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It hits me then that she’s not just the flirty, cheeky lass who’s been throwing herself at me and trying to get into my pants. She’s someone who lost her parents when she was, what, seventeen? Someone who’s been carrying around a whole lot of pain and sadness beneath that bubbly exterior.

I reach for her hand across the table, intending to give it a squeeze, but chicken out halfway through and tap my fingers against the tabletop instead. Nice, Robbie. Moral support through Morse code. Real smooth.

To my surprise, Cat snorts out a laugh through her tears. “God! Comforting someone doesn’t come easily to you, does it?”

I grimace. “Sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.” She sniffs again. “About the tears, but also about last night. I’ve been silly around you. I’ll be more sensible from now on, I promise. I’ll let you get on with your work without bothering you. And I’m still going to help you clear your name.”

“You don’t have to⁠—”

“I want to,” she insists, wiping away another tear. She gives me an embarrassed grin. “God, what must you think of me? It’s funny: you think you have it all together, but then every so often, boom! It hits you again, out of nowhere. Grief, I mean.”

She’s quiet for a moment, then: “Did I ever even thank you? I’m not sure I did.”

“Thank me for what?”

“For calling the ambulance and saving Jamie’s life.” Her eyes, still wet with tears, are earnest. “He can be a real pain with his constant teasing—I don’t think anyone in town would disagree with that—but I don’t know what I’d have done if I’d lost him too.”

I wave away her gratitude, uncomfortable with the praise. “I was just the first on the scene. Anyone else would have done the same.”

“Well, thank you anyway.”

Something about her sincerity, about the raw vulnerability she’s showing, makes me want to offer her something in return. I’m not used to opening up, but I did it the other day about the resort, and somehow it feels right to do it again now.

“That night changed me too, you know,” I say, staring down at my mug.

I can feel Cat’s gaze on me, waiting for more.

The memory surfaces again: the lashing rain as I approached the car wreck. Jamie slumped in the backseat, blood pouring down his face. And in the front, Mairi and Angus McIntyre . . . they were already gone.

“I got into a lot of trouble growing up. More than my fair share, as you’ve probably heard.” My mouth curls into a humourless half-smile. “For a while, as a young man, I was into underground fighting. It gave me an outlet for all my anger.”

I remember the rush of it—the roar of the crowd, the sharp crack of knuckles against flesh, the taste of blood and victory.

“It was brutal, but it made me feel alive. And the money didn’t hurt either.”

I glance up at Cat, whose eyes are wide, and who’s looking at me like I’ve just confessed to being Batman or something. “You were an underground fighter? I had no idea.”

“Not something I advertise.” I shrug. “Anyway, the night of your parents’ accident, I was riding back from a fight in Inverness.” My jaw tightens at the memory of it. “I knocked a bloke out cold in that fight, and for a moment, I didn’t think he was going to get up again.” I can still see Big Cal lying there, motionless on the concrete floor.

“He did, though. He was all right. But then on the ride home, I came across the crash. Coming face to face with . . . well, death . . . it made me realise how bloody fragile life is. After that, fighting didn’t feel like freedom anymore. It felt like . . . tempting fate.”

I let out a slow breath, the admission leaving me feeling oddly exposed. “That was it for me. Never fought again—not properly anyway. It’s just me and my punchbag these days.”

Cat reaches over and gives my hand a gentle squeeze. There’s nothing flirty about it. It’s just a simple, heartfelt gesture. And unlike my attempt to do the same to her, it’s natural. I can’t remember a woman ever having comforted me like this before. When women touch me, it’s with intent, with desire. This is . . . different. Nice.

“I believed you when you said you weren’t responsible for the thefts,” Cat says, “but hearing all this? Now I’m doubly sure. I trust you, Robbie. And I’m sorry I haven’t found out anything concrete about Samantha yet. Maybe I could try to do a bit more digging today while you get on with some tasks around the flat?”

I look at her, still puffy-eyed from crying, and before I know what I’m doing, the words slip out. “Or . . . we could go for a ride on my bike?”

Cat blinks at me in surprise.

“Well, someone made me leave it here last night,” I point out, a hint of teasing in my voice. “And as I was on the prowl, the pillion seat is on, and there’s a spare helmet in the saddlebag.”

“A . . . ride?”

“Aye. As you’ve already pointed out, I’m hopeless at comforting people. All I know is that, when I’m feeling down, going out on my bike always makes me feel better.”