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I’m fully expecting to be hit again and am quite happy to be her punchbag, but suddenly it’s like the fight goes out of her. Her shoulders slump, and then the dam bursts. She removes her glasses, wiping at her eyes.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve hated seeing Iona cry. My instinct is to wrap an arm around her and comfort her. Back when we were younger, I’d have done that without a second thought. If she’d really been upset, I’d have gone off and baked a cake for her. But in those days, I wasn’t the one responsible for her pain. Now I am.

Through sobs, she says, “For years I hated any visit to Bannock. Since you lost your parents, Maw has tried to look out for you, Ally, Jamie, and Cat, a bit like a surrogate mother. She’s kept the tradition of McIntyre and Stewart family meals going, which has meant I’ve had to share a table with you—eat with you—after what you did. Or at least, after what I thought you did. And even though I was hurting inside, I continued to keep everything that happened between us a secret, out of some misplaced loyalty to my childhood friend. I didn’t want other people to hate you the way I did.

“But now . . . now I learn my entire understanding of that event was wrong. I’ve carried so much needless pain, Lewis! Why didn’t you tell me this before now?”

“I . . .” I clear my throat. “I didn’t think I deserved to be forgiven.”

“Jesus.” Trembling, she swipes a finger beneath each eye. “I need to go away and think through all of this. It’s a lot to take in.” She gets to her feet, her movements shaky.

I stand too. “Shit. I’m sorry—again. You . . . do whatever you need to do. I feel so bad for making you cry.”

She nods and, without another word, walks away, leaving me alone by the loch once more.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

LEWIS

Iona

Hi.

Lewis

Iona! How are you doing?

I’m okay. How about you? Have you found the last two days tough without so much as a peep from me? Have you been thinking over everything, and is your head ready to *exploding-head emoji*?

It’s been a bit rough, aye. But I wanted to give you time. I didn’t want to rush you.

Wrong answer. The right one was: “Two days? That’s nothing compared to what I put you through. I didn’t tell you the truth about what happened for SIX YEARS!”

Shit. Sorry, that’s what I should have said.

Yep, it is. Clearly, I haven’t let you stew for long enough yet. I’ll be back in touch in five years and three hundred and sixty-three days. See you then!

Wait, don’t go! At least let me grovel for a bit and beg for your mercy?

*face-exhaling emoji* Fine. Grovel away.

Okay, imagine me as a character in one of your historical romances. “Oh, most gracious and benevolent Iona! Take pity on this wretched soul. I can’t sleep, eat, or think straight. Pray, forgive me for my transgressions!” . . . that any good?

Hmm, interesting approach, even if it doesn’t sound like the dialogue in any book I’ve read. Also, do you remember what happens in my smutty historical romances after the heroine forgives the hero? They ALWAYS bang. Is that what you think is going to happen here?

Well, if you were up for it, I wouldn’t say no . . . *grinning-face-with-sweat emoji*

Bloody hell, Lewis! We’re not teenagers anymore. Long gone are the days when, to score a handjob, all you had to do was stick a glow-in-the-dark condom on your dick. If you want to earn my forgiveness and repair the damage you’ve caused, you’ll have to work a LOT harder than that before there’s even a HINT of anything sexual.

I’m listening. BTW, are you at your maw’s? Because I’m at the hotel. We could talk in person—I can pop across the road, if you like?

But isn’t this how you prefer to have serious conversations? Are you forgetting how you broke up with me?

Okay, this is why I’d rather speak face to face. In texts, I can’t tell whether you hate me or whether you think there’s hope for us.

Seeing my face wouldn’t help. Still very much undecided about you.

That’s fair. Anyway, you were saying something about working hard to earn forgiveness? Tell me more.