I smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”
My dad mumbles something to Thora, then grabs both of their coffee cups. He joins me at the counter and refills them. “See? Isn’t it fun having all these people here?”
Ty walks in as if on cue. “That coffee smells heavenly.”
The place is littered with movie stars, and not one is the one I want to see this morning.
I nod at my father and slink out the door.
My ride isswift and drizzly this morning. I pull up to the Thistle House and head straight to the fire, where Kate is knitting. I’m surprised she’s here today. She works at a yarn shop called Knit Picking, which doesn’t open till ten, so she’s here most mornings before her shift. But on Fridays, they get deliveries, so she’s usually not here by the time I arrive. I check my watch. I’m not early.
“Skye,” Margie calls out, and Kate looks up and smiles at me. “Tea?”
My hands are practically shaking from the cups of coffee I’ve had at home. “Mmm, maybe just a little hot chocolate.”
I sit next to Kate by the fire. “No work today?”
Kate shakes her head. “I stayed late last night doing inventory. Boss gave me the day off.”
I thank Margie when she brings me my drink. Kate clacks awaywith her knitting needles. I never quite got the hang of the whole knitting thing. I do okay with one row, but then completely lose the plot when it comes time to purl.
We’ve sat here in comfortable silence a million times before, but this morning feels different. Because this morning, I have a secret. I kissed Miles Casey. I’m going to have a proper grown-up fling with the most handsome man I have ever met.
The memory of his hands on my waist, his lips on mine, the rain falling all around us has me smiling into my mug.
“What?” Kate says.
I shake my head. “What?”
“What’s with the smirk?”
I raise my eyebrows, the picture of innocence. “I’m not smirking. I just enjoy your company, and this hot chocolate is lovely.”
Kate narrows her eyes. “Oh my God. You got laid. Is it that braw American?”
How does she see right through me? “I did not getlaid,and you watch far too much American tele.”
Kate is still looking at me suspiciously. “Well, something happened.” She puts down her knitting, picks up her tea, and leans forward in her chair. “Dish.”
I sigh, but if I’m honest, I’m dying to tell someone. I lean forward too. “You can’t tell anyone. Like anyone at all. Swear it.”
“I swear.”
“Swear it on Christie.” When we were fifteen, we got very into the BBC version ofHercule Poirot. We watched the episodes nonstop andDeath on the Nilewith Mia Farrow on a virtual loop. We read every single book Agatha Christie ever wrote. We readAnd Then There Were Nonefive times in one summer. Since then, if we’re really serious about something, we swear on Christie like it is our version of the Holy Bible.
Kate laughs. “Well, it’s been a minute.” She places a solemn hand over her heart. “I swear it on Christie.”
I tell Kate all about our epic kiss by the loch, every single swoonydetail. Then I tell her about our agreement to have a mature, no-holds-barred, no emotions fling.
Kate shakes her head and picks up her knitting. “Youare going to have a fling?”
“Yes.”
“You?”
“Yes! Why is that so hard to believe? Why do you keep sayingyoulike that?”
“Because every single person you’ve ever dated, you end up engaged to.” I’m opening my mouth to protest when she holds up a finger. “Even Seamus Flanagan in primary school when you first moved here. Remember, he gave you one of those silly candy rings and he told you not to eat it so it would stay nice.”
