She shook her head, though the corners of her mouth curved despite her. “You’re the worst.”
“Aye, but you like me that way,” he murmured, tapping his glass lightly against hers before taking a slow sip.
She focused on her soup for a while, letting the warmth occupy her hands while her thoughts caught up. Still, shecould feel him there beside her—a steady presence rather than pressure, which somehow made it harder and easier all at once.
“You ever think,” she said eventually, voice lower, “that maybe we’re not the ones doing the chasing? That the stories, the history… maybe they’re the ones that keep circling back to us?”
Flynn tilted his head, considering. The pub hummed on, but he stayed locked on her.
“Maybe so,” he said finally. “But if it keeps finding us, I’d say we’re holdin’ our own.”
Heather snorted, unexpected amusement bubbling through. “You’re insufferable.”
“Insufferably charming,” he corrected, flashing the grin that always managed to trip her pulse.
She hid a smile in her glass.
By the time their plates were cleared and another song drifted through the room, Flynn leaned close, his voice brushing her ear in that low rumble that never failed to unsettle her in entirely inconvenient ways.
“Come on, lass. Best get some rest. We’ve a temperamental loch waitin’ on us tomorrow.”
Heather’s heartbeat hopped. “Rest,” she echoed, trying for dry but not quite getting there.
Flynn’s mouth curved into a slow, knowing grin as he pushed back his chair. He held out his hand. “Aye, Campbell. Rest. That’s exactly what I meant.”
She slipped her hand into his, his fingers closing warm around hers as he helped her up. The pub carried on with music, laughter, and clinking glasses, as if nothing had shifted.
But somethinghad.
As they threaded toward the narrow stairs at the back, his thumb brushed over her knuckles once more. His hand settled at the small of her back as they started up, easy, familiar.
“Up you go, Campbell,” he murmured. “Long day ahead.”
Chapter 8
Heather—Present Day
The inn room was small, tucked beneath the sloping eaves, with low beams and a narrow window that rattled faintly in the wind. Woodsmoke from the pub below lingered in the air, threaded with the sharp tang of rain on stone. A single lamp burned on the bedside table, throwing honeyed light across the quilt, the walls—and the man who closed the door behind them.
Flynn didn’t say anything at first. He just leaned back against the wood and watched her, blue eyes steady in the half-light. Heather’s pulse skipped. Her skin still hummed with the song,with his voice, with the way he’d looked at her downstairs and then saidI love youlike it cost him nothing and everything.
She turned away, fingers fumbling with her coat’s buttons—too fast, too clumsy. “Seriously?” she muttered to herself.
“Easy, Campbell” Flynn said quietly.
Her gaze snapped up. He hadn’t moved, but the heat in his eyes was unmistakable.
“You’re just…” She gestured vaguely. “Standing there.”
“Aye.” His mouth curved. “Waitin’ for you to look at me.”
The air thickened. She wanted to move, to say something clever, to break the tension, but Flynn pushed off the door first, crossing the room in that quiet, deliberate way that always undid her.
When he stopped in front of her, his hand lifted—not to grab, not to drag—but to brush a damp strand of hair back from her cheek. Gentle. Unhurried. Like this wasn’t something he meant to take, but something he was offering.
He dipped his head, breath warm at her temple. “Tell me no, Heather,” he murmured. “An’ I’ll stop.”
Her heart clenched. Before, the word might have been there out of sheer reflex.
