20. Now
20
NOW
The bookshop café overlooked the harbor of the tiny fishing village of Portree. Brooke didn’t actually know if it was a fishing village—the town might’ve been a Condé Nast set—but little boats bobbed in the water out the window. Brooke had tea and a cozy armchair surrounded by books, and she was utterly charmed.
Jack sat across from her at the round bistro table, already on the phone with a hotel in town.
As much as a teeny, tiny, insignificant part of her had flushed at the thought of sleeping next to Jack again, obviously the situation was terrible. Horrible. Inconceivable that the capital of Skye would have exactly three outdoors shops and not a one would carry tents, only touristy pullovers for the wayward travelers who thought summer meant warm, even this far north.
Jack scrunched his eyes shut and rolled his neck in circles. He seemed stressed enough for the both of them and Brooke pushed away the pinch in her heart at his deep dedication to finding alternate accommodations.
She took a large sip of her tea, plugged in her phone, and sank back into the cushy muted pink chair with a sigh. Her body hummed with relief at the thought of not getting back on the trail today. They’d been pushing so hard through terrible conditions. She’d been pushing so hard against him , and it felt nice to soak up the smell of books and coffee and the comfort of a plush chair and let it all go.
The barista dropped off the warmed-up scone Brooke had ordered and she thanked them eagerly. It hadn’t even been that many days, but rehydrated food in a bag had nothing on clotted cream. Brooke rubbed her hands together just to see Jack’s smile.
He held his phone to his ear but his grin and the lightness in his eye made her go all mushy.
“Thanks for checking,” Jack said into the phone before setting it down with a heavy sigh. “They didn’t come right out and call me an eejit but the subtext was quite clear.”
From her research, she knew the population of Portree was less than the number of people cruise ships often dropped off for the day. The chance that they’d find a room without a reservation from eight months ago was slim. “You’ve guided here a minute, aye?” she asked.
Instead of laughing at her teasing, he said, “We’ll find something,” like he could will it into being with a good attitude. Brooke had long since given up that kind of optimism about the world.
While she inhaled her scone, Jack made more calls that all ended in “Thanks anyway.” Not to be completely outdone, she turned on her phone and looked through Airbnb. Nothing showed up within walking or cab distance, as she’d expected.
Jack scrolled through his phone. “I’ll reach out to some old friends from guiding, but beyond that, I’m out of ideas.” He ran his fingers through his hair and fisted the roots like he was downright despondent.
“You’re really committed to not sleeping in a tent with me tonight.” She did a terrible job keeping the defensiveness out of her voice.
A thought that should’ve occurred to her earlier clanged around her brain. It wasn’t her business and it had absolutely no bearing on anything whatsoever, but the words slipped free anyway. “You have a girlfriend or something?”
Jack watched her a little too intently before shaking his head. “No.”
Brooke shoved the last bite of scone in her mouth and tried to bury the butterflies in her stomach lest they spread their good cheer to her cheeks and give her away. She didn’t want to look too closely at the fact that, in her mind, Jack had always been a little bit hers .
“Have you checked the weather report? I didn’t want you to have to be out in that.”
“Oh.” So he was doing all this for her.
“I don’t mind sharing a tent, if you’ll have me.”
“I’ll have you.” Maybe she was imagining his eyes darkening.
“Alright. Then we’ll wild camp and it’ll be a long fucking night.”
Those words lit up her whole body—chest flushing, blood pounding—even though that was the last thing he meant. “Sounds good.” Brooke’s voice came out squeaky.
Jack’s cheeks flared pink like he’d noted his words, and he stood up. “I’ve sent some texts, so we’ll wait to hear back. Maybe we’ll get lucky,” he said as he made his way to the wall of bookshelves.
Anticipation zinged through Brooke’s veins. She wasn’t rooting against Jack’s efforts, but she couldn’t claim home team status, either.
She pulled out her notebook as Jack perused the spines. “Will I find you here? Sanders, Scott, Sinclair…”
Shame draped around Brooke’s shoulders and dragged her down. She never used to feel like that. She wasn’t sure if it was because it was Jack asking or if that day at the book signing had uncovered some discontent she hadn’t successfully reburied, but she hated that she couldn’t explain her work with one thousand percent confidence and conviction. “You won’t. I’m a ghostwriter.”
“That makes sense.”
Brooke bristled, her chest flushing hot and red. She’d expected his pity, maybe, that her dreams had veered so far off course, but expecting that of her was a low blow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Last night, you said you were a ghost.”
“Oh.” She’d meant more than the writing. Her whole life felt empty, like she was stuck in a purgatory that looked an awful lot like her white laminate writing desk.
“I can see you being great at that. The manuscript sounds just like Mhairi. You perfectly captured her voice: humble and matter-of-fact. Which isn’t at all how you talk about her.”
Brooke tossed her pen at him and he held up his hands in self-defense and gave her a playful smirk.
But Jack was right. If she was writing a biography, she’d write it differently. She’d let Mhairi be larger than life, wouldn’t box her in to a fraction of her real impact. And maybe that was the problem.
“Can I ask you something?”
Jack knew Mhairi in a way no editor could. She wanted his opinion even if it meant revealing her shortcomings. But he never judged her or measured her against her accomplishments, even when she’d wanted him to. “I feel like I’m missing an important piece of this narrative.”
“Alright…”
“What do you think makes Mhairi so special?”
“That she asks flowers permission before picking them.”
“I’m serious.”
“I am, too.”
Brooke gave him a flat look.
Jack tipped a book off the shelf before scooping the pen off the floor. He tucked it behind his ear and sank into the armchair at their table. “I think Mhairi sees…not the best in people, but the truth to them. Until you came along, she was the only one who really saw I wasn’t happy. Maybe even more than I did. She has a way of encouraging people to meet their potential, maybe.”
Brooke felt the same way. Seen. Understood. Challenged. Mhairi’s sense of wonder and curiosity inspired people to be greater than they were; Brooke was a better writer and person for knowing her.
“I’ve been so focused on capturing the details of what Mhairi’s most proud of—the trail development and the impact it’s had on the land and tourism, but when we were talking to Cat and Nat, even though they chose to hike this particular trail, they didn’t care much about how it got here, but they would be interested in Mhairi.”
“Can you blame them?”
Brooke had made the trail the main character, but that wasn’t right at all. This story wasn’t about the impact of the trail; it was about Mhairi’s impact on the world. Brooke laid her head on the table. “I feel like I’m fucking this all up.”
“Sometimes we have to fuck it all up to know how to do it right.” Jack touched her forearm, the pads of his fingers gentle against her skin. “She trusts you to tell her story. She chose you. And I have every faith you can do this.”
Brooke looked up at the earnestness on Jack’s face, that en couragement in his dark eyes she hadn’t realized she’d missed so much.
Jack used to tell her she was clever or perfect and she’d glow under the praise like those words were the biggest compliments she could ever receive. But they were nothing compared to this. “Thank you,” she said a bit breathlessly.
Mhairi had encouraged her to live more boldly, but Jack had taught her how. She’d done the best writing of her life with him by her side. Because he made her feel safe enough to take risks.
She felt that support now. That blooming creativity welling up inside her. “I think I have an idea.”
Brooke pulled out her notebook and busied herself taking notes on how she’d revise the book. She’d include more of Mhairi’s stories, more of Jack’s stories. The ones that showed Mhairi’s zest for life, her creativity, her love of livestock as shopping companions.
Brooke filled pages of her notebook, crossing things out, writing in the margins, handwriting so sloppy she might not be able to read it later, but she needed to get all the ideas out of her head before she lost them. She hadn’t felt that rush of a story pouring out of her in so long.
Brain swirling, she stared at the bookshelf while she thought of where these new pieces slotted into the draft.
Jack shifted in his chair, blinked with tired eyes. He set his book on the table, dug around in his pack, grabbed a toiletry bag and headed to the bathroom.
Brooke went back to her notebook, writing down a story Mhairi had told her over tea in her kitchen last winter about the Troublesome Trio, three brothers she grew up with on Skye.
The vine-painted door swung open and Jack stepped out—wearing his glasses. The gold-and-brown-speckled frames accentuated those irresponsibly long eyelashes, rested against the light freckles dusting his cheekbones. After four days of not shaving, thick stubble covered his chin and jaw. He pushed his dark hair—curly on top from the rain—away from his forehead with a casual sweep of his fingers. Brooke’s heart beat with a heavy echo in her chest.
“Captain.”
The word came out breathless instead of teasing. Jack’s head snapped up and his stride hitched, but the smile that bloomed across his face was the full version where his straight teeth showed and his eyes crinkled—heartbreakingly tentative and hopeful.
It’d be so easy to fall for Jack again. She could trip right back into it if she wasn’t careful.
He crouched to get into his bag and his knee popped so loudly it made Brooke grimace. “Are you a hundred years old?” she asked.
“Some of us have football injuries, thank you.”
Brooke studied his face. The teasing was there, but he also wasn’t joking. “Wait, from me?”
“Well, from Johnny Kendrick, but yes, that game.”
That game. “That was the first time I was sure you liked me.”
Jack tipped his head down, his tongue coming out to wet his bottom lip. “Och, I was in over my head long before that.”
His eyes met hers and Brooke’s stomach fluttered from the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. On second thought, this was a terrible thing to talk about before snuggling up in a tent together.
His phone rang, buzzing on the table.
“This is Jack Sutherland.” He moved the phone to his other ear. “You do? Yes. We’ll take it. Can I pay you over the phone?” He dug into his pack for an old leather wallet Brooke recognized and mouthed “I’m buying” before reading out his credit card information. “Thanks, mate.” Jack hung up and turned a broad grin her way. “It’s not a hotel, but you’re still going to be excited.”
Brooke took a fortifying sip of her tea, hiding her grin behind her cup. “Tell me.”
“The Portree campsite has a spot. And…they have showers.”
She pretended to swoon over the arm of her chair. “That’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”