Chapter 5 #2
“Evening, team,” Struan says, dropping into his chair. He glances at me sideways, a grin already forming. “So, Ellie, I hear you’ve been making waves. Literally.”
“Oh, ha ha.”
“If we had a local paper, you’d be front-page news. Douglas Fraser, local hero. Ellie Macpherson, damsel in distress. I’m thinking of writing a ballad.”
“Please don’t.”
“Too late. First verse is already done. Oh, the lass went to sea with her camera in hand—”
“Struan.”
“—But she hadn’t a clue about rocks or dry land—”
“I will break your guitar.”
He laughs and holds up his hands in surrender. Ainsley, who has been watching this exchange with an amused smile, steps over and puts a hand on my arm.
“Ignore him. I’m glad you’re okay, Ellie. It must have been really scary.”
“It was a bit,” I admit. “But I’m fine. Just embarrassed.”
“Don’t be.” She squeezes my arm, then heads over to a table where Blair and Lachlan are already sitting. I hadn’t even noticed them. I wave, and Blair waves back.
I scan the rest of the room. Familiar faces, mostly. A few tourists at the bar. No Douglas.
I tell myself I’m relieved. I should be. So why the pang of disappointment?
After tuning his guitar, Struan glances at me and Rab to confirm we’re ready, then leans into the mic.
“Right, folks. We’re the Celtic Kicks. I’m Struan, this is Ellie on fiddle, and Rab on the box.
We’ll be playing a mix of folk tunes and ceilidh reels tonight, so if you fancy a dance, don’t be shy. ”
A cheer from a table near the bar, and someone bangs their pint glass on wood. Rab counts us in, and we launch into the first tune, a bright, driving reel.
I know this tune inside out. My fingers find the notes without thinking, the bow moving fast and sure across the strings.
The music wraps around me, and for a few bars everything else falls away: the embarrassment, the gnawing awareness that Douglas might walk through that door at any moment.
This is the one night a week where I feel most free.
Not the librarian, not the daughter, not the woman who keeps her life small and tidy.
Just the fiddler. The music demands all of me, and I give it willingly.
Then the pub door opens, and Douglas walks in.
His hair is damp, like he’s recently showered, and it makes the red deeper than usual. His scruff is neater too, as though he’s made a bit of effort tonight. He’s wearing a blue checked shirt, unbuttoned over a plain white T-shirt.
He nods to a few people as he passes, exchanges a word with someone at the bar, and collects a pint. Then he makes his way to the table where Lachlan, Blair, and Ainsley are sitting. Lachlan shifts his chair to make room. Douglas sits down, takes a drink, and turns his attention to the stage.
My bow wavers—only for a moment, but enough to put a wobble in the note. Rab’s eyes flick towards me. A quick glance, nothing more. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.
I recover. The reel barrels on and I throw myself into it, letting the tempo carry me.
But I’m aware of him now, completely aware of him.
We move into the second tune, then the third.
Struan is in fine form, cracking jokes, working the crowd with that effortless charm of his.
When he sings a rather bawdy fishing song, he has the pub erupting with laughter.
I catch him shooting a wink at Ainsley during the chorus.
She shakes her head at him, but she’s smiling.
I keep playing. I keep not looking at Douglas, or at least trying not to. But every time there’s the slightest pause, my eyes drift to his table like they’re magnetised.
Is he watching me?
No. He chats to Lachlan. He drinks his pint. He occasionally glances at the stage—but never, so far as I notice, specifically at me.
What’s he thinking? And why oh why am I thinking about the way he held me in the water when I’m supposed to be focused on this tune?
Then one time when I glance his way, our eyes meet across the pub, and my stomach drops like I’ve missed a step on a staircase.
It’s only a second—maybe less—before his gaze moves on, but it’s enough.
Enough to make me come in a beat early on the next phrase, my bow jumping ahead of Struan’s guitar.
Struan covers for me seamlessly, stretching a chord to pull us back together, but he shoots me a quick look, eyebrows raised.
I shake my head slightly. I’m fine. I refocus, lock onto the rhythm, and finish the reel without another slip.
But my heart is hammering, and it has nothing to do with the tempo.
Applause fills the pub, and I lower my bow, flexing my fingers. They’re stiff. I’ve been gripping too hard.
Struan leans into the mic. “Thank you very much. We’ll be back in a wee bit, but before we take a short break, I think we should all raise a glass to Ardmara’s very own hero.
Yesterday, Douglas Fraser bravely rescued Ellie here from the treacherous rocks of the Sgeirean Glas. Douglas, stand up and take a bow!”
Oh no.
The pub erupts. There are cheers and whistles, and heads turn towards Douglas’s table. Douglas, whose face has gone the colour of his hair, shakes his head. He does not stand up. Lachlan claps him on the back, laughing. Blair grins.
“Come on, Douglas!” someone shouts from the bar. “On your feet!”
“Hope she was worth the wet boots, pal!” another voice calls.
Douglas raises his pint in reluctant acknowledgement—the smallest possible gesture that still counts as a response—and takes a long drink, clearly wishing he were anywhere else.
As for me, I smile. Because what else can I do? The smile is the only thing between me and total disintegration.
Douglas’s blue eyes find mine across the noise. For a moment we look at each other, united in the silent understanding that this is excruciating.
Then, mercifully, the break begins. Rab heads for the bar. Struan puts down his guitar, stands, stretches, and is quickly absorbed into a group near the fireplace. I set my fiddle in its case and close the lid.
Douglas, I notice, gets up to go to the bar too. Given he rescued me yesterday, I reckon I owe him a drink. So I smooth a hand over the baggy denim dress I’m wearing and make my way over.
I’m stopped twice on the way—more good-natured, albeit embarrassing, teasing about the incident. By the time I reach the bar, Douglas has already been served: two pints and two glasses of white wine are lined up on a tray in front of him. He’s reaching for his wallet.
I step in beside him and tap my phone against the card reader.
He turns. “What? Ellie, you don’t have to—”
“I owe you,” I say. “For yesterday. And for the public humiliation just now, even though that was technically Struan’s fault.”
Up close, he smells clean—soap and something faintly woody, with just a trace of salt underneath, as though the sea never quite washes off him.
It’s warm in here, and he’s rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.
His forearms are freckled and solid and dusted with fine reddish hair.
There’s a small scar on his left hand, near the knuckle, pale against the weathered skin. I find myself staring at it.
I should not be cataloguing his forearms and hands. I’m at a bar in a crowded pub.
We both start to speak at the same time.
“I just wanted to—”
“About yesterday—”
We stop. A small laugh escapes us both, the kind that comes from shared awkwardness rather than anything actually funny.
“You first,” Douglas says.
I take a breath. “I didn’t say it properly yesterday, on the boat. I was too flustered, and cold, and embarrassed. But—thank you. Really. I mean it. You went out of your way, and I’m grateful.”
He shakes his head. “Anyone else would’ve done the same. You don’t need to thank me.”
“I do, though. So just . . . accept it. Please.”
“All right. You’re welcome. Now, tell me, did you at least get some decent photos before you ran aground?”
“I did. They turned out well—really well, actually. It was almost worth it. Almost. I’ve put a couple of the pictures up in the library.”
“Aye? I’ll have a look next time I’m in.”
I nod, trying hard not to look as pleased as I suddenly feel. “In the photo of the seals, there’s this big grey one hauled out on the rocks with his head tilted back, like he’s sunbathing. He looks so relaxed.”
“They’ve got the right idea, the seals. No school runs. No creels to haul. No stress. They just lie about on a rock all day.”
I giggle at this, and then, to my surprise, we go on talking.
About nothing in particular—the seals, the photos, boats.
But it’s easy, warm. Normally, Douglas has the twins with him and is distracted, or else I get a bit shy and clam up, so conversations are brief.
But tonight it all feels comfortable, almost like yesterday’s little mishap has nudged us closer together.
Then, “Well, well, well.” Struan materialises at Douglas’s shoulder, grinning like a man who has spotted something entertaining and has no intention of letting it pass unremarked.
He’s got a fresh pint in one hand and mischief written across every inch of his face.
“Should I come back later, or are you two enjoying a private moment?”
It’s nothing, just Struan being Struan—the same easy, teasing energy he brings to everything. He’s already half laughing at his own joke. It’s the kind of throwaway comment that should bounce off and disappear into the noise of the pub.
But something shifts in Douglas.
If I weren’t standing right next to him, if I weren’t so stupidly attuned to every change in his body language, I might not even notice.
But I do. I notice the way his shoulders pull back.
The way his jaw tightens. The way he steps sideways—not dramatically, not even a full step—but enough that the gap between us widens from companionable to polite.
“Unlikely,” he says. “I’m hardly available, am I?”
And there it is. A correction to a misunderstanding that nobody actually made.
I smile, the kind of smile that says of course, obviously, don’t be daft.
Whatever small pleasant thing had been building between us collapses in on itself.
“Anyway.” Douglas turns away and picks up the tray of drinks. “Cheers for the round, Ellie.”
“No bother.”
And with that, he heads back to the table.
Struan glances after Douglas, then looks at me, his eyebrows lifting in apology. “Right,” he says. “Back to it, eh?”
I nod then follow him back to the stage area. My legs feel normal. My face feels normal. Everything is normal and absolutely, completely fine.
Except it isn’t.
I’m hardly available, am I?
No, he’s not. Because he’s married.
I need to stop doing this to myself. It’s not healthy.
I have got to get over this stupid crush.