I shift uncomfortably on my barstool, staring down at my glass. “You done with the lecture now?”
“For tonight. No promises about tomorrow.”
The whisky’s starting to take the edge off. My mind wanders where it isn’t supposed to, like the way Lucy’s eyes crease at the corners when she laughs, or the soft shift in her voice when she talks to Isla.
“She’s probably not interested, anyway,” I mutter, more to myself than to Jack.
He snorts. “Right. That’s why she couldn’t take her eyes off you.”
Damn him. The problem isn’t whether she’s interested or not. The problem is that I’m actually considering it. As much as I hate admitting Jack’s right, I hate even more that some part of me is starting to hope.
fifteen
LUCY
The first bite of spring always tastes the sweetest. It makes you forget the damp chill of winter ever existed with the sun bright, the breeze warm, the world suddenly too full of possibility to keep up with.
It’s town festival day. The local businesses line up with their booths, the streets fill with music and laughter, and everyone comes out for a good time. Poppy was supposed to help me set up, but she’s come down with something, leaving me to do the heavy lifting solo.
I grip the edge of the folding table and haul it toward its spot. It’s heavier than I remember, the weight of it digging into my arms and making the muscles in my neck strain in protest.
I’ve got a good stretch ahead of me if I want to get everything set up before the crowd starts rolling in. Callan and Knox said they’d come help once they get their own booth for the distillery sorted down the street, but apparently, that’s its own kind of chaos.
I finally manage to wrestle the table into place and take a step back to assess what needs to be set up. It’s not much, just afew baskets of pastries and cookies to display. I’ve been baking since dawn. Strawberry tarts, lemon scones, chocolate chip cookies still slightly warm from the oven. The makeshift banner I made flutters in the breeze, the words “Thistle & Spoon” threatening to tear away from the flimsy tape holding them in place.
Just as I’m setting out the first tray of pastries, a gust of wind tears through the street, sending napkins flying and knocking over the stack of paper cups I just arranged. I lunge for them, nearly toppling the display in the process.
“Come on,” I mutter, trying to anchor everything down while simultaneously reaching for the flyaway napkins. My fingers brush against one just as another gust sends it spiraling farther away.
The wind picks up again, stronger this time, and I watch in horror as my carefully arranged sign starts to peel away from the front of the table. I dart forward, trying to catch it before it takes flight, but my elbow knocks against the tray of scones, sending them sliding precariously close to the edge.
“No, no, no.” I make a desperate grab for both the sign and the tray. The wind has other plans, though, whipping the sign free and sending it tumbling down the street like a wayward kite.
“Perfect,” I mutter, blowing a loose strand of hair from my face.
That’s exactly when the tower of cardboard boxes I’d stacked behind the table decides to join the chaos, toppling over and spilling the packaged pastries across the pavement. My heart sinks as I watch my morning’s work scatter on the ground.
I drop to my knees, frantically gathering what I can salvage. Thank god a few baked goods landed on the stray napkins but the rest…It’s an absolute crime scene. My fingers work quickly, scooping up the less damaged goods and trying to arrange them back on the trays. The festival officially starts in fifteen minutes, and I’m nowhere near ready.
“Need a hand?”
The low voice slices right through my flustered spiral. I glance up to find Aidan towering in front of me, broad shoulders framed by the sun like some kind of reluctant, brooding hero. He’s wearing a navy T-shirt that fits unfairly well. It’s snug across his chest and tight around his tattooed biceps that I’d bet good money he doesn’t show off on purpose. His jeans are worn and faded, and there’s a little scuff of stubble along his jaw, catching the light as he squints down at me.
The look on his face lands somewhere between amused and mildly exasperated, like I’m a walking storm he’s half tempted to get caught in.
“Oh! I—” I push a lock of hair out of my face, painfully aware of how much of a mess I must look. Hair falling out of place, cheeks flushed, pastry carnage at my feet. “I mean, yes. Please. If you don’t mind.”
He doesn’t say anything, just lowers himself into a crouch beside me, jeans pulling tight across his thighs as he starts collecting the scattered scones with care. His hands—goodness, his strong, capable hands—move with a surprising gentleness.
My stomach does a little fluttery thing that I pretend not to feel.
“Wind’s causing you grief?” he says, his voice low enough that only I can hear it over the bustle around us.
I let out a breathless laugh. “That obvious?”
He glances over, lips tugging up at one corner. There’s a small dimple that appears when he does that. It’s subtle, but there.
“Just a bit,” he says, eyes dragging over me in a way that doesn’t feel unkind. Just…observant. Noting every flyaway hair, every smudge of flour I probably didn’t catch. Not judging. Just seeing.
