‘I have nothing against carbs. It’s the heart attack I fear.’ Picking up my fork again, I narrowly avoid a collision with my newly arrived two-pint mug of instant coffee, served with a side of suspicious glare.
‘‘Round here, they’ve hung women as witches for less.’
‘Not true,’ I counter. ‘There were never any witch trials in this part of Scotland.’
‘So you’re a history buff?’
I offer a flippant shrug in response, adding words when it becomes clear the gesture isn’t going to cut it. ‘I grew up here.’ I could literally bite off my tongue. ‘For a while.’
‘I remember,’ he says, eyes sparkling as he dusts toast crumbs from his fingertips. ‘The Scottish mum.’
I feel my expression twist before recalling snippets of conversation we’d had at the pub. ‘Well remembered.’
‘I’m good at that sort of shit.’
I’m not sure I’ve schooled my expression entirely appropriately—after all, he seems tonotrecall quite a bit about me. Say, oh, I don’t know... taking my virginity?
I also don’t manage to swallow my dismissive snort.
‘What did I say?’
I slide a forkful of mushrooms into my mouth, managing to mumble. ‘Nothing.’
‘So...’ Rory reaches for the silver coloured tea pot sitting between us, the kind of vessel you don’t see anywhere else these days. He gestures to the spare mug once his own is filled, though I shake my head. ‘Hmm. NotveryScottish then.’
‘I think we established some time ago I’ve a little Scots in me.’
‘And sometimes a little bit more.’ I feel myself blush under his attention, rather than his juvenile and teasing tone. Yeah, he’s demolishing his breakfast at a pretty swift rate, but while he does so, he looks at me as though he’s contemplating pushing away the plate and eating me instead. ‘What else?’
‘I’m not really comfortable talking about myself.’
‘Let the minutes duly reflect that. And?’
‘And... and I don’t want to.’
‘Eat some toast,’ he says, pushing the silver rack in front of me. I take a piece of the cooling bread, picking off the corner. ‘How long since you’ve been...’ He pauses as though searching for a kinder address.
‘Alone?’ I ask hastily. ‘About four months.’
‘Hmm. Makes sense.’
‘That would be you, paying attention to stuff?’ My response is heavy on sarcasm.
‘You’re prickly this morning. Like a wee hedgehog.’
‘I am not.’
‘Suit yourself. Are you staying with your mum?’
‘You tell me,’ I reply, folding my arms.
His own fork mid-air, Rory pauses, eyes roaming over my face as though he’d be able to discern the answer from my expression. ‘It’d explain why you’re hiding out in a tiny house with no heating.’
‘It has heating, just not much,’ I answer, adding a shrug.
‘But?’
‘You’re not big on social clues, huh?’
