By the time Noah carried his guitar upstairs, myphone had already buzzed with three text messages. Esther, the leader of a slightly terrifying group of busybody readers who called themselves the Book Bitches, lived across the road and had a front-row view of the ongoings at the inn. The Book Bitches would demand details. There was no escaping those matchmaking terrorists. When they weren’t discussing the week’s smutty book club read, they fancied themselves champions of lonely hearts. And by tomorrow, the whole village would be whispering that Skye Kerrigan had taken Noah Byrne back into her bed.
Which, by the way, would absolutelynothappen.
I’d started my life over several times since I’d walked away from Noah Byrne with a broken heart and the wobbling conviction of a twenty-two-year-old, uncertain if she’d thrown away the best thing that ever happened to her. I’d gone home and started to work at my gran’s inn. I met a “nice” man that I thought I could have a “nice” quiet life with until the silence had grown too loud to bear. We’d divorced, and I’d started over once more. Gran, my North Star, passed and while in the depths of grief, my life trajectory changed again.I was fully responsible for this inn’s success now.
Life was simply that, though. A series of new beginnings, new directions, and new priorities. Sometimes they hurt. Sometimes they were the best thing that happened to you. But with Noah being here now? At thirty-seven, I was older than the wide-eyed girl I’d been when we’d first dated. I was too tired, and too busy keeping the inn from falling apart to play his redemption arc.
I snorted at my thoughts.
That was quite a leap for me to assume he was coming back to town to reconnect with me.
Why was he really here?
The inn smelled faintly of cinnamon and pine from the wreaths I’d hung earlier, but the electrics needed updating, the kitchen pipes rattled every time I turned on the hot tap, and the accounts I’d stayed up late with last night still made my stomach hurt. Which meant, I had no time for daydreaming about memories best kept to the past. I had a room to turn over, guest inquiries to answer, and laundry to change out. Pushing thoughts of Noah Byrne aside, I bent my head to my tasks.
Four o’clock brought tea in the lounge and I held my breath as I carried in a tray of shortbread and mince pies, setting it down on a low table beneath the window. Pretending not to notice the shadow leaning against the mantel, I looked around the room I’d once been so proud of and tried to see it through a rich person’s eyes.
Faded floral wallpaper peeled at the corners, and two rose-colored loveseats were pulled close to the fireplace, where a cheerful fire crackled. Four bistro tables with two chairs each were tucked on the other side of the room under the windows that overlooked the main street, and each table had a decorative teacup with a few buds of fresh flowers as a centerpiece. Music played quietly in the background, the requisite Christmas melodies, and several squat candles flickered over the mantel.
It was worn, but well-loved, and I lifted my chin higher.
Noah was watching the fire, sleeves pushed up, hair falling into his eyes. He looked almost normal—like any other man who’d wandered in from the cold. Exceptnormal men didn’t leave heartbreak songs in their wake …and didn’t still make my chest ache with longing.
“You should cut your hair,” I said, because silence was worse.
“You used to like it long.”
“I used to like a lot of things about you.”
He glanced at me then, quick and sharp. For a moment, something like regret flickered, but before he could reply, the front door banged open.
“Skye, love!” Esther’s voice echoed through the hall. “You’ll never believe who I thought I saw today?—”
As she entered the lounge, eyes landing square on Noah, she froze. Smiled. And then grinned like the cat who’d got into the cream.
“Och,” she said, looking between me and Noah. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
And just like that, I knew the Book Bitches had a brand-new project.
Two
NOAH
Scandals don’t always strike violently like lightning. Sometimes they creep in.
They rot you from the inside out like damp in an old wall.
By the time the gossip blogs caught wind, the whole structure was already compromised.
I should’ve known. Hell, maybe Ididknow. The late-night calls Glen took in the next room, hushed voices and the way he carefully angled his laptop out of my sight. The assistants who stopped meeting my eye when I asked about the books. The accounts that didn’t balance no matter how many times I ran the numbers myself.
I’d told myself it was fine. That Glen was looking out for us, like always. That he’d been the one who pulled usfrom pubs into arenas, from sticky-floored clubs into stadiums. That I owed him my loyalty.
And now? Words likeembezzlement,tax fraud,gambling debtshrouded my emails from the attorneys. The tabloids wouldn’t be far behind … like sharks scenting blood. None of this was attached to my name—yet—but it was close enough that I could feel their teeth.
So I ran.
Not to LA. Not to London. Not to the glass-walled apartments or rented villas where people like me usually disappeared to.
