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I give his chest a playful smack, only for him to flinch. “Ow!”

My annoyance vanishes in an instant. “Oh my God, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“Well . . .” There’s a mischievous glint in his eye. “Depends on how you look at it.” He takes a hold of my hand and pulls me towards the bedroom, away from the door where guests might arrive any minute.

“Robbie MacDonald, if you think we have time for⁠—”

“Not that,” he interrupts with a smirk. “Though I like where your mind went.” With no shame whatsoever, he grabs the hem of his T-shirt and lifts it up.

My breath catches, not just at the sight of him (old habits die hard, and apparently so does ogling), but because something new catches my eye—a glint of cling film stretched over his chest. Two patches, actually.

“What’s this?”

“A surprise. Here, look.”

He gestures to one of the patches of film. Beneath it is his chain tattoo, only it’s changed. The broken link that once symbolised his fractured relationship with his father has been repaired. The lines are fresh, and the skin around them pink and tender.

“Da and I still have a way to go, but we’re on the right path now. I didn’t want to keep carrying that broken link anymore.”

I swallow hard. “That’s . . . beautiful, Robbie. I can’t believe you did that.”

“And this one . . .” He indicates the second patch of cling film just over his heart. A tiny black cat curls there now—elegant and mischievous and perfectly drawn.

“For me?” I whisper.

“Aye. For my Cat.”

Every molecule in my body wants to fling myself at him, but his poor chest looks sore enough as it is. So I settle for going up on my tiptoes, cupping his jaw, and pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. “I love it. And I love you.”

“I love you too,” he murmurs back.

A knock at the door interrupts us.

“Later,” I promise, my eyes telling him exactly what I mean.

The corner of his mouth lifts. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Within half an hour, my living room is filled with all the people I love most. My brothers and their partners have taken over the sofa and armchairs, while Elspeth and Bryce chat with Johnny and David near the window. Bruce has found a sunny spot on the floor and is snoozing contentedly. Aidan and Grace sit beside him, watching wee Ru toddle after Callie, who won’t stay still for a moment. Emily cradles baby Ciaran—he’s somehow sleeping peacefully despite the noise.

I’m buzzing around like a hostess possessed, making sure everyone has a drink and that no one dares set a glass directly on my new coffee table.

“Coaster!” I reprimand, sliding one under Jamie’s beer bottle.

He raises an eyebrow. “Who are you, and what have you done with my sister?”

“Very funny,” I retort, but I catch Robbie watching me with amusement from across the room. Maybe I am being a bit . . . particular. But hey, I’m proud of this place, as I think I have every right to be.

“The flat looks fantastic, Cat,” Lewis says, glancing around appreciatively.

“It’s gorgeous,” Iona agrees. “You’ve really made it your own.”

I beam. “Thanks. Robbie did a great job, didn’t he?”

“Oh, I can’t take all the credit,” Robbie objects. “See that shelf over there? The one that’s very slightly wonky? All Cat.”

I roll my eyes, but there’s laughter—from my brothers especially—and Jamie claps his hands together. “Robbie can be funny! Who knew?”

“Anyway,” I say, “as much as I love what we’ve done with the place, I’m sure it won’t be long before Robbie invites me to move in with him. So in a way, all this work was for nothing.”