I glower.
Ewan guffaws. “And I thought being an only child was bad. I take it back. Siblings are the worst.”
I’m tired. I’ve been walked in on before I got a repeat of some of the hottest sex of my life, and I’m not even two sips into my first coffee of the day. “No one fucking calls me Gus. Fuck off, both of you,” I snap.
“So he is always this grumpy? I thought it was the hiking,” Ewan asks.
“No. Hiking’s pretty much the only time he’s happy.”
“That was himhappy?”
“If you don’t stop talking, I’m going to knock your heads together and leave you for the sheep,” I growl.
“That’s more like it. Loves an empty threat, does our Gus.”
“Stop. Calling. Me. That.” I can practically hear my teeth grinding together. “That’s it.” I stomp over to the car, throw my bag in the boot, and slam my way into the front seat, rolling down the window. “I’m going to the farm now. Anyone who isn’t in this car in the next five seconds is getting left behind.”
I’ll give it to them: they know how to scramble. Less than a minute later, the bags are packed, and the car is full. Lila has Priya on her lap, and Ewan and Ross are squeezed in next to her, with Rowan in the front beside me.
“Did you all carry your bags?” Ross asks as he buckles his seatbelt. “I thought only madmen like Angus did that, now they’ve got all those fancy baggage services running.”
“Fancy baggage what?” Rowan asks.
“Vans and that. You can hire them to carry the bag for you, and they leave it at your campsite. Don’t think it’s very expensive either. So you can enjoy the walk.”
Rowan’s eyes are wide. “You mean I didn’t have to carry this fucking thing for the last five days? I could have just… walked?”
I catch her eye and trail my hand down her thigh. I can’t help it. I need to touch her. “Calm down, London. It’s character building.”
“It’s torture, that’s what it is! I can’t believe it! This whole bloody time!”
I laugh. “Alright, kids. Buckle up. Next stop: Hollyroot Farm.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Rowan
The drive is only half an hour, but it feels far longer. Angus’ hand keeps wandering from the wheel, brushing over my shoulder, the back of my hand, my thigh. Everywhere he touches, warmth glows.
Now that I’ve had him once, I can’t imagine not having him again.
I wish we’d had the morning, another night, another week. Time to taste every inch of him, to explore every nook and cranny, time to fuck so much we grow hungry and bored, and then fuck again.
Now we’re on the way to the wedding, back to our real lives: as soon as we arrive, we’ll be swallowed up by our respective responsibilities, our families, and I don’t know when we’ll next get the chance to be alone.
I hope it’s soon.
We speed through winding country lanes, the roads growing narrower as we drive further from Fort William, until at last Angus turns into a rutted driveaway. Ahead, a gate and a weathered sign: Hollyroot Farm.
A few cars are lined up on the side of the first field. I guess this is where the guests will be asked to park, but Angusdrives straight across, up a slight hill and through an avenue of trees, eventually turning into a stone courtyard covered in blue-flowering plants.
A small group is already gathered in front of what I presume is the main house. I recognise my mother’s silver hair, and my sister’s willowy frame. Sophie is dressed impeccably as always: high-waisted loose slacks, wide, taupe belt, and a neatly pressed shirt, sleeves rolled halfway up her forearms. She’s holding hands with Henry, her fiancé.
One of the other figures looks up as we approach.
I still.
Angus puts the car into park. I want to grab him, tell him not to open the door, but it’s too late. The others are heaving themselves out.
