Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
T he air held a chill that hinted at rain. Bye, heatwave. Was a lovely summer. Kirsty leaned against the Seaview’s counter, the smell of ground coffee around her like a hug. Although the atmosphere was anything but comforting. The café was quiet, save for the wheeze and whistle of the evil espresso machine. Her parents, standing with arms crossed, were a united front of worry and reproach.
Her mum was the first to break, words an avalanche of concern. ‘Kirsty, did you not think we’d worry? You could’ve been lying in a ditch.’
Her father grunted, his weathered face softening ever so slightly at the edges.
Kirsty rolled her eyes but held her ground. ‘Oh, come off it, Maw.’ Her voice carried a playful lilt, but the edge was there. ‘I wasn’t alone, was I?’ She motioned toward Connor, whose presence acted as both a shield and a silent declaration of her adulthood.
Her mother sighed, the tension in her shoulders deflating. ‘I ken that now, pet. But you left no word, so we couldn’t know. You just thought of yourself again.’
Kirsty could handle their concern, the barely veiled disappointment was harder to digest. ‘I’m thirty-three, not thirteen. I think I can manage a sleep-over without needing a search party, thank you very much.’
Connor’s hand found the small of her back in subtle support. He had her back, quite literally.
Her mother narrowed her eyes. ‘You only do what you want. You never think of us.’
Kirsty stiffened at the accusation. The heat of frustration licked at her cheeks and the twinge of guilt nudged at her resolve. The same one that had played hide-and-seek with her conscience since she’d packed her bags for London all those years ago. ‘Do you hear yourself, Maw? It was an honest mistake. I was with Connor.’ The same Connor, who had once been as much a fixture in this house as the faded wallpaper upstairs.
‘I’m not only talking about last night,’ her mother said. ‘We need your help. God knows it’s only getting worse from here.’
‘I know but—’
‘And with your writing. That’s not a proper job,’ she added angrily. ‘You’re selling yourself short. And don’t start with the creativity-thing. What exactly are you creating, anything of value?’
Bullseye. Hit and sunk.
Kirsty inhaled sharply, her composure teetering on the edge. Connor’s quiet encouragement knitting together the cracks in her armour. ‘At least it pays my bills.’
‘Och, your bills. It’s only ever you, you, you.’
‘That’s not true, Liz.’ Connor stepped into the breach then, his voice calm but carrying a glint of steel. ‘She bust her arse at the festival stand. Didn’t even sleep, spent the nights baking. Came here the instant you needed her. Was her staying out all night daft? Aye. But it was an honest mistake. She’s not a bairn. She’s a thirty-three-year-old woman. Working hard. Anybody with eyes can see that. And she had the guts to follow her dreams. I admire that.’
Warmth bloomed inside her. It was empowering, the realisation that someone stood by her. And not just anyone. Him. Her heart swelled with gratitude. Also, he knew exactly how old she was without having to think.
Then the shame kicked in.
If he knew what I was actually doing, he would never, ever say that.
Connor would be so disappointed to learn what her dream of being a writer had turned into. She’d left Cairnhaven – him – and for what?
Her mother’s lips formed a thin line, her eyes flitting between Kirsty and Connor, as if seeing the man who stood before her for the first time.
‘I think what your maw means,’ her father interjected, ‘is that we’re not getting any younger, Kirsty. And we miss you.’
‘It might come as a surprise, but I miss yous, too.’
Her parents relaxed, the lines of concern on their faces easing. ‘We just worry, love. With everything going on,’ her mum said, the fears finally given voice.
Her father’s illness, her mother’s surgery… It was all stewing under the surface, invisible but everywhere.
‘I know,’ Kirsty replied, feeling a bridge mending, however faintly. ‘But I’m okay. We’re okay. It will be okay.’
There was a silent communication only decades of marriage could afford between her mum and dad before he grunted again and said, ‘Now get some breakfast and then we’ll talk about the paint job.’
The scent of freshly cracked paint wafted to her nose as Kirsty dipped her brush into the dusky rose pigment. The café had closed early this afternoon so that she could finally make good on her promise to fix its chipped walls. And Connor had volunteered to help. As if he had nothing better to do.
She glanced over at him. He was already brushing paint on, the muscles in his forearms flexed with each measured stroke. Hard work had carved them. Carved them good.
A flutter rushed through her chest. The way his dark hair caught the light had Kirsty biting back a wistful sigh.
God, this man. This sweet, grumpy, gorgeous man. All those years she’d thought he didn’t love her enough, didn’t care. But he did. Right? Why else would he be here? Cairnhaven was a boring place, but not that boring.
He stepped back to assess his progress, nibbling on his nail.
‘You know, Bannerman, I’m thinking you’ve got a bit of an oral fixation.’ She bumped his hip with her own. ‘Look at you, having a go at your finger.’
Connor’s eyes gleamed with wicked mirth. ‘You’d know all about my oral fixation, wouldn’t you, Freckles?’
‘I do now, thank heavens,’ she said.
That man had a mouth on him. In all the best ways. The recollection of his masterful tongue, mere hours ago… The sight of him as he’d looked up to her between her thighs, chin glistening and eyes smugly satisfied, was enough to make her pulse race with heat all over again.
But her parents’ café was very much not the place.
‘Judging by how you insist on calling me Freckles, I think you might also suffer of hyperpigmentation-envy. But fear not,’ she said and flicked her brush at his face, ‘I got you covered.’ Sprinkles of paint dashed over his nose.
‘Munro, you’re a bloody menace,’ he growled, but she caught the tell-tale curl of his lips. He dipped his brush into the paint and flung it at her, splattering across her chest.
She danced out of his reach, her brush flicking a glob of paint across his lips in retaliation. With a twitch of his wrist, he sent a cascade of paint splattering across her face. She let out an indignant squawk that dissolved into laughter as she chased after him.
All worries melted away.
She caught him, probably because he let her, dipped her finger into the paint on his shirt, and swiped it across the bridge of his nose. ‘You look really hot in pink, Bannerman.’
He pulled her in. The laughter died on her lips as he captured her face between his paint-splattered hands, his thumbs brushing away the traces of their playful duel. There was something in his eyes, deep and lingering. Moss-green that smoked with promise. His calloused palms barely skimmed her skin as he angled her jaw towards him. Like he was afraid she might break or disappear.
She closed her eyes, giving in to being held by him. Just held.
‘And you look really hot naked in my bed, Munro.’ His voice gravelled so low, she physically felt it everywhere. She inhaled sharply, turpentine and paint mixing with the scent of pine and soap that was his. ‘How hot?’ she managed to ask.
‘Like I want you there every damn day.’
Oh God. He’s serious.
Connor’s mouth found hers, soft as a whisper. How could such a tough, big man have such soft lips? She tasted the faintest trace of paint. The bristle of his stubble grazing her chin let sparks dance along her nerve endings. She sighed against his mouth and the careful pressure of his lips against hers made her hands fly up to grasp the front of his shirt, wrinkling the fabric beneath her grip.
Did I just whimper?
Still holding her face, he kissed her, unhurried, as if memorising the shape of her mouth. His tongue moved deliberately. No greed. Just tenderness. Reverence.
And something frightening, too.
Because Connor Bannerman was worming his way back into her heart. By way of her knickers and lips and everything. There was nothing she could do about it. So she clung to him, fingers digging into the solid muscles of his shoulders. He tasted of promise and possibility, of second chances and new beginnings. Of coming home.
‘Freckles…’ he rasped, ‘I want you in my bed tonight. Will you come?’
‘More than once, if all goes according to plan.’ She smiled, her nose grazing his. ‘Let’s have pizza and let it get cold. Like on our first night together. Remember?’
‘How could I forget?’ He chuckled against her cheek. The most wholesome sound in the world.
‘And then you can do the thing again, Bannerman.’
‘What thing?’
‘The thing with your tongue.’
‘Ah, I see. Enjoyed it, didn’t you?’ Pride flashed across his face.
It was really cute.
‘Very. Can’t remember you being so tongue-talented back then. If I’d known what I missed out on…’
Impulsively, she reached for the stack of sticky notes on the counter behind her and scribbled a message on a Post-it. Then she pressed it firmly on the wall of regrets. Connor watched her with a creased brow. Kirsty held his gaze as she stepped back, allowing him to read the words:
I regret not letting him have my pussy for breakfast earlier.
‘I thought you didn’t have any regrets?’ His expression shifted, hesitation darting across his features. ‘You can’t stick that there, Freckles. What if your parents see it? Your da would skin me alive.’ He plucked the note from the wall, tucking it into the pocket of his jeans.
Kirsty felt a stab of uncertainty, wondering if she had overstepped some unspoken boundary. There it was, the hint of doubt. Try as she might, the memory of their shattered past still haunted her. A ridged scar that ached at the slightest touch.
‘It was for you, not for them.’ She offered him a wry smile, despite the worry in the pit of her stomach.
‘I know, but still.’ His face was a deep shade of red. ‘You’re making me say and do all these things, Freckles. I had no idea that I…how I…but I can’t help myself. Not with you.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Aye, I loved and wanted you when I was a teenager. But now it’s…like something’s flipped. It’s new to me.’
He’d dirty-talked her to a drenched mess, eaten her pussy like it was his favourite snack, fucked her so long and hard she could barely walk – yet here he stood, blushing like a schoolgirl.
How could she not fall for him all over again?
‘We should, uh, probably finish up here,’ he mumbled. ‘Got to see the Mini Rugby lads later.’
‘The what now?’
‘I’m helping their head coach out whenever I can,’ he explained. ‘Nothing regular, you know, because of my work. But when I’m here, I try to help. Those eight-year-olds can be a handful.’
Mini rugby coach? This man was full of surprises.
But he surprised her even more when he took her hand in his and asked, ‘Would you like to come to their game with me on Sunday?’
She was flattered. Out in the open with Bannerman for all of Cairnhaven to see, as if nothing had ever happened. That would get some tongues wagging. ‘And I always thought community stuff wasn’t your thing.’
He let out a grunt. ‘True. But kids are way less judgemental than their parents.’
‘What would they judge you for? Your grumpy face?’
‘The bakery thing.’
She shook her head. ‘Seriously? People are still mad because of that?’
‘Some of them are. I get it, partly,’ he said. ‘But I also learned that people think what they want anyway.’
‘Well, fuck them.’ She planted a kiss on his irresistible mouth. ‘I’m looking forward to pizza tonight and rugby on Sunday and everything in between.’