Chapter 10
Gwen was elbow-deep in tour research when someone knocked on her kitchen door.
She glanced up from the stack of historical documents spread across her table—primary sources for the new Witch Trial walking tour she was developing—and felt her pulse do something ridiculous when she saw Forbes MacLeod standing on her back porch.
He looked unreasonably good for a Thursday afternoon. Wool coat, scarf knotted just so, that quiet intensity in his eyes that made her feel like the most interesting thing in any room.
She wiped her dusty hands on her jeans and opened the door.
“This is a surprise.”
“A good one, I hope.” He smiled—that slow, real smile she was learning to look for. “I was in the neighborhood.”
“Were you?”
“No. I walked twenty minutes out of my way.” He said it without embarrassment. “I wanted to see ye.”
Well. That was direct.
“In that case, come in.” She stepped aside. “Fair warning—I’m in full research mode. There’s paper everywhere.”
Forbes surveyed the document-covered table with obvious interest. “Primary sources?”
“Court records, mostly. I’m building a new tour focused on the actual trial testimonies rather than the Hollywood version.
” She moved a stack of photocopies to make room.
“People always want the drama, but real documents are more interesting. The specific language people used, the accusations, the defenses that didn’t work—”
“The human details,” Forbes finished, settling into a chair like he belonged there.
“Exactly.”
She watched him pick up one of the documents, handling it carefully, reading with real attention. He didn’t ask permission or wait to be invited. Just... engaged. Like her work was worth his time.
It was stupidly attractive.
“This is fascinating,” he said. “The phrasing here — ‘did see a shape like unto a pig’—ye can almost hear the witness trying tae sound credible.”
“Right? They’re performing for the court.
Trying to use the right vocabulary.” Gwen leaned against the counter, warming to the topic.
“Most of the accusers were functionally illiterate, but they knew what a proper accusation was supposed to sound like. So you get this weird formal language mixed with very specific local details.”
“The intersection of official narrative and lived experience.”
“Yes! That’s exactly—” She caught herself and laughed. “Sorry. I get excited about this stuff.”
“Don’t apologize.” Forbes looked up at her, something warm in his expression. “I could listen to ye talk about trial documents all day.”
“That’s either very flattering or very concerning.”
“Bit of both, probably.”
They grinned at each other, and Gwen felt that pull again—the one that had been building since the coffee date, since the cheek-kiss, since he’d first looked at her like she was worth seeing.
“I actually came because I couldnae wait until tomorrow,” Forbes said, setting down the document.
“Impatient?”
“Apparently.” His mouth quirked. “I’ve been thinking about dinner. Seven still works for ye?”
“Seven works.”
“Good.” He held her gaze. “I should warn ye again—my culinary skills are more theoretical than practical. I’m no’ above ordering backup if things go sideways.”
“Should I bring a fire extinguisher? Takeout menus?”
“Yer faith in me is touching.”
“I’m a practical woman.”
Forbes laughed—that quick, genuine sound she’d come to crave. “Just bring yerself. That’s all I want.”
Just us.
Something fluttered low in her stomach.
“It’s a date,” she said softly.
“Aye.” He held her gaze. “It is.”
The air between them shifted. Charged.
Forbes stood slowly, not breaking eye contact. He moved toward her—unhurried, deliberate—and Gwen held her breath.
“Gwen.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been thinking about something since yesterday.”
“What’s that?”
He stopped close enough that she could smell cedar and wool and something warm underneath. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.
“This,” he said softly.
His hand rose to her face, fingers brushing her jaw. Gentle. Questioning.
Gwen’s heart hammered. Her whole body leaned toward him without conscious permission.
“Forbes—”
The kitchen door burst open.
“Gwen! Emergency planning session, I brought wine, and—” Sydney stopped dead, takeout bag in one hand, bottle in the other, eyes widening as she took in the scene. “Oh. Oh. I am so sorry. I should have texted.”
Forbes stepped back with remarkable composure, though his jaw tightened slightly.
“We were just talking,” Gwen managed, her face burning.
“Uh-huh.” Sydney’s expression said she wasn’t fooled for a second. “Talking. With his hand on your face. Very academic.”
“Sydney.”
“I’m just observing.” But she was already retreating toward the door. “You know what, I’ll come back. In an hour. Or two. However long you need.”
“It’s fine.” Forbes reached for his coat, his voice calm despite the interruption. “I was just leaving.” He turned to Gwen, holding her gaze with unmistakable intent. “Tomorrow. Seven o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Good.” He nodded to Sydney—polite, unbothered—and let himself out.
The door clicked shut.
Gwen and Sydney stared at each other.
“So,” Sydney said, setting down the wine. “That was happening.”
“That was about to happen.” Gwen pressed her hands to her flushed cheeks. “Your timing is legendary.”
“In my defense, you never lock your door.” Sydney dropped into a chair, grinning. “He was going to kiss you.”
“I’m aware.”
“Like, really kiss you. That was not a cheek-kiss situation.”
“I’m aware.”
“And you were going to let him.”
“Obviously.” Gwen grabbed two glasses from the cabinet. “I’ve been thinking about kissing him since the coffee date. Possibly since the tour. Definitely since he defended oral tradition to that condescending tourist.”
“That’s very specific.”
“It was very attractive.”
Sydney laughed and poured the wine. “For what it’s worth, he looked visibly pained when I interrupted. Like I’d taken away his favorite book mid-chapter.”
“Good.” Gwen accepted her glass. “He can wait until tomorrow.”
“Dinner at his place?”
“He’s cooking.”
“Can he cook?”
“He claims his skills are ‘more theoretical than practical.’” Gwen smiled despite herself. “I’m bringing low expectations and backup restaurant options.”
“Smart woman.” Sydney clinked her glass against Gwen’s. “So. Tomorrow night. Dinner with the Scottish author who looks at you like you’re the answer to every question he’s ever asked.”
“He doesn’t—”
“Gwen. I was standing right there. That man is gone for you.” Sydney’s expression softened. “And based on your face when I walked in, the feeling’s mutual.”
Gwen thought about Forbes’s hand on her jaw. The warmth in his voice when he said just bring yerself. The way he’d read her trial documents like they mattered.
“Yeah,” she admitted. “It might be.”
Sydney raised her glass. “To terrible timing and second chances.”
“To tomorrow,” Gwen countered.
“To tomorrow.”
They drank, and Gwen smiled at nothing in particular.
Twenty-four hours until dinner. She could wait that long.
Probably.