“Sounds about right,” he chuckled. “Heard you’ve got the old kitchen broken in. Flynn’s been braggin’.”
Heather glanced at Flynn, who only shrugged unapologetically. “He lies,” she said lightly. “But I’ll allow it.”
The foreman grinned. “You two here for the weekend, then?”
Flynn answered easily. “Checking progress. Might hang about a bit, see if the tourists’ll fund the next project.”
“You’ll find them everywhere this time of year,” the man said with a nod. “Good luck gettin’ a table anywhere near the harbour tonight.”
With that, he clapped Flynn on the shoulder and returned to shouting up at the roofline.
For the first time since Dingwall, Heather felt her shoulders ease. Ordinary noise filled the air—the clang of scaffolding, laughter, the slap of waves. Nobody was watching. Nobody cared.
Flynn came around the truck, hands in his pockets. “Better?”
She smiled up at him, wind in her hair. “Almost like we’re just… normal people.”
“Normal’s overrated,” he said, eyes glinting. “But it does have its uses.”
She looked back at the harbor, the riot of color reflected in the dark water, and exhaled. “Then let’s blend in. Just for a bit.”
He nodded toward a sign that readHarbour View Rooms — Vacancy.“I’ll see to the crew, get us checked in after. You find us somethin’ warm and edible that isn’t deep-fried air.”
Heather grinned. “No promises.”
She turned toward the cobbled lane leading up from the quay, boots clicking in rhythm with the gulls’ cries and the surf’s slow breath.
Heather drifted through Portree like a tourist in a dream.
The harbor glittered with color: boats tugging at their ropes, the bright-painted houses reflecting in the water. The air smelled of salt and diesel and baking bread. A radio played a Celtic reel low and sweet from somewhere unseen.
She passed a souvenir shop full of tartan scarves, a fishmonger calling prices into the wind, a gallery with a storm-painted Cuillin mountainscape. Every few steps, she wondered… had Eilidh stood here? Had she watched this same harbor, chasing truth or simply chasing quiet?
Heather slowed outside a café tucked beneath a hanging sign:The Coffee Bothy. Warm amber light glowed through the windows; steam fogged the glass. Inside, people laughed over chipped mugs. A blackboard promised pastries still warm from the oven.
Perfect.
Something simple, normal; something to bring Flynn before he ended up living on crisps and coffee again.
She stepped inside. A bell jingled softly. Warmth wrapped around her—cocoa, cinnamon, sugar—and she unwound her scarf, the chill melting from her hair.
Then she froze.
Across the room, by the window—
David Kerr.
He was alone at a corner table, newspaper folded beside a half-empty cup. No museum badge. No notebook. Just a man in a dark jacket, sleeves pushed up, eyes lifting the exact moment hers did.
For a heartbeat, neither moved.
Heather’s stomach dropped through the floor.
He can’t be here.
A cold instinct skittered down her spine.
She forced her face into something resembling polite surprise and turned toward the counter, fumbling for the menu. Her pulse hammered loud enough to drown the café chatter.
