“We were always something,” he says firmly. “Always.”
Turning back to the wall of photographs, I press my lips into a firm line. If I open my mouth, something mortifying might come out. Like a sob or a cry of pain.
After a few moments of staring at a black-and-white image from a famous shoot for an Italian fashion house, I manage to ask in a bright voice, “Why did you move into fashion photography when you left journalism?” Dean and Mal stare at me, sulky and haughty. “It’s the furthest thing from what you were doing before.”
I hear him sigh, but he comes to stand next to me, looking up at the picture. “That’s exactly why. I was battered and permanently on edge. The fashion world was clean, clear, and expensive. No dirt, no mud, no blood. It was the furthest I could get from a warzone.” He pauses, and his mouth quirks. “And then I photographed Mal Booth, and Syria suddenly looked calm and appealing.”
I snort and break into laughter, and after a few minutes, he joins me.
I come awake when the car stops. Sitting up, I knuckle my eyes. “Shit. I wanted to see the island.”
Reuben chuckles. “It’ll still be there on the way back.”
“I wanted to see the Highland cows.”
“Well, hopefully they’ll still be around too. Otherwise, the tourists will have nothing to photograph.”
“I don’t know what’s the matter with me.” I give a jaw-splitting yawn. “I’ve never slept so much in my life.”
“You must be catching up, then.”
I shoot him a wry look. “Thank you so much for not giving a complete rundown on my decisions in life.”
He shrugs. “I gave you my opinion. I don’t need to say it again.”
I regard him thoughtfully. It’s true. He’s not one for lectures—just says his piece and moves on. You either pay attention or not. It’s up to you. Which makes this whole situation so strange now I come to think about it. It’s so unlike him to force himself into someone’s life and take over. I realise how worried he must have been and feel a sharp pang of guilt.
Shoving it away, I look around. We’re in a small car park next to a white-painted, low-slung building. The sign says it’s a cafe and an art gallery. It’s obviously popular, judging by the steady flow of people walking into it and even as we sit here, a coach draws up disgorging eager groups of pensioners.
Reuben climbs out of the car. “I’ll give Moira the artwork, and then we’ll hit the beach.”
“Literally probably,” I say in an overly gloomy voice just to hear him laugh.
He obliges me and walks around to the boot to grab the stuff. I eye him in my mirror. He’s so fucking gorgeous. His long, dark hair lifts in the breeze, and his body looks strong and tall, his wide shoulders straining his jumper.
I shake my head. “Get it fucking together,” I say out loud.
“Did you say something?”
I jump and see him staring through the open door at me.
“Merely repeating my morning mantra.”
“Does it involve fucking me over in some spectacular way?”
“Sometimes.”
“It’s been remarkably calm this week. Does that mean I should anticipate some nuclear explosion that you’ve got brewing? Maybe naked country dancing along Tobermory high street.”
“Oh no. Don’t spoil the surprise,” I say gravely, watching with pleasure as he throws his head back laughing. He gestures to me, and I climb out and follow him into the building.
It’s lovely inside, with high-beamed ceilings and white-painted walls, on which colourful pictures have been hung, each with a sign indicating its price. To my left is a small deli already doing a thriving business, and ahead of me is a cafe. It’s full of happy chatter, and I feel myself relax.
The smell of coffee brewing fills the air, mingling with something sweet baking, and I look hopefully at Reuben, who rolls his eyes. “I’ll get you a coffee in a second. I might even treat you to a cake. Best on the island.”
“Not the cake. I’ll be the size of several houses by the time I go back to England. You’ll be able to hear the screams of someone in the YSL designer team from here. Do what you need to do first, though. I can wait for the coffee.”
“Can you?”
