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“Me too,” he said, brushing his lips over mine before hauling us both to our feet.

I pulled him closer, looking up into his eyes. “You do things to me too, you know.”

“I should hope so,” he murmured, stroking his fingers along my jawline. “Come on, let’s get dry so I can finally finish the bloody painting that I would have finished about two weeks ago if not for the distraction you bring me.”

We went inside and took off our outer gear, and I hung the wet gloves and hats on the clothes rail. Kerr’s joggers were a bit damp, so I also hung those out, which meant he had to go about in just his boxer briefs and jumper, which was fine by me. I did a quick change because both my jumper and jeans had gotten wet. Then I made us hot chocolate and sat next to him at the dining table, stealing glances at the mouthwatering contours of his thighs.

“So the last time you built a snowman, when you were nine,” I began. “Who did it with you? Was it your dad?” I asked gently.

He let out a short laugh. “No. Not his style. Mum did it with me.”

I nodded. “So, after your mum left you didn’t get to build them anymore.”

He shook his head, giving my hand a squeeze when he heard the wobble in my voice. For goodness’ sake. This was his emotional memory, not mine. But here he was offering me comfort. I turned my palm up to grab hold of his hand and squeezed him in return. “Can I ask . . . what happened to your dad? How he died, I mean?”

I fully expected him to clam up again, and that I’d have to circle back to the conversation like I’d had to do with every emotional discussion we’d had so far. But he sat and thought for a few seconds, in the way that signaled he was thinking about his answer, and I knew that this time, he was going to tell me.

“His body washed up on a beach. They never found out if he’d gone into the water and gotten into trouble and it had been an accident, or if he’d gone in with the intention of ending his own life,” Kerr said, his voice as steady as a rock. “He didn’t leave a note or anything, but he’d never been keen on the water before, so I suspected it had been deliberate.” He took a sip of his drink, then pressed his lips together. “It would have been kinder if he’d left a note. At least that way I would’ve known.”

I gripped his hand tightly, pain beating out of my heart and pulsing through my veins. “I’m sorry.”

He gave me a small smile. “That’s okay. It was a long time ago.”

“It was still a major trauma,” I said gently. “Did you ever get any therapy? Especially after what happened with your mum.”

He shook his head, eyes darting to mine then away again.

I shifted a little closer, resting my head on his shoulder. “Maybe you should?”

He kissed the top of my head. “You sound like Greg.”

“Greg is a good egg.”

He chuckled at my rhyme. “He is.”

We sat in silence for a minute, listening to each other’s breathing, and I knew he would mull over the option of therapy in that logical way of his, carefully consider it before making his decision. And ultimately I had hope that he’d make the right one.

“Nisa?” he asked, his normally assured voice hesitant.

I lifted my head. “What is it?”

He leaned back, toying with my hand in his lap. “I have a . . . proposition for you.”

I arched an eyebrow suggestively, and he chuckled. “Not that kind of proposition.” He thought for a moment. “Or maybe it is. I wanted to ask . . .” He paused to clear his throat, and I got the sense that whatever he was about to say involved putting himself out there. “If one of us wins the Christmas lights competition. Do you want to share the prize?”

The weekend away for two to the spa hotel. I didn’t hesitate. “Yes. I would love that.”

A look of relief crossed his face before it stretched into a genuinely joyful smile. “Awesome.” He leaned over to kiss my forehead. “Right,” he stood, taking his drink with him. “I’m getting the job finished.”

“You know what?” I said to him, giving him pause by the door into the hallway. “I have a good feeling about that prize. I think it’s going to be ours.”

He flashed me a smile. “What’s for you won’t go by you.” He turned to leave. “You stay in here so I don’t get distracted by you again.”

Something about that old Scottish proverb tickled the back of my brain, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what. Perhaps it was because my grandma used to say it.

“Okay,” I said, leaning back in my chair to watch him leave, the tight black boxers hugging the muscular contours of his arse, his bare legs all ridged and rippling. Talk about distractions. I nearly fell off my chair.

“Oh, by the way,” he said, pausing in the doorway. “Next week I need to do an overnighter in Auchness to cover for Katie while she’s away for her fortieth. So I won’t be able to ‘debrief’ that night.” He shot me a smile.