Scot and Bothered

6. Now

6

NOW

Jack slumped against the doorframe to the office, his lungs seizing up.

Brooke Sinclair sat in his aunt’s guest chair.

Brooke Sinclair.

Same chestnut hair, same rosy lips—parting on a gasp—same earrings curving up her ear. But that look in her blue eyes—shock and pain and fury swirling like a hurricane—he’d only seen that look once before.

Jack’s chest tightened, his legs urging him to get the hell out of there, but he was gripped in place by a deep longing to see that impish smile flit across her face. The one that preceded a flirtatious “Captain.”

Everyone had a one-who-got-away, but Brooke had been The One and she’d absolutely vanished from his life.

Jack had imagined seeing her again a thousand times. Pictured bumping into her coming out of a coffee shop, or in the heart of Waterstones with her arms full of books, still so heartbreakingly beautiful.

He’d rehearsed what he’d say, if given the chance. How he was the worst kind of bawbag, that he’d betrayed her trust, that he was so deeply sorry. Regret coiled in his chest like a dragon, scorching his sternum every time he thought of her.

But the surprise of seeing her in his aunt’s office yanked any logical thought from his mind. Lightheaded, he stalled in the doorway, completely unsure of what to do next. Was he meant to shake Brooke’s hand?

“You’re early,” Mhairi said, pulling Jack from his frozen stupor, and he redirected as much of his focus as he could to his aunt.

Jack moved into the room and tucked Mhairi into a gentle hug, holding her a bit longer than necessary and hating the way he couldn’t keep from calculating how many more of these embraces they had left. When he stepped back, she gripped his shoulder in reassurance, as if he was the one in need of comforting.

And maybe he was, because the shock of seeing Brooke Sinclair had knocked his feet out from under him. She was just as stunning and all-consuming as she’d been the first time she’d walked into his flat.

Brooke wore cream-colored flowy trousers, cropped at the ankle, and a light pink T-shirt with a twist at the waist. Her necklaces were the same: the tiny gold-and-white beaded choker, the teardrop gem on a thin string, the longer simple gold chain. He’d traced them, twisted his fingers in them—

“You remember Brooke,” his aunt prompted, and he realized he’d been standing there staring. Jack’s mind was in a daze. Mhairi could’ve given him even a hint of warning—and based on the look on Brooke’s face, she would’ve appreciated one, as well.

“Of course. Brooke. Hello,” he said with a nod in her direction.

She stayed seated, hands balled in her lap. “Jack.” The steel in her voice was of the slicing variety.

“We were just talking about the trail,” Mhairi said and Jack’s brain finally caught up.

Of course that was why she was here. Mhairi had told him Brooke was cowriting her memoir when she’d asked Jack to step in for the injured photographer her publisher had originally hired.

He’d agreed without thinking; he’d do anything for his aunt. She always supported his dreams, even now. Adding a memoir to his photography portfolio would be a ringing endorsement that might finally get his work into the galleries.

And if there was a world where he wasn’t scraping by, wasn’t addicted to his YouTube views or the affiliate link dashboard tracking paltry advertising pounds, he wanted in.

When Jack had agreed, he assumed he’d have no interaction with Brooke, only that he’d read her manuscript to match his photos to the story. He’d been avoiding it, truth be told; the thought of reading Brooke’s words when she wasn’t tucked up beside him in bed sent waves of anguish through him for all he’d lost.

“Brooke’s decided to join you on your trip to Skye. While she gathers details for the memoir, she can help direct which photographs might be best.”

Being in the same room as Brooke for the past eight minutes had sent Jack’s system into overdrive to the point that he might pass out. Eight days with her sharp looks and silence might literally kill him.

“I didn’t realize—We don’t—” Brooke held her hands up. “I’m going by myself,” she said, her voice somehow both flat and sharp, like a shovel she might use to knock him out before digging his grave.

It turned out Jack’s stomach had not forgotten the feel of Brooke’s disdain. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant feeling, being turned inside out.

Of course Brooke wouldn’t want to spend another second with him, not after what he’d done.

“You can …” Mhairi agreed. “Jack could read the manuscript and match his photographs to the important pieces. But— ” Jack’s stomach somersaulted over the word “—I’d worry about you alone out there. Anyone alone on that trail.”

Mhairi hadn’t protested him walking solo on the trail, so he assumed her concern was on Brooke’s account.

“Brooke knows how to gut a fish,” he said and immediately dragged a hand over his face.

Brooke stared at him like she couldn’t for the life of her figure out why he would’ve dredged up that random bit of information, used it in this context, and truly, why he was still in this room.

“I mean to say, you would do just fine on a walk of that scale. You’re capable and fit.” He cleared his throat. “In shape, that is. Strong.” Jack snapped his mouth shut.

“Be that as it may…” Mhairi drew out the words with a long look in Jack’s direction. “Calamity has befallen plenty a hiker on this trail. The original photographer slipped on an escarpment, broke his leg, and waited five hours until another hiker found him. I would hate for something like that to happen to either of you. Safety in numbers and all that.”

If Mhairi wanted them to hike this trail, would feel better knowing neither of them was alone, then he’d do it. The piece of Jack’s heart that still called out to Brooke jumped at the chance to support her in this project—to make sure he never wrecked anything for her ever again.

A way to make amends, perhaps.

Brooke grabbed a binder clip from Mhairi’s desk and snapped it onto a stack of printed papers Jack assumed was the manuscript before pressing it against his chest for him to take.

“I’ll let you know,” she said with a tight smile in Mhairi’s direction before turning on her heel and all but sprinting from the room.

She wouldn’t want to disappoint Mhairi, either. Mhairi had been Brooke’s absolute idol in uni and the fact that she was writing Mhairi’s memoir would be hugely personal to both of them. He needed to apologize. To try to fix whatever might still be salvageable between them and make this trip work.

For both their sakes.

Without thinking, he followed Brooke from the room.

“Jack,” Mhairi called after him and he turned in the doorway, gripping the wooden frame. “Don’t tell her about me.”

Liquid mercury dashed through his veins. “You mean you haven’t yet?”

Mhairi remained quiet.

“Auntie, the last thing I want is another secret from her.”

She shook her head. “This one isn’t yours to share.”

Jack rubbed a hand across his face.

“I’ll tell her when you’re back. I want a memoir that’s brimming with life, not a memorial. And that’s how Brooke will write it if she knows. I don’t want my prognosis to tarnish the story.”

He could understand his aunt’s hesitation, knew how much this memoir meant to her. Her legacy.

“And I want Brooke to experience the trail fully. Not to be grieving, but to be living. She deserves that.” Mhairi’s serious look cut through Jack’s resistance. Brooke deserved the world.

“Alright.” Jack let out a deep sigh. “But I don’t like it,” he said before running to catch up with Brooke.