“Bollocks. Glen believes in himself. And when he’s finished, he’ll throw you away.”
I laughed. Hard. “We’ll prove you wrong.”
Her silence was worse than shouting. She looked at me—the desolate look in her eyes searing my heart—and said, “Then you’ve already chosen him over me. Over us.”
And she’d walked.
We were twenty-two, exhausted, raw from too many gigs and too little money.
We’d just been offered our first real contract. Not just a small-time record deal, not just a pub tour. The real thing. Big stages. Big money. A manager who had promised the world.
I’d thought it was everything. She’d thought the contract seemed dodgy and had hated how our manager had dismissed her questions.
It was the night we broke.
And I’d replayed her words over and over throughout the years.
I’d told myself I’d write her a song, and that it would fix everything. That she’d hear it and come back and realize what she was missing out on. ButSkyewasn’t an apology song. It was a wound I poured salt into and sold for ninety-nine pence a download.
It hit number one. Stadiums sang her name back at me, my own personal torture.
And she hated me for it.And judging from her current expression, that was still the case.
“I’ve changed my mind. You can’t stay here,” she said, arms crossed, chin tilted in that way that had once unraveled me.
“Too late, I’m already unpacked.”
“You didn’t even bring a bag,” Skye protested.
I had, but she hadn’t been around when I’d slipped back down and retrieved it from where I’d left it outside, unsure if she’d actually let me in.
“You told me one week.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.” Skye shook her head.
“You can give me a week.”
“I don’t have to give you anything, Noah Byrne.” Skye glowered, clearly unhappy.
“No, lass, you don’t. But I’d be mighty grateful if you did.” I tried my best puppy dog eyes and was rewarded when she rolled her eyes in return.
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” Skye said to herself, and hope bloomed. Stomping out of the room, she came back with a pen and paper, scribbling furiously. “House rules,” she said, shoving it at me.
“No music after ten. No smoking. No overnight guests. No songs about Skye. No touching.” At that, I raised an eyebrow at Skye and her face flushed.
“And no paparazzi,” Skye added.
My mouth twitched. “How exactly am I supposed to enforce that?”
“You figure it out.”
“Bit harsh.”
Her eyes glittered. “If you don’t like it, there are other inns.”
There weren’t. Not in Kingsbarns at Christmas, with St. Andrews overrun and every B&B booked out by families and tourists. She knew it. I knew it.
I leaned back, studying her. Older, sharper, steadier. Not the girl I’d left behind, but the woman she’d become.
