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Then Hattie was looking over Finn’s shoulder. And he knew, of course he did, that she was standing there.

He turned, slowly, to see Mel’s face. She was staring at him, her skin draining of color, blue eyes scarily bright. His heart twisted. She’d heard. How had he not realized that she’d closed the gap between them?

“What did you say?” she whispered.

“Mel, I—” he began, his voice choked.

“You can’t marry me. You think it might be over.” Her voice, on the other hand, was crystal clear. And he was an idiot. He hadn’t meant it, hadn’t wanted her to hear, didn’t want to be the reason for the way she was looking at him right now. None of this came out, though, because his brain had frozen.

“Well, Finn?” she demanded, her voice rising. “Is it? Over?” Her eyes, as always, were directly on his. And shit, no, this isn’t what he’d meant. He didn’t want to do this here, in front of everyone—and especially not at Hattie’s engagement party, which was supposed to be a celebration.

“Ah, we’ll just…” Finn wasn’t even sure which of his family said it, but, as one, they all seemed to dissipate around him, melding into the crowd.

Finn swallowed. “Mel, I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean that it’s over? Or that you don’t want to marry me? Didn’t mean to tell other people before you told me?” He could think of nothing to say. Why, for fuck’s sake, could he think of nothing to say?

“Well?” Mel demanded again. “When were you planning to tell me how you felt?”

“Maybe we should—” He reached out to steer her away from the roof terrace, away from prying eyes, but she snatched her arm out of his grip.

“No, you started this here, so let’s finish it.”

“It isn’t working, Mel.” He said it quietly, reluctantly. But he had to say it now, didn’t he?

“What isn’t working?” There was an angry fire to her voice, her eyes—but worse than that was the hurt, laced underneath it. And, shit, what was he doing? He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to lose her. But if he dragged things on it would only be worse. She wasn’t happy—he knew that. And she was too kind to end things herself. She might hurt now, but it would be better in the long run. Wouldn’t it?

“Us,” he said. “We’re not working.”

She stared at him. “You’re serious.” She scanned his face, looking for clues. Then her voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re actually doing this?”

“It’s for the best,” he said, and his voice sounded flat, uncaring. He could see the way her face shuttered, at the sound of it, but he couldn’t do anything to change it. It felt as if his whole body was shutting down, in preparation for what was to come.

“Fine,” she said. Then, louder. “Fine.” And she turned. She turned and walked away, before he could see the tears he knew were there, before he could see her break—though he knew her well enough to see it in the way she held her posture, the way she swept from the roof terrace.

She wanted him to go after her. He knew that. And a part of him so desperately wanted to. But all he could see was his mum’s face, impassive as his dad called to let her know that he wouldn’t be home for dinner—again. Not one time but a mixture of hundreds, that expression that he and his siblings got to know so well. He’d never do that to Mel, never cheat on her.

But he wasn’t right for her, was he? Not if he was making her stressed, and anxious, and dimmer. He had to do this.

So he didn’t call her back, as the crowds converged around her. Didn’t run after her, didn’t explain that, no, this wasn’t what he wanted. It was just the right thing to do—for her.

Instead, he just watched her go.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Boxing Day

Mel and Finn are both quiet in the morning as they wake, get dressed, and begin packing up their things. When Mel puts her final piece of clothing in her suitcase and zips it up, she just stands there, staring at it, not wanting to move.

“So,” Finn says and she turns to look at him. “I suppose this is it.” He’s standing with his hands in his pockets, and he can’t quite look at her. “Mum wants us all to go to the pub on the way back to St. Andrews. Do you want to end it here, or after the pub?” His voice is flat—and she knows he does not want this any more than she does.

So she takes a breath. “What if I don’t want to end it at all?”

He frowns at her. “Don’t you? Because yesterday it seemed like…” She tries not to wince, to let on that she’s hiding something, but she knows what she was doing yesterday, pulling away a little, so he wouldn’t guess the truth. But she can’t tell him that, can she?

He’s watching her, and she sees him reading something on her face—though she can’t guess what. If he asks her outright if she’s hiding something, what will she say? But he doesn’t. “At the engagement party,” he says slowly, “things seemed a little…off.”

Her eyes narrow and he holds his hands up. “Before I…Before all of that, I mean. Was it work?” he continues quickly, as if he’s trying not to think of what he’d actually done. “Was it you being stressed, like you said, and not wanting to talk to me about it?”