“Can I—” He stopped, closed his eyes, opened them. “Can we forget about the past for a moment? I’m dying to taste you again.”
“Yes,” I said, a tremble working through me. “We can do that.”
His lips slid over mine, both a promise and a memory, and my heart shivered. Tilting my head, he licked softly into my mouth, his tongue sliding against mine, and heat ignited in my core. We’d always been this way. Our chemistry was palpable, and I moaned into his mouth and threaded my arms around his neck.
He lingered, savoring my kiss, never rushing. Desire threaded through me, a longing so sharp it hurt, and I arched against him, loving the slide of his tongue across mine, the way his teeth scraped lightly against my lower lip. He bumped me lightly back against the doorframe, his hands stroking down my back, cupping my bum and pulling me closer to him. I gasped against the friction of him, the longing building inside me, and sank further into the kiss.
“God, Skye. I’ve missed you,” Noah said while breaking away. Our eyes met, so many words unsung, and then he took me under again. He slid his hands beneath my jumper, finding my skin, and I shivered at his touch. Lovely liquid heat slipped through me, and I rocked lightly against his hard body. His lips were demanding, coaxing me to give every inch of myself over to the kiss, and when we finally broke apart, my chest was heaving, and my body was flushed with need.
Bloody hell, but I wanted to grab his hand and pull him upstairs. I wanted to feel the weight of his body against mine, leaning over me and filling me so that I didn’t have to think about yesterdays or tomorrows. He made me want to feel again.
“Whoever put that up,” he said, his voice decidedly cheerful, “has a dark sense of humor.”
“I’m burning it after dinner,” I said, already knowing I wouldn’t.
“Liar,” he said, his mouth quirking up in that shit-eating grin he had.
“Obviously,” I sighed. My lips still burned from his kiss. Of course, I was going to keep the mistletoe up. Now that I had the taste of his kiss on my lips again, I wasn’t sure I’d ever stop craving it.
Outside, Esther’s voice rose. “That’s four tickets and two slices of Dundee cake! Now sing, you vultures!” The paparazzi, to their credit, tried to harmonize. I snorted.
“Those poor bastards have no idea what they’re dealing with.” Noah laughed.
The phone on the front desk rang, and I glanced at it, the moment broken.
“Go on,” Noah said, running a finger across my cheek. “I know you have business to deal with. I’ll make myself useful by bleeding all the radiators now that the rooms are empty.”
I went to answer a call that I knew would be another cancellation, and he went to find the radiator key. The mistletoe stayed where it was, smug as a cat, and the inn watched us with the indulgence of old buildings who knew how the story went even when the people in it pretended they didn’t.
Eight
NOAH
By midday the siege had developed a festive mood, which is the most Kingsbarns sentence I can think of.
Word spread faster than scandal here—across the green, down the lane, through the bakery where the sisters weaponized shortbread. People took shifts outside the inn like it was D-day and the enemy was polyester parkas. Esther set up a folding table and declared itHeadquarters. Gregory became Head of Security, wearing a whistle and the expression of a man who has been waiting his whole life to use it. Cherise managed a thermos station. Shannon acquired a megaphone and should never be allowed to own one again. Meredith produced a plastic cash box from her handbag like a magician pulling out a rabbit and started selling everything that wasn’t nailed down for the Winter Warmer Fund.
The paparazzi tried to be professional.
Whenever a lens angled toward the door, the Book Bitches would immediately burst into a carol at a volume that rendered audio useless and made the paps groan. When someone tried to wedge a foot through the gate, Gregory blew his whistle and fixed them with a stare that made their ancestors feel judged. The school kids arrived with hand-lettered signs:ESTHER FOR PRIME MINISTERandBUY A RAFFLE TICKET OR GO HOME.Rosie and Harper delivered mulled cider and a stack of photocopied “Know Your Rights” sheets for villagers dealing with “overly enthusiastic media professionals.”
“We’ve invented a street faire,” I told Skye, peeking through a small hole in the curtain.
“We’ve invented probable cause,” she muttered, then leaned closer to the glass despite herself. “Is Shannon shaking them down for tickets for their extended families?”
“Ten quid for plus-ones.” I’d listened. “Meredith’s upselling the Dundee cake. Esther’s insisting on exact change.”
I still hadn’t turned my phone on. I knew I’d have to face the world at some point, but I’d wait until the paps had their next story. There was always something else that would draw their attention.
Inside the inn, it got quiet.
Skye shooed me away from her books and I took to the lounge, sitting on the floor in case there were any gaps in the curtains, and stoking the fire as I scribbled lines to a song that had been bouncing around my head ever since I’d returned home.
After a while, Skye brought a bottle of wine anduncorked it with the competence of a woman who has held a house together with faith and a laundered tea towel, then she poured it into two mismatched goblets.
“I thought, at this point, we might as well.” Skye gave me a wry grin, and despite my worry over my career tanking in flames, I smiled back.
Because when everything was falling apart, what else could you do but drink wine on the floor with the love of your life?
