Scot and Bothered

17. Then

17

THEN

Jack left his office in the dim twilight, crossing the puddled streets on campus and passing by the library. He glanced up at the windows glowing in the misty night, the yellow light dancing across the glossy cobblestones. Brooke was probably up on the fourth floor, sitting at the same table, twisting her earring as she highlighted pages.

He clenched his jaw against the impulse to see her, talk to her, touch her. He’d told himself a thousand times she was bloody off-limits. She was a student . Except that felt like referring to his brothers as his colleagues; it wasn’t remotely adequate to describe their connection.

He craved her on a fundamental level—this vibration in his chest he couldn’t settle when he was away from her.

Each of the last four nights since Brooke had kissed him in the snow, he’d managed to tip his head down from the beckoning light of the upstairs window and carry on home. He had coursework to grade, photos to take. But tonight, this desperation that consumed him—this need to know what she was doing, what she was wearing, how she was feeling—propelled him through the turnstiles and up the elevator.

Sure enough, Brooke sat at the same table, books and papers spread out all around her, hair tied up in a messy topknot.

“Hullo,” he said, his voice caught somewhere between a whisper and a plea.

Brooke looked up and her eyes went guarded, her slender brows pulling together like it pained her to see him. “Hi.”

He sat on the edge of the table, not quite sure he trusted his legs to support him.

She twisted her necklace around her finger. “What are you doing here?” She watched him as he failed to come up with any suitable words, waiting for the honest ones to settle. I missed you. I hate this. I’d take back every word I said for you to smile at me again.

“I’ve got an assignment to finish for my photography class. I was wondering if you could help.”

“Jack,” she said, and it was nothing like the way his name had sounded in the snow. It was imploring and melancholy and excruciating. He never wanted to hear her say it that way again.

“We can still do this, right? Get out of the library?”

She bit the corner of her lip, like she was holding back the word no , and he rushed to say, “We had a pact. I vividly remember a pinkie promise,” before she could get it out.

Little dimples appeared in her cheeks where she held in a smile. “I am great at homework.”

His breath expanded in his chest, a heady rush of excitement pulsing through him. “Then come on an adventure with me.”

* * *

Jack headed up the Royal Mile, the lights from the flats above him incandescent in the darkening twilight. The library had been neutral ground but there was no good reason for them to be out in the city center together and Brooke must’ve felt it, too, since she walked ten paces behind. He cast a surreptitious look over his shoulder and she gave him a secret smile that sent a flare of heat through his chest, the exact temperature of the burn of her fingertips against his cheeks in the snow.

He made it to the opening of Dunbar’s Close and slipped into the tunnel-like alley leading to one of the places he wanted to bring her tonight, his heart beating in an unnecessary flutter of anticipation.

Brooke walked out of the halo of the streetlight and he reached for her hand, tugging her into the little pocket of darkness inside the tunnel. She stumbled into him, her boots lined up with his, her breath coming out in a warm puff against his cheek.

He stole two seconds to drink her in—the shadow of a smile line bracketing her lips, the strands of her silky hair playing in the breeze from under her yellow knit hat, the nearness of her body that sent his blood pounding. He conjured the huskiness of her voice saying his name that night before clearing his throat.

“This way,” he said, heading down the wide cobblestone close, trailing his hand over the ivy leaves clinging to the stone walls to keep from reaching for her.

Tucked between the red-painted storefront of the Christmas Shoppe and a souvenir outlet that lured the tourists past the entrance, the tunnel opened into a pocket garden that was still a bit of a hidden gem.

Row houses with dark, slanted roofs cast beams of light from their windows, illuminating the tall trees in a gradient of gold and bronze. The flower boxes ringed in low shrubberies had gone dormant, but sculpted pine trees in teardrop shapes stood proudly in the centers. They walked along the gravel pathways, the damp fallen leaves muffling their footsteps like a silent getaway car.

“This close was named after David Dunbar—a writer—who owned tenements here in the 1700s. It’s also rumored that Robert Burns has visited this garden—he was quite fond of an oyster cellar nearby.”

Brooke gave him a wide smile before moving farther into the garden, turning in a circle and lifting her face to the night sky, which still held the dusty sapphire tones of twilight. He wanted to capture that look to keep forever, but she’d hear the shutter snap of his camera. She’d know what he was on about.

“This is like a whole other world,” she said.

And it was with her here. One full of possibility, heavy with anticipation arcing in the air.

“That’s what I love about night photography. My assignment is to capture something overlooked. All these familiar places show a different side of themselves at night. It’s when the light matters most of all.”

“Oh, you’re into this,” Brooke said but her tone wasn’t full of mockery; it held something like approval. Like she sensed this passion and didn’t ask him to tuck it away. The acknowledgment made him want to tell her more, to make it real, to hold this feeling close.

“People act like it’s some bastardization of black and white, but instead of the high contrast there, night photography deals in the shades and increments. It’s more subtle and sullen in a way black and white seldom is.” He could capture the dark alleys and the ribbons of light over glistening cobblestones and it could be dark and imperfect.

“Maybe a bit brooding?” She bit her lip but failed to hold back a smile, clearly talking about him.

“Are you teasing me?” he asked, a lightness in his stomach from the relief that she wasn’t closing him out anymore.

She headed down another path, reaching her hand out to brush the tidy evergreen tree and grinning over her shoulder. “I would never.”

The chill in the air stood no chance against the spark in his chest. The night held a sense of enchantment, an unbridled recklessness Jack wanted to get swept up in. Maybe he already had, as he imagined following Brooke deeper into the garden, tugging her under the briarwood trellis, kissing her breathless. Hands in her hair, thumbs stroking over the soft curve of her cheek, lips pressing secrets against hers. No one would see; no one would know.

But if he kissed her again, he wouldn’t want to stop.

“Look over there. You can see the Burns Monument lit up on the hill.”

Brooke turned so quickly, he nearly bumped into her. “Jack Sutherland, are you taking me on a writer’s tour?” She tipped her face up to his, a flicker of a question— Are you actually this smitten? —mixed in with the mirth dancing in her eyes like the stars.

He took a step back, his heart racing, and followed a different gravel path. “There are simply a fuck-ton of Scottish authors—the weather is such shit, there’s nothing left to do but sit round drinking or writing. I prefer the former, myself.” He set his camera on a wooden fence to stabilize it, centered the view on a shadowed park bench under the tree, a single golden leaf trailing from the reaching branch, and pressed the shutter.

Brooke stopped behind him, looking over his shoulder, and said, “Mmm-hmm,” the disbelieving sound skating over the back of his neck.

He held his breath, shutting off oxygen to his thundering heart before turning to her. “I have more to show you.”

They emerged from the secret garden onto the bustling High Street, the noise and the people a shock to his system he should’ve expected. Trailing behind him once again, Brooke felt suddenly out of reach, his heart beating in a reckless chant to have her to himself again.

He took a detour from his original aim, headed up the Royal Mile a few more blocks until they arrived at the steps of St. Giles’ Cathedral. The centuries-old church presided over the square. The intricate architecture and beautiful crown dome begged to be photographed.

“Is it even open?” she asked from beside him and he wanted to step closer, to tug her jacket until she fell against him.

“It’s a church.”

“But they’re not open all night.” She twisted her scarf in her hands as if she was nervous and he found he liked pushing her out of her comfort zone. Liked that she felt safe enough to do something brave with him.

“Might as well check.” Jack tugged the large vertical brass pull and the door swung open, music spilling out. Brooke’s smile and the citrus scent of her hair as she brushed past him and inside felt like a new beginning, like an adventure. He followed her into the dusty warmth of the sanctuary awash in shadows and the sliding sounds of mournful fiddle strings.

They rounded the main atrium, the arched ceiling lit in blue-and-red light. Propping his arm on the back of a wooden pew, Jack took a snapshot of the deep colors staining the brickwork, the multitudes of gray shadows clinging to the edges. The cathedral always held a moving grandiosity, but the concert he hadn’t expected added a layer of magic to the night.

The folk trio played on a small stage in the center of the room, the singer’s melancholy voice carrying and echoing in the expansive church over the soft tones of the accordion and guitar. A small gathering listened from wooden chairs.

Brooke had made her way farther into the sanctuary and leaned against a stone pillar, one foot hooked around the opposite ankle, watching. She looked captivated, her eyes wide, the slope of her shoulders relaxed, her lips parted.

He longed for her, not just for her touch, but to be the one to witness that kind of awe on her face. To make these adventures exactly what she wanted, so she might keep coming back to him.

All moments were fleeting, but some left their mark more than others. And Jack knew this one would live on for him. He raised his camera and zoomed in to capture the look of wonder on Brooke’s face, lit in glowing blue.

He went to stand by her, his shoulder brushing hers, and she turned full eyes on him. Unable to stop himself, he slipped his fingers along her palm and between her fingers. Her lips parted on a breath before she gave him a chastising sort of look, full of You told me we can’t do this , but she curled her fingers tightly around his anyway.

Jack held his breath as her thumb slid slowly over the back of his hand. As he listened to the staccato rhythm of the guitar, the swelling crescendo of the strings, the singer’s words about missing his love rang out in the cavernous room and made Jack miss something he’d never even had, but now knew enough to long for.

He felt an inevitability with Brooke, like the changing of the seasons. Like no matter how hard he fought it, he couldn’t change the outcome. He couldn’t seem to walk away.

When the concert ended and the crowd dispersed, Brooke slipped away with wistful eyes and Jack tracked her movements through the sanctuary, the light way she trailed her hand along the brickwork, the tilt of her chin as she admired the organs and chandeliers.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when a man in all black and a driving cap approached him. “We’re closin’ up.”

“Thanks,” Jack said. He could’ve stayed in the stillness of the sanctuary all night, basked in the peace and the hope he felt there, the tiny, stolen moment he didn’t want to give up. He meandered his way to the exit, so aware of Brooke, he could sense her behind him.

Outside, the night air held a stronger bite, the sky a darker black, the streetlights a golden yellow. She stood on the church steps, face tilted up to his. He’d been planning to walk her home, but couldn’t bear to part with her just yet. “I don’t want the night to end. Can I show you one last place?”

He wanted to show her this piece of himself because he wanted all of hers.

“I’d love that.”

They crossed the Royal Mile, which had settled for the evening, and he waited at the opening of Advocate’s Close. Brooke gave him a pirate’s salute. He huffed out a laugh as she made her way toward him. He shouldn’t love all these little secrets, shouldn’t stash them away as if preparing for winter, to return to on cold nights.

“Captain,” she said as she passed by him, close enough to touch, before they took the stairs down Advocate’s Close and crossed Waverley Bridge. The darkened Gothic spire of the Scott Monument reached up into the night. They crossed the manicured lawn and when Brooke saw where they were headed, she turned to him, her lips rolled inside, her eyes crinkling. There was no denying it—they were absolutely on a writer’s tour and he was absolutely this smitten.

He raised his camera to his eye to shield his flaming cheeks and snapped a photo of Sir Walter himself. Carved from marble and lofty ideals, the writer and philosopher perched on a pedestal beneath the four legs of the monument. Jack walked round the base to the tollbooth and grabbed hold of the lockbox.

“Can I get deported for breaking and entering?” Brooke asked, shifting her weight from foot to foot, either from cold or nerves.

“We’re not breaking in. I have the code.”

She didn’t look convinced, hands shoved deep in her pockets. “And how did you acquire this code?”

“What’s the most nefarious option you’re cooking up over there?”

She narrowed her eyes.

“From guiding. Old Marty gave it to me. He can’t remember a key to save his life and they had to replace the locks so many times, they finally gave up.” He gestured to the lockbox he’d just sprung open.

“And Old Marty doesn’t mind you stopping by after hours?”

“Och, he’d give us a right proper scolding. But he’s long since abed.”

Jack opened the door and pushed it open to the writer’s museum. Brooke hesitated on the threshold, peering into the dimly lit space.

“You’re living, remember? A big, exciting life,” he said.

She looked up at him, took a deep breath, and stepped inside. He followed her into the crisp, still air.

“Okay, this is so cool,” Brooke said in an excited whisper, bouncing on her toes beside him. “I never do anything like this. Like, I never even made out under the bleachers in high school.”

“That’s shocking,” he deadpanned, but he liked that. Didn’t want to imagine Brooke’s lips against anyone’s but his.

She moved in front of the large stained-glass window. “Whoa.” It wasn’t as impressive as it might’ve been during the day, sunlight splashing colors on the stone floor, but there was enough light from the city to illuminate the royal blues, light greens, and deep reds of the cloaked figure of Saint Andrew.

Jack raised his camera, resting an elbow against the wall to keep as still as possible.

“A charming guy at a party told me he knew a secret about the Scott Monument, but I never expected this,” Brooke said in a hushed voice.

“You don’t have to whisper, you know. There’s no one here,” he was pretty sure he said, but his brain was stuck on the word charming .

“I know, but it makes it more fun, doesn’t it?”

He could hear the smile in her voice. Jack shook his head but he loved this side of her, loved being the one to give her this experience she wouldn’t forget. Wherever the winds took her in her writing career, when she remembered Scotland, he wanted her to think of nights roaming the city with him. Of exploration. Of freedom.

“There’s more,” he said and they climbed the spiral stone staircase, the metal railing cold under his hand. He took pictures of the stairs for the contrast and the interesting lines and also as an excuse to take a break from the pain tightening in on his knee. But he’d fight through worse to show Brooke this place he loved.

“Logan and I used to come up here when we were first in uni, wild after a Hibs win and too much ale, but I come up here alone now. A place to think, to get above the noise of the city.”

She stalled and turned, tilting her head to study him, her hands gripping the fleur-de-lis cutouts of the keyhole windows. He couldn’t help imagining pinning her against the curved wall, kissing her until her breath went ragged. Or simply looping his arms around her waist and holding her close.

“Your sanctuary?”

“Aye.”

“Thanks for bringing me here,” she said, reverent.

When they made it to the viewing platform, the chill of the night breeze welcomed them. Brooke hugged the railing, staring down into the darkened gardens below.

“Jack, this is incredible,” she said in a rush, all amped up like they’d just robbed a bank, had plans to flee the country and live out their days on a white sandy beach.

He loved how excited she was, that she was getting something out of being with him, that this silly pact was starting to feel more and more important. Like they were on the cusp of greatness.

The city sounds wafted to them in the crisp air, the low rumble of engines, the slam of car doors. But they were removed from the bustle in the intimate quiet.

He leaned against the railing next to her. “I come up here for the reminder that there’s a world out there with lots of people with much bigger problems than mine. When my life feels out of my control, when the expectations feel like too much.” Like a camera, up here he zoomed out and the perspective shifted, bringing different details into focus.

Graffiti and etchings covered the walls, uncovering the original tan color of the stone from its aged black. He took a picture of the glittering city, the silhouette of the castle against the dark sky, the low-lit pillars of the museum, the wisps of Brooke’s hair swaying in the wind. Click .

She turned at the sound of the shutter snap. “You know you can tell me whatever. I’ll listen.”

Jack took a deep breath, startled and deeply comforted by this open invitation to share when he didn’t feel welcomed that way with the people who mattered most to him.

“I’ve tried so hard to be like my brothers, especially Logan. I have the same pride in my country, in the land and the history. But where my family enchants people from all over the world with our stories, I feel self-conscious and…performative maybe. I’ve been waiting for guiding or grad school—anything, really—to feel right. But I don’t want to get on tour buses or run spreadsheets for the business, no matter how disappointed my dad and brothers might be.”

“So what do you want, Jack?” She looked at him like they both already knew the answer. Like she was challenging him to name it. To stop hedging.

And that, right there, was why he knew this was more than some passing fancy for a beautiful woman. She saw to the heart of him. Understood and supported him.

He raised the camera to the jagged silhouette of the rooftops, the pearly face of the Balmoral clock tower. “This—connecting people through my photography, showing them the sweeping landscapes and the tiny details that provide a different perspective.” That felt like him. Like the extra piece of the puzzle that made him not quite fit might actually be a beautiful possibility.

“You know what I like about us?” she asked. “I tell stories with words and you tell them with pictures.” She turned back to look at him with her ocean eyes, her dark hair spinning out in a wave. Click .

The shutter snap reverberated all the way down to his soul.

Jack looked down at the picture he’d just taken, the side of the camera smooth against his hand. The display glowed with the blurred movement of Brooke’s hair, the rosy tint to her cheeks, the city lights sparkling like static electricity behind her. And that smile. That smile that made him believe he could do anything— be anything —with her by his side. An image he’d treasure forever.

He wanted more than these fleeting moments with Brooke. He didn’t want this to be fleeting at all. Because if he was being honest, he’d felt that click of certainty the first time she’d placed a hand in the center of his chest and looked up at him with those striking blue eyes.