Page 93 of Scotlander

He swore under his breath. ‘No,’ he countered. ‘It wasn’t. I’m not talking about the handfasting or anything like that. The costumes. I’m talking about you and me and the connection we built. The vision we created for this place. Together.’ He waved his hand round the great hall. ‘All of this wasn’t pretending. This was you, Willa. I saw the effort you put into getting us here. You cannae tell me you did all of this because you’re good at pretending.’

She gave him a one shouldered shrug. ‘It’s what I do. Create illusions.’

‘What about any of this is fake?’ When she didn’t answer, he put his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. ‘Tell me this meant nothing to you. That you’ll find it easy to walk away.’

She stared at him. Hard. As if he were some simpering, whiny, unappreciative arsehole who’d just sucked a year’s worth of life out of her.

‘You said it yourself, Finn. I’m useful. I’m handy to have around. But I’m not family. I’m staff.’ She gave him a little pat on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. With all your TV spots, I’m sure a nice, young Scottish lassie out there will present herself to you, ready and willing to fill my shoes.’

There was some truth in her words. He’d had more girls hit on him in the last few days than he’d had in his entire life. But she was wrong about everything else.

‘I don’t want them. I want you, Willa.’ God it felt good to be honest. ‘I don’t care if you ever look at a clipboard again. I want you. Please consider staying. Not for the chores. Not for the To Do Lists. For me.’

She’d changed him. Forever. And he wanted her to be a part of the world she’d helped create.

‘Please, Willa. You don’t have to answer now, but tell me you’ll consider staying.’

‘I have a job.’

‘I just quit mine. You could quit yours.’ He took her hands in his. ‘What do you say? You and me figuring out what to do with the rest of our lives together.’

She stared at him as if he’d suggested she donate one of her kidneys to a serial killer. ‘Finn.’ She looked away and then back at him. ‘I’ve been offered a promotion. I’m going back to LA tomorrow.’

‘But you hate it there.’

‘It’s a promotion, Finn.’ Her voice sounded empty, as if she’d poured all her emotions into the loch and left them there. ‘It’s what I’ve always wanted.’

He swore again.

‘No. It isn’t. You told me yourself it was a soulless job. Why would you go back to that when you know could be happy here?’

‘That’s just it, Finn.’ She took a pointed step away from him. ‘I don’t know that. I’m a stranger here. This has been quite the holiday – but the last thing it has been is real. What is real is the job offer. The one I have accepted.’

He could see that arguing with her was pointless. Nor would it be fair to beg her to stay. She was right. The weather had been amazing. The guests had been a good fit. These past few days had been . . . beyond description. Perhaps in a few days he too would think it had all just been a dream.

The music, which had been rollicking along suddenly ground to a halt. There was a commotion at the far end of the hall where Dougie had cobbled together a small stage out of yet more pallets.

A piper climbed on to the stage and Fenella bellowed, ‘Take it off!’

Finn looked round for Willa but she’d taken the brief to distraction to disappear into the crowd.

If he was in a bad mood, he wanted time on his own, so he made the call to stay put, praying it wasn’t the wrong one.

The piper gave a kick that produced a bit of leg. The women whooped. A few of the men took this as their cue to head back to the bar to recharge their glasses. Lachlan made a show of covering Gabe’s eyes. The piper took centre stage and played a surprisingly good version of ‘Highland Cathedral’ by the Red Hot Chilli Peppers. He finished to rapturous applause. A group of men in kilts came up on the stage. None of them looked familiar. The piper began again, this time accompanied by the ceilidh musicians. The song was strangely familiar and, through Fenella’s now steady cry to ‘take it off’, Finn finally recognised the song. ‘It’s Raining Men’. And that’s when he figured out what the guys were doing onstage. Stripping.

Okay. He was down with people enjoying themselves, but this wasn’t his bag. Anyway, he needed some fresh air. A chance away from all of the hullabaloo to figure out what the hell he wanted. Minutes ago he’d seen everything clearly. He wanted Willa. Balcraigie. Job done. But maybe she was right. He’d got too caught up in things. Forgotten it had begun as a con he alone had wanted to stop. He huffed out a mirthless laugh. Well, that showed him.

As he strode towards the loch, an ominous rumble of thunder sounded from the hills. A few moments later, a flash of lightning lit up the sky.

The rain would come soon.

They hadn’t got the full crop in, but they’d done a fair job of it. The Crowdfunding site – tweaked to say profits would now be going to the sympathetic restoration of Balcraigie and a scholarship fund for training in traditional crafts – would allow them to get in seed potatoes for next year’s crop.

Without stone walls between him and the Highland winds, the cold easily worked its way past the fabric of his shirt into his shoulders, his chest. He’d left his wax jacket back in the courtyard, but didn’t bother hunching against it. A few lashings of wind and rain wouldn’t kill him. Especially if he held it up against the pain of his heart being pulverised by the slow-dawning realisation that Willa was actually leaving.

It hurt. Bone deep. Organ-clenching pain. If there’d been a moon out tonight, he’d be howling at it.

He opted for second best.