Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ELLIE
The drive took about forty minutes, and I couldn’t tell you a single thing we passed.
I mean, I’m sure there were hills. Trees. Probably a loch or two because this is the Highlands and you can’t go five minutes without one. But I spent most of the journey acutely aware of Douglas’s left hand resting on the centre console, close enough to mine that I could feel the warmth of it.
We talked about nothing in particular. The weather. A book I’ve been reading about the Brahan Seer, Scotland’s Nostradamus. Whether Logan will hug his puffin toy at Finn’s tonight or leave it in his bag. But somehow it felt like everything.
Now we’re here. Bannock.
Douglas pulls into a space on the main street—very originally called Main Street—and cuts the engine. He glances at me. “Well, shall we?”
“Aye.”
We get out, and I glance around. Oh, this is lovely.
Stone buildings with doors painted in different colours and window boxes spilling over with spring flowers.
A bakery, a café called the Coffee Bothy, a pub called the Pheasant, plus the usual scatter of other small-town shops.
The town sits in a valley between wooded hills, and the evening light catches here and there—on a rooftop, in an upper window—while the rest of the street stays cool and shadowed.
“It’s so pretty,” I say. I’d normally be reaching for my camera by now, but I left it at home. This weekend I don’t want to be behind a lens. I want to be in the moment.
Douglas, who’s getting our bags out of the boot, looks around. “Aye, it is. A small Highland town with everything you need and nothing you don’t. Apart from being inland, it’s not a million miles away from Ardmara, I suppose.”
But it’s not Ardmara, and that’s the whole point. I’m not ten minutes from the library, or five minutes from Mum’s house, or within earshot of anyone who’s known me since I was in nappies. I’m somewhere new, with Douglas, and the freedom of that makes me a little giddy.
The Bannock Hotel is a handsome three-storey stone building set right on the main street. Inside, the reception area is small but welcoming. Pleasant smells drift from a restaurant off to one side. Behind the desk, a tall man with chestnut hair and brown eyes looks up and smiles.
“Evening,” he says. “Checking in?”
“Hi, yes. It should be under Macpherson.”
“Macpherson . . .” He checks the screen. “Aye, here we are. One room, two nights. Welcome to the Bannock Hotel. I’m Lewis. Anything you need during your stay, just ask.”
As Lewis hands us our room key—an actual key on a wooden fob—a black Lab ambles through from another room and comes over to say hello.
“Oh, look at you!” I bend to pet him. “You’re lovely.”
“That’s Bruce,” Lewis says, grinning. “He loves a bit of attention.”
Douglas gives the dog a good scratch too, then we head upstairs to our room.
It’s lovely. Really lovely. Only, the large bed takes up a significant portion of the floor space—and a significant portion of my attention.
White linen. Plump pillows. A green quilted throw folded neatly at the foot.
This is the bed Douglas and I will be sleeping in tonight. Together.
I look away from it and try to focus on the rest of the room instead.
Cream walls. A sash window looking out onto the main street and towards the hills beyond.
Thick curtains in a muted tartan. There’s a chest of drawers with a vase of fresh flowers on top, a wardrobe, and a small armchair upholstered in green velvet.
The bathroom door stands ajar, revealing white tiles and fluffy towels folded on a rail.
“This is nice,” I say, a little too brightly. “Look at the view. You can see the hills.”
“Aye,” Douglas says, setting his bag down. “It’s a good room.”
“Very good.”
A moment of silence stretches between us. I’m standing in a hotel room with the man I have wanted for years, a man who kissed me on a boat under the stars, and neither of us seems capable of saying anything more sophisticated than that the room is good.
“I’ll just—” I gesture vaguely towards the bathroom. “Freshen up.”
“Aye. I’ll, er, unpack a bit.”
I escape to the bathroom and close the door, then lean against it and breathe.
You’ve got this, Ellie. Don’t panic.
I wash my hands, check my hair in the mirror, and head back out.
Douglas is pulling a couple of pairs of boxer briefs from his bag, and at the sight of them my mind goes straight to last Saturday. On the boat. My hand on his jeans. His cock hard beneath my palm.
Oh God. So much for going to the bathroom to calm down. Now I’m more flustered than ever.
“So,” I say quickly. “Dinner?”
“Aye.” Douglas drops his underwear in a drawer then pats his stomach. “I’m used to eating early—comes with being up before dawn—so I’m more than ready.”
“Great. Er, there’s a restaurant downstairs, but I was thinking we could save that for tomorrow night? There’s that pub down the road, the Pheasant. Could be nice?”
“A pub down the road sounds perfect.”
The Pheasant is the kind of pub that makes you relax the moment you step inside.
Stone walls, dark wooden tables, a fire crackling in the grate.
It’s busy without being rammed—clusters of folk at the bar, a few couples at tables, the hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter.
The lighting is low and warm, and the whole place smells of wood smoke and good food.
Behind the bar, a woman with vividly dyed hair—purple at the roots, fading through magenta into bright pink at the ends—is pulling a pint. I’ve always been impressed by people who wear themselves like that. No apology, no hedging. Just: this is me, take it or leave it.
Tonight I’m not neon-hair levels of bold, but my hair is down, and underneath my denim jacket I’m wearing a long pale pink dress made of soft floaty fabric, cinched at the waist, with flutter sleeves and a V-neckline that reveals a fair bit of cleavage.
Two weeks ago I’d have been in a shapeless jumper and a ponytail.
This evening I look like a woman who’s chosen to be seen, and it doesn’t feel as terrifying as it once would have.
We find a table near the fire, and as I sit down, I slip off my jacket and drape it over the back of my chair. Douglas’s gaze drops—briefly but unmistakably—to my boobs before he catches himself. A spark of delight flickers through me. Not embarrassment. Not panic. Delight.
A tall man with chestnut hair and hazel eyes comes over to hand us menus and take our drinks order. I do a double take.
“Sorry,” I say. “But are you related to the man at reception at the Bannock Hotel?”
He grins. “Aye, that’s my brother, Lewis. I’m Jamie. There’s no escaping the McIntyres in this town.” He shrugs cheerfully. “Anyway, what can I get you tonight?”
We order drinks—wine for me, a pint for Douglas—then study the menus. The food is hearty and unfussy: pies, steaks, fish, all the usual pub staples. When Jamie comes back with our drinks, Douglas orders the steak and I go for chicken in peppercorn sauce.
After Jamie heads off, Douglas settles back in his chair, pint in hand, and looks at me across the table. “So,” he says. “Here we are.”
“Here we are.”
We smile at each other like a pair of idiots, and I don’t even care.
The first drink loosens us both, the second loosens us more, and the distance from Ardmara does the rest. No one here knows us, no one is watching us, no one is going to report anything back to anyone.
It’s just Douglas and me, in a pub, in a town where we can be ourselves, with nothing weighing us down.
It’s different from the boat, though. On the boat we were still circling each other, still testing. Here, we’ve already kissed. We’ve already touched. We’ve already booked a room with one bed. The question isn’t if anymore. It’s when, and that changes everything.
Even so, the conversation is light, at first anyway.
Douglas tells me stories about the twins, and I counter with tales from the library: the weird questions, the solemn complaints, the tiny dramas that somehow become the most important things in the world to the people telling them.
Before long we’re both laughing, and I can’t help but notice how it transforms Douglas’s face.
He looks younger, lighter, like the man he might have been if life hadn’t loaded so much onto his shoulders.
I want to make him laugh like this every day.
The food arrives, generous, hot, and delicious. We eat, and the conversation shifts from easy to personal.
“I think Mum knows,” Douglas says, cutting into his steak. “About us.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Aye. When I said I’d be away this weekend, she asked if you were coming. I said no, but I don’t think she bought it.”
“Ah. Well, I hope mine doesn’t know.”
“You haven’t told her?”
“God, no. She also thinks I’ve gone away by myself.” I take a sip of wine. “Her values are quite . . . traditional. A married man—even a separated one—would be . . .” I trail off. “Well, she wouldn’t understand.”
Douglas nods. He doesn’t look offended. “How is your mum? I used to see her about town every now and again, but I can’t remember the last time I spotted her.”
“She doesn’t get out much anymore. Church on Sundays, and that’s about it.
” I set my fork down. “Honestly? It’s becoming a bit of a problem.
I don’t mean she’s a problem—she’s my mum, and I’ll always look after her.
But it’s . . . a lot, for me. And for her .
. . she used to have a busy social life, but now it’s like her world has contracted until I’m most of what’s in it.
Even this weekend, I got food in for her and arranged for Margaret from church to check in on her a couple of times, but Mum acted like I was abandoning her. ”
Douglas’s expression softens. “I’m sorry, Ellie. I hadn’t realised. That sounds hard.”