars instead of cranachan as pudding. He didn’t care. He cared about her. He wanted to kiss her. Find out if she really did taste of cardamom and peach. He wanted to make her scream with pleasure. Feel her hands grab his hair in her fists. Clutch his hips with her thighs. Scratch her nails down his back and moan his name while she did it.

But even as his heart expanded with the acknowledgement that he was in love with Willa, it contracted with the recognition that somewhere between the first blade of the potato harvester hitting the ground and right now . . . something about her had changed.

She’d glowed last week. Her cheeks had literally pinked up with pleasure when they’d tended to a newborn calf or a fleet of piglets had stampeded across her feet or Orla appeared with something new to eat that she’d never heard of. She’d loved saying all the Scots words he’d taught her. Cackled like a hyena when she couldn’t mimic his accent. Grew shy when she noticed his gaze resting upon her.

That was the real Willa. This one? The one with clipboards and checklists and an ability to answer every question but the ones he was asking her, was only a fraction of the woman he knew she could be and it bugged him. How could she want to return to a life that didn’t make her feel alive?

‘Right!’ Willa gave her clipboard a rat-a-tat-tat with her pen. ‘That covers that. I’ll see you at the ceilidh tonight?’ Before he could say anything, she turned and disappeared into the crowd.

The ceilidh was everything a proper Scottish knees-up was meant to be. Booze, food, laughing, singing, traditional country dancing, the whole nine yards.

And Willa, who’d been on her phone most of the night, appeared to be the only one who wasn’t enjoying it.

‘Come on.’ Finn was practically begging now. ‘Dance with me.’

Willa pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘You go ahead. You’re the one who should be leading all the dances.’ Her eyes brightened for a second, the way they did when an idea struck. ‘You should lead this with Orla. The laird and his lady.’

‘Willa,’ Finn pleaded, taking her wrist and pressing it to his. ‘C’mon. You’re my lady.’

‘Your fictional lady.’

‘Aye, but—’

‘Aye but nothing.’ She tugged her wrist away from his hand and pointed towards the dancefloor. ‘Go on. Lead this dance with Orla.’

He reached out to her again. Their eyes caught and latched. She pressed her lips together until they thinned, widening again as she swallowed down whatever it was she wasn’t telling him.

He didn’t know what the hell was going on, but enough was enough. He couldn’t leave things like this.

‘We’re a team, Willa. At least I thought we were. But I’m getting the feeling you’re ghosting me to my face.’

‘We were never together, Finn. It was all play-acting.’