“Glad you like it,” he says, sounding distracted. “Made it myself.” When I look at him, his gaze is fixed on my mouth.
I have to hide my smile behind my mug. After being scowled at by Cameron and barked at by Alec, being wanted feels like a breath of fresh air. The playful glitter in his eyes tells me the feeling is mutual. “You make your own cider?”
“Aye, ever since I was a teenager.”
“You’ve worked here that long?”
He nods. “Cameron and I started working part-time in school. But we’d been coming to Lochview ever since we were kids. My mum was friends with Alec’s.” He grins up at the branches overhead. “Alec’s dad once caught me stealing apples to brew when I was seventeen.”
I smile. I can almost imagine Fraser as a teenager, his pockets full of stolen apples. “Was he mad?”
“He threw a pitchfork at me.”
I choke on my mouthful of cider and start to drown. “Excuseme?”
Fraser’s big hand lands on my back and starts rubbing soothing circles. “There, now,” he says softly. “Settle down. In and out, there’s a good lass.”
Believe it or not, being called a “good lass” does not help matters. I sputter, my eyes watering. “He threw apitchforkat a child?”
“Aye. Hit me too. Hard to explain that to my mum.” He lets me go, frowning. “He was a nasty piece of work, to tell the truth. When we were kids, Alec, Cameron, and I had a hiding spot for when he was in a mood.”
“Oh.” That’s horrible. I used to hide from my mum when she was working from home. I’d crawl inside my closet and sketch dresses by torchlight. But that was so I didn’t distract her while she was busy, not so she didn’tthrowstuff at me.
“Aye. Don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but let’s just say… Wasn’t too unhappy when he passed.” Fraser shakes his head. “Anyway. You look very sweet.” He twitches the hem of my brown dress, and I resist the urge to pull a face. If I had a choice, I’d never wear brown in my life. But neutrals are in, so needs must. “This is different. You were all pink and lacy yesterday.”
I nod. “I usually tone it down a bit when I, er, take blog pictures. What’s trendy right now doesn’t really match my style.”
His eyes narrow. “Aye? And what is your style?”
“I like pink,” I admit. “And glittery things. And ribbons and bows and skirts. Lulu says I dress like a pastry.”
“That explains these then.” He nods at my glittery nails. “I think it suits you. Being a pastry.”
“Me too. But I get more, um, reblogs when I wear clothes that are in fashion. And right now, fashion is very monochrome, unfortunately.”
“Fair enough. Photos going well?”
“Great, thank you,” I say, automatically giving him a sunny smile.
“Aye?” He tilts his head, amused. “’Cause you didn’t look too happy when I came out here.”
“Oh. Um.”
He nudges me. “You can tell me,” he says, his voice lowering. “S’okay.” His gold eyes are kind. He actually seems to mean it.
I fidget. “It’s nothing important. Just none of my pictures are coming out right.”
He scoffs. “Surely not. Can I see?” I hand him my phone, and he swipes through. “You’ve got to be joking,” he says after a moment. “You lookgorgeousin these.”
“What? No, I don’t?—”
He seems outraged. “You do. This one’s my favourite.”
I peer over his shoulder. It’s a shot I took as a gust of wind hit me. My hair is tangled, and my cheeks are bright red. “I look a mess. I could never post that.”
“Aye, well.” He looks at me sidelong. “I think I like you messy.”
My heart hammers. We’re both still for a moment. Overhead, a bird sings, light and clear.
