Chapter 7 Brodan
brODAN
PRESENT DAY
It was a copout. Asking Walker to make all my decisions for me. It was a bloody copout, and I knew it.
I wasn’t particularly proud that I was so fucked in the head I couldn’t see clearly enough to make decisions about my own life. However, I couldn’t deny that as much as it wasn’t admirable that I’d handed the reins over to Walk … the results were worth any wounds to my pride.
It had been a long time since I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
The water of the North Sea was a brooding gray blue today, almost indistinguishable from the livid sky above.
It should be raining on a day this sullen.
But not a drop fell from the sky as I sat at my desk.
I’d moved the piece of furniture to the bay window in my suite on the estate, so I had a view while I wrote.
This morning I’d braced myself against the blustery October winds to take Eredine’s morning mindfulness and yoga class.
Walker ordered me to take the classes three times a week.
I thought he was doing it to mess with me, but the sessions with Ery helped.
Where the gym was a place I poured out my frustrations and worries, and also where I had to be to maintain the physique Hollywood found so desirable, Ery’s classes were different.
Yoga stretched me, and so did the mindfulness meditation.
My mind had been like a muscle knotted from tension and stress, and the meditation allowed me to stop overthinking everything in my past, present, and future and just think about the moment, to be fully aware of existing in the moment.
To my shock, it helped me feel less overwhelmed.
Then Walker found a way for me to be productive.
For years, I’d been telling him I wanted to be behind the camera.
That I wanted to write the scripts. Writing wasn’t a passion that had always been with me.
It snuck up on me over the years. I started reading scripts and then, between takes, I started devouring books.
Acting had given me a thirst for storytelling.
So what did Walk order?
For me to sit down in the afternoon and work on a script.
It took days before words actually came. Another surprise: I think I was writing a fucking love story. A tragic one. But one, nonetheless.
My phone vibrated beside my laptop, drawing me out of my thoughts, and I hoped it wasn’t one of the women I counted among my fuck buddies, or my agent, Anders.
Now and then, I’d get a text or a call from a woman I had a previous casual thing with, asking for a hookup.
While I’d quite like to get laid, the thought of fucking some woman I didn’t really care about left me feeling weirdly (and worryingly) empty.
As for Anders … well, after Lachlan (the high-handed bastard) fired my manager for overworking me, I’d cooled down enough to realize he was right.
The manager stayed fired, but I kept my agent.
Anders, however, was freaking out about my indefinite vacation from acting and called at least once a week.
When I told him about the scriptwriting, it settled him a bit.
Thankfully, my caller wasn’t a fling or Anders.
It was Regan. It would be naive of me to ignore the fact that being around my family, celebrating two momentous occasions, hadn’t had an effect on me.
There was still a disconnect—I couldn’t bridge years of distance in just a few months.
But we were getting there. I’d forgotten how much I needed them to be content within myself.
“Hi, gorgeous.”
“Hey, yourself. I’m just checking you haven’t forgotten about dinner?”
I glanced at the clock on my phone. I still had time. “No, I haven’t. It’s not until six, though, right?”
“Right. And Walker is more than welcome. You two seem to be a package deal these days.”
“Meaning?”
“You remind me of Mac and Lachlan. Anyway, let him know he’s invited.”
“He’s working, but I’ll be there. See you soon.”
“Is Uncle Brodan coming, Mum?” I heard my niece Eilidh in the background.
“He is, but what did Mom say about interrupting people when they’re on the phone?”
“It’s rude.”
I chuckled at Eilidh’s beleaguered reply.
She then yelled, “Tell Uncle Brodan I’m sitting beside him at dinner!”
An ache flared across my chest. “Tell my favorite niece I can’t wait.”
“You can’t say that anymore.” Regan chuckled. “Because now you actually have nieces, plural.”
It was true. Two weeks ago, Robyn gave birth to a wee girl called Vivien Stacey Adair, named for our mother and Robyn’s mum.
While visiting Robyn and Vivien in the hospital, Arrochar went into labor.
Hers was a little longer and nerve-racking for all, none more so than Mac, but finally they welcomed their daughter and, in a grand tradition of naming people in our family after places in Scotland, they named her Skye Robyn Galbraith.
I was an uncle four times over now.
Eilidh’s desire to spend time with me made me feel great, but it also filled me with guilt that I’d missed her and Lewis’s early childhood.
No more. Not that long ago, I was determined to avoid Ardnoch. Now, after spending only a few months there, I never wanted to leave. The mindfulness, the peace, the time to reflect, had brought me that one clarification. Home was what I’d been missing for years. It was time to stop missing it.
“Well, tell one of my three favorite nieces that I can’t wait to sit beside her at dinner.” I grinned and surveyed the dull afternoon as it darkened toward an early-winter evening.
“I will. See you soon, Uncle Brodan,” Regan teased.
William’s Wine Cellar just off Castle Street carried a varied and impressive collection of alcohol and stayed open later than most stores.
I drove into Ardnoch alone, realizing that part of the reason I felt great was my sense of freedom.
Walker had deduced some weeks ago that I was safe enough now to wander Ardnoch alone.
He didn’t want me going anywhere else without a security detail, but he was satisfied I had privacy and respect here, now that most of the tourists had departed.
The October break always brought a fresh gaggle of them, but that had ended and schools were now back in session.
While whisky was my drink of choice (it was the one alcoholic beverage I could enjoy at a leisurely pace and it didn’t depress me), I knew the ladies of our family were wine drinkers.
Deciding to pick up a nice bottle of wine for dinner, I swung the Range Rover I’d borrowed from Lachlan’s estate fleet into a space outside the Gloaming.
Arran wouldn’t be there—he was probably already with the family.
Although it was Regan who called me, Sunday dinner was at Robyn and Lachlan’s.
Everyone would be present, including my brand-new nieces.
Maybe three bottles of wine, I thought as I strolled down the cobbled lane between the old jail turned museum and Chen and Wang Lei’s Chinese restaurant. The lane was lit by Victorian-style lampposts and protected me from the icy wind.
The swanky wine store lit up like a beacon in the dark lane, and I hurried inside out of the cold.
I gave the owner a polite smile and nod, then rounded the shelves and shelves of whisky to check out the massive wall of wine at the back.
The expensive stuff was in a locked wine cellar, the cheaper stuff on the adjacent wall on open shelving.
I halted at the sight of a woman.
She stood with her back to me, perusing the cheaper wine.
Tumbles of familiar red hair fell down her narrow back from beneath a dark green beanie. She wore a short puffer jacket. Tight, dark blue jeans perfectly hugged her pert, wee arse. On her feet she wore the local fashion — hiking boots.
My pulse raced, and I was just about to turn quietly and leave when I saw her back straighten abruptly. As if she felt me, she slowly turned around.
Monroe Fucking Sinclair.
Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, her big gray eyes bright beneath the store lights.
She looked so young, nowhere near the thirty-seven I knew her to be.
Monroe was a natural beauty. The kind of beauty I hadn’t come across since, and I’d worked with and met some of the most beautiful women in the world.
She really hadn’t changed. It was like staring into the face of nineteen-year-old Roe. My best friend.
Who had abandoned me.
Aye, this was the woman who taught me a very valuable lesson.
I scowled at her, deciding at that moment I wouldn’t be chased out of the store, or Ardnoch, because she’d decided to come back.
Ignoring her, I strolled over to the large wine cellar and perused the expensive stuff.
Yet I could barely take in the labels. I could feel her attention on me. My hands clenched into fists at my sides as the cheek facing her grew hot. At the sound of her footsteps drawing near, I glanced sharply at her.
Monroe stared up at me and licked her full lips nervously. My eyes narrowed on her mouth. I hated she could make me feel so much, even after all these years.
“I … uh … I felt … I just wanted to acknowledge you.” Monroe shrugged wearily. “We live in the same town, Brodan. People talk. I just wanted to say hello and be civil to you.”
Hearing her voice after all these years was a punch to the gut. My throat felt thick with emotion and I was afraid if I spoke, she’d hear the roughness. She’d know being in her presence affected me beyond bearing. There was no way I’d reveal that to her.
So, I looked right through her and turned my back on her. As I strode toward the exit, I caught sight of her reflection in the store window. Monroe clamped her teeth down on her lower lip, something she’d always done when she was fighting back tears.
Jesus Christ.
I would not feel guilty I vowed, as I marched out of the shop. You have nothing to feel guilty about, I reminded myself.
I wasn’t the one who left her.
She left me.
She’d ignored me when I reached out to her.