She kissed him. The kind of kiss that knew its own gravity. He answered her instantly, gently, guiding rather than taking, his mouth warm and sure against hers. When his hands skimmed beneath the hem of her sweater, fingertips grazing skin, she felt the tremor in his breath as much as in her own.
The world outside their window kept moving—cars, tourists, the whole oblivious city—but the quiet between them drew tight and warm, a small, private haven carved out of all the noise.
Flynn’s forehead rested against hers. “Dinner can wait,” he whispered.
Heather didn’t disagree.
She led him back her toward the bed, his kisses deepening, all reassurance and promise and something fiercer threading beneath it. When his fingers found the zipper at her side and hesitated, waiting for her signal, she nodded once.
The dinner reservation was long gone.
Neither of them noticed.
Chapter 23
Heather—Present Day
Claire’s text was waiting when Heather rolled toward the window and the pale Edinburgh drizzle.
Byrdie ate like a queen, then bullied the sunspot by the window.
Zero crimes committed. All’s well here. — C.
The knot in Heather’s chest loosened a notch. “Our girl’s thriving,” she murmured, thumbing a reply:
kiss her silly for me; back soon
—before swinging her legs out of bed.
Flynn was already up, barefoot at the little table with two coffees, a torn croissant, and the day’s plan spread between them like a map of mischief.
“Morning, Campbell.” His eyes traced her face, softening in that way that always made her heart do something embarrassing. “Sleep well?”
“I slept… enough,” She winked, picking up the coffee he nudged toward her. “So, we play sweet, smile pretty, and leave them a breadcrumb pointing the wrong direction.”
“Aye.” He tapped the forged note between them. “You thank Dr. Henderson ever so kindly, pretend you’ve reached your limit, and slip this wee beauty into the Blair Atholl file.”
Heather studied the slip, then uncapped a pencil and added one last arrowed annotation—something that looked exactly like Eilidh might’ve written on a tired afternoon in 2003.
She blew the graphite dust away. “Okay. Ready.”
Flynn leaned back, brow raised. “You sure? Once we do this, we’re committed to the lie.”
She shrugged into her coat. “Lying’s not hard. I’ve been doing it socially since middle school.”
Flynn snorted. “Terrifying skill set you’ve got, lass.”
They didn’t go straight to the museum.
They strolled past it—tourist casual, coffee in hand, Flynn pointing out a stone cornice he’d restored years ago, Heathersnapping a photo of a Waterstones display. Anyone watching would see nothing but a couple killing time.
Then they went in.
The atrium’s light rose around her like a tide. Heather approached the desk with the exact smile she used on cashiers when pretending she’d totally remembered her PIN.
“Ms. Campbell,” Flora Henderson greeted when Heather stepped into her office. “Back so soon?”
“I just wanted to say thank you,” Heather said, warm and harmless. “For the access yesterday. I think I reached my limit—I found a lot, but it’s… well, it’s definitely more than I can handle. I should probably step back and sit with what I have. I don’t know how you do it, Ms. Henderson!”
