“Noah!” The chants went up and I finally put my hands in the air in defeat and went to join the band. We launched into a merry rendition of Amy Macdonald’sThis is the Life, and everyone clapped along.
An hour later, I was smiling so hard my face hurt.
I’d sold out stadiums, had tea with the late Queen, and traveled around the world.
But I couldn’t quite remember the last time I’d had so much fun.
My soul had been craving this.
Impromptu and unhurried jam sessions with an audience that was more than willing to interrupt you if they didn’t like what you played.
It was fun. It was easy. It was exactly what I’d needed.
Esther banged her hand on the table. “One more toastand then I’m making Harper turn off the lights so you all go home,” she said. “We’re getting near closing.”
Groans. Fake outrage. Everyone lifted their glasses anyway.
“To The Royal Unicorn,” Esther said.
“To the Unicorn,” the room answered.
She pointed a finger. “To John Smith.”
“Boo,” I said, smiling.
“No booing. He paid his parking,” Meredith scolded.
“And to Skye,” Esther said, “and the Kingsbarns Inn, which has brought so many fun and interesting people into our wee town for years now. We’re blessed to have had you take up the helm when your gran passed, lass.”
“To Skye,” the room said, easy and true.
She went pink and laughed, thanking everyone. I let the sound land on me. I didn’t know I needed that, but I did. Not the cheers. The belonging.
I picked up Skye’s coat from the peg and held it out. She slid into it with a small sigh that got me right in the ribs.
“Walk?” I asked.
“Please,” she said, which did a different thing to me. A good thing.
We spilled onto the street in a tumble of goodbyes and split off from the group. The night hit us clean and cold. Turning down the lane that led to the inn, the voices drifted away on the winter wind and our shoulders bumped companionably.
We didn’t talk. We didn’t need to. Our breath fogged the air, and somewhere a dog barked as their owner returned home. I put my hand out. Skye looked at it for abeat, like she was measuring something important. Then she took it.
My palm knew her. It sounded dramatic, like a lyric I would write, but it wasn’t. It was simple. Warm. Right. We walked like that to the inn. No speech. No big declarations. Just … us.
I used to think happiness came loud. Stadiums. Shouting. Hands in the air. Tonight it came quiet. Well, quiet-ish. A pub that smelled like woodsmoke and whisky. A village that knew your name and your business and looked after both. A woman who would tell you when you’re being an idiot and feed you anyway. A cat in a bow tie. A song that felt like you built it with your hands.
At the inn, I opened the door and let her go in first. We stood in the foyer in the dim like teenagers who’d snuck in past curfew. The tree in the lounge threw balls of light across the ceiling.
Skye walked to the bottom of the stairs. Turning, she held out her hand, and warmth spread through me. Walking over, I took it, but before she could turn and pull me up the stairs, I bent my head and captured her lips in a searing kiss. I’d been aching to kiss her all night but hadn’t been sure how she’d respond to public displays of affection. But for now? I didn’t care what the future held.
I just wanted her.
I hadn’t felt this calm in years. Not after a number-one hit. Not after a sold-out tour. Not after a single applause that went on so long it felt like it could carry me. This was different. This—Skye and me?—was all mine.
Eleven
SKYE
