Page 70 of Scotlander

When Willa emerged from her hayloft, the first person her eyes lit on was Finn. He didn’t say anything, but she could tell from the softening of his features that he liked what he saw. Though everyone was gathered in the courtyard, pouring teas and coffees for themselves, accepting bowls of porridge, and stretching out the kinks from the previous day’s work, the moment felt strangely private. A Prince-Charming-sees-his-Cinderella-type moment.

Fenella’s piercing wolf-whistle cut through it the way a heavy metal soundtrack broke into a costume drama. Discordantly.

‘Cooooeeee! Someone’s looking proper sick today.’ It was difficult to tell if Fenella was pleased or angered by this.

Jennifer wondered aloud about bad things actually being good things.

Gabe raised his tin coffee mug and winked at her.

ChiChi sent a whorl of ululation her way and Trevor said, ‘I’d do that’ to which he received a punch in the arm from Jules and a noogie from Blair.

Willa flushed. She wasn’t used to being the centre of attention. Not like this. But before the group allowed her to descend, they demanded she give them all a twirl. She had to admit, she loved the dress Orla had brought to her earlier this morning. It was a beautiful, deep forest green tartan with a little cape thing sewn down the back. A perfect match to the claret red triangle sweater wrap Jennifer had gifted her last night at the firepit.

As she stood there, all eyes shining up at her, she felt ridiculous and a little bit like a princess. She knew she wasn’t revolting to look at, but years of knowing there was always someone thinner, prettier, or more famous than her had inured her to being skipped over. Left on the side lines while others basked in the limelight. Something that used to annoy Valentina no end. You’re freaking catnip, mija. The only one who doesn’t know it is you.

So, today, for her best friend and for herself, she enjoyed the attention. Basked in their praise, even letting some of it seep in. After giving everyone a regal wave, she slid down the banister to join them.

Once she’d got a mug of coffee (a new addition to breakfast, courtesy of Lachlan, who’d said he’d had enough of Gabe glowering like Black Jack Randall in the morning. Still gorgeous, he’d quipped, but a right proper arsehole to garden with), Willa settled herself and her preponderance of petticoats on to a stump beside Gabe. They clinked mugs.

‘Howzit?’ she asked.

‘Bueno.’ He yawned, then apologised. ‘I had to do some work last night. Didn’t get much sleep.’ Then he said something in Spanish that sounded like a prayer of thanks to the coffee gods.

She clinked her mug to his again. ‘Speaking of work . . .’ Willa not-so-casually segued.

Gabe held up a hand, stopping her. ‘This better not be you telling me you’re bailing and heading back to LA.’

‘No.’ It hadn’t been, but now that he mentioned it . . . maybe after today’s errands with Finn . . .

Gabe’s expression hardened. ‘Willa?’ He drew out her name in a dark, warning tone. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’

Rather a lot as it turned out. But she’d promised not to say anything.

She scrunched up her nose, then told him about Bryony’s latest series of empire-building manoeuvres.

He fuzzed his lips. ‘I know the type. Don’t worry. She’ll fuck up soon enough and they’ll come running to you. Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen. And when they come back? Pay rise and promotion. Those are your terms, okay, Willaford?’

Instinct tugged her spine upwards at the use of her full name. Val was the only person who got to call her that. She considered the alternative – never hearing it again – and decided to let the usual rebuke she would have unleashed go unsaid. Gabe could use her name. For now.

‘Cool. Got it. Thanks, boss.’ They sat in silence, drinking their coffee, the banter of the group around them now more familiar with the handful of days they’d spent together (‘Peee-yew! Someone forgot their pit stick this morning’) and, Willa noticed, a tiny bit edgier. (‘No wonder they skipped over all these bits in the books. Writing about doing the same chores day after day would not have made these bestsellers.’)

Willa bit her tongue. That would change. Later today, if everything went well. But on the off chance it didn’t, she was sworn to silence.

Finn joined them, holding out a plate piled high with steaming scones and a pot of raspberry jam.

Gabe demurred. Willa took one then stepped back as her fellow travellers greedily fell upon the rest of the pile.

‘Wow!’ Jules pointed at her half-eaten scone. ‘These are amazing! How does Orla get them so light?’

‘They’re actually from Balcraigie Bakehouse,’ Finn explained. ‘Orla’s mate from school runs it now. Mhairi Pringle.’

Willa took a bite of her untouched scone. Then another. And another. It was amazing. Fluffy. Light. Buttery. If there was a heaven, these should be the clouds. ‘They’re incredible.’

‘Aye. Her bread’s brilliant too,’ Finn said, lavishing his own scone with a huge dollop of jam. ‘She uses the same oven the bakehouse had installed when it was built away back in the nineteenth century.’

After enjoying the few remaining mouthfuls, a thought came to her. ‘Gabe?’ she asked as innocently as she could.

‘Mmm?’