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Jenn snorted. “And?”
He took a sip. “It’s terrible. I love it.”
She grinned. “You seriously read that stuff often?”
“I have sisters. You learn early not to mock their reading choices unless you want your favourite mixtape taped over with Gaelic lessons. But honestly…” He flipped a page. “These books are ridiculous. And weirdly educational.”
Jenn choked on a laugh, half-covering her mouth as she grinned. “Educational?!”
Ruairidh gave her a slow, mock-serious nod. “I get all my bedroom inspiration from them now. A few chapters in and I’ve already learned three new uses for a rolling pin.”
“Christ.” She shook her head, laughing. “I bake in that kitchen.”
“Noted,” he said with a wicked glint. “I’ll keep it to the living room.”
A beat passed. The wind howled outside, making the windowpanes creak in their frames. The coal fire flared, light spilling across his face in flickers.
He looked… easy. Warm. Nothing like the clipped, contained version of him she’d first met.
Jenn shook her head, biting her lip to hold back a grin. “Who’d have thought? Ruairidh MacLean and trashy books.”
“Comfort reads,” he corrected with mock gravity. “They’re predictable. Nobody dies unexpectedly. Nobody falls into the sea. Just messy declarations and impossibly happy endings.”
Jenn gave him a look. “You’d never admit any of this in public.”
“Absolutely not. I have a reputation to uphold.”
“You fly planes and read smut. What a contradiction.”
His mouth quirked, slow and deliberate. “And you’re intrigued. Keeps you guessing.”
That voice, low and rough at the edges, vibrated straight through her. That flicker was back—something gentle, steady, but weighted. Not like the whirlwind of their first time. This felt different. No chaos, no urgency. Just warmth and tension stretching between them like taut string.
Jenn set her mug down. “Well, I’m glad you came. I wasn’t sure you would.”
“I nearly didn’t,” he said. “I figured you’d already have your hands full.”
“With Morag?”
He smiled. “She does look like the jealous type.”
A gust of wind made the front door creak in its frame. They both paused, listening to the storm rumble around the cottage, the sound ancient and wild—like the island itself was breathing.
Ruairidh shifted closer, just slightly. “You always this calm when the power goes out?”
Jenn shrugged. “I like it. Candles. Firelight. Feels… different. Quiet in a good way.”
Their eyes met. His were dark and soft now, lit by flickering gold.
“You look different in it,” he said.
“In what?”
“This light. Like something out of a painting.”
The heat that stirred in her chest wasn’t from the fire.
She tried to keep her tone light. “Careful, you’re sounding dangerously like the hero in one of your books.”
