I need to know what it feels like. Whathefeels like. What those strong fingers would feel like curled around mine with intent.
I hold my breath. Extend my arm. But I feel so awkward. Is my body always this stiff? I’m like a store mannequin—one of those cheap ones, with the flat chests and bad hair.
The way he meets me halfway makes it all okay.
He takes my hand with easy, happy confidence, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. He smiles down at me and says, “There’s a lass.”
I let go of that breath. Let myself sink into the feel ofhim. The dry heat of his palm. The light scratch of calluses against my skin.
A low, satisfied hum escapes him as his fingers squeeze mine, and I think my heart might burst.
“’Tis a bonnie night for a cèilidh,” he says as we duck out the back door.
I murmur in agreement, but myyesis in answer to so much more.
For weeks, I’ve raced to the cottage every night, scared of who I’ll meet on the path and what I’ll find when I get back. But now, for the first time since I left New York, holding his hand, I feel safe.
As we step into the night, a shiver ripples up my body. It’s cold—colder than it’s been—the night air icy-fresh. The nip of fall sharpening into the bite of winter.
“Och, you shiver like a wee leaf.” Callum drops my hand and wraps his arm around me, pulling me in tight.
He’s so warm. Solid and strong. A human furnace.
I let myself nestle even closer. I tell myself it’s just for a moment. Just to warm up.
He pauses to look up. Faint starlight glows along his profile, and it’s an effort to pull my eyes away and follow his gaze.
With no light pollution, the night is stunning, the dense spatters of stars like white paint flung against the velvety black fabric of the sky.
And it’s so quiet.
Nobody’s phone is pinging. There aren’t any car horns. No noises from distant televisions.
It hits me that neither of us have spoken in a while. But instead of feeling awkward, it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Effortless. Companionable.
The least lonely I’ve felt since I left home. Maybe even since before that.
The silence is shattered by the rich, vibrating hum of fiddles as players begin to tune their instruments. The sawing of bows on strings is so unexpected, so recognizable, I laugh out loud.
Callum’s smile is wide as we reach the entrance to the back garden. He beams down at me. “Ready?”
At my nod, he unlatches the gate.
It’s like entering a whole new world. I know this garden. I weed this garden. There are gooseberries, broad beans, rhubarb, onions. Edible herbs for cooking. Poisonous herbs for poultices.
But none of that’s evident now.
Now, it’s a wonderland. As if a fairy king appeared at sundown and transformed it into his own.
Embers from a blazing fire pop and float to the sky. People mingle and move in the clearing beyond. Some have mugs spilling with drink. Most are smiling. Musicians are warming up their instruments. The cacophony builds, coalesces…
Then it falls silent.
Two drumbeats…
And a song explodes to life, fast and reeling, the notes skipping joyfully, as if the souls of the instruments have been set free. The musicians are grinning, shouting, stomping their feet. There’s a drummer, two fiddlers, and one playing something that looks like a mini bagpipe. Their joy is mesmerizing.
