Chapter 10
‘This might be the best meal I’ve ever had.’ Struan’s announcement was muffled by the pasta stuffed into his mouth, but it didn’t ease Rae’s bristling response. Her fork paused beneath her chin as she glowered, and Struan drew back with wide eyes.
‘I meant today. The best meal I’ve ever had today. Nothing comes close to last night’s lamb, of course.’
Admittedly, it was excellent pasta, though she would have described compost as delicious at this level of hunger.
When she was focused on something, she forgot her body needed sustenance and bathroom breaks to keep going, and her meal schedule was usually based on her restaurant shifts, so she rarely ate at the same time as most people.
Someone making sure she was fed was a novelty – a welcome one, despite her grumblings.
She shoved his hand away to grab another forkful from the bowl they shared. ‘Gran is a great cook, but don’t tell her that, otherwise she’ll never let me in her kitchen again.’
With Dijon mustard and sun-dried tomatoes, the pasta salad burst with enough flavour to make her mouth water.
She leaned back against the cherry tree to enjoy the view of the orchard.
Beyond the apple trees, a river meandered all the way from the green-gold peaks to the farm, forming a natural border between the flat and elevated land.
The constant flow fed minerals into the soil, making it easy to understand why Granddad had called it sacred so often.
Memories were locked into every acre, every branch, every stone, right down to the cherry tree they currently sat under, which had first blossomed the day she was born.
Every birthday, she’d walked here hand in hand with Granddad as he’d told her the story, adding a twist of magic to the tale with so much fervour that she’d believed in fairies for far longer than her school friends.
And then there was the oak draping shadows across the corner of the orchard, transporting her back to the day that Martha had picked a sharp-edged stone from the river so they could carve their initials into the trunk together.
As the tree got sturdier with age, they’d climbed up the branches, perching on the thick bark with scraped hands and knees until Gran would catch them and order them down.
She’d gravitated here often even as she’d gotten older: through the stress of exam studies, her mum’s abandonment, her father’s sickness.
The sound of the burbling water made it easier to focus on the ground beneath her feet and the cool blades of grass between her fingers, the perfectly neat rows of plums and pears satisfying her need for order.
Everything else was steeped in uncertainty, but the blossoms of April, the ripe fruit of summer, and the golden leaves of October were the few changes she could predict.
Overwhelming nostalgia pulsed through her suddenly, the past and present intertwining. She was so afraid of losing Sweetbriar’s magic.
She’d tried to find new havens during her travels, but the cities she’d worked in were so hectic that she usually ended up hiding in the kitchen’s freezer or a pantry cupboard, or, her latest one, under her bed.
The world felt so big sometimes that she needed to be contained somewhere small.
Here, she was cradled on all sides by fences, trees, and hills; she didn’t need to worry about what was beyond them, but still appreciated the vast sky’s reminder that something was.
‘Your secret is safe with me,’ Struan vowed, tugging her out of her thoughts. He currently lay on his side on the picnic blanket, spearing the penne pasta with his free hand while the other propped up his head.
‘She’s the reason I wanted to be a chef.’ She set down her fork and crossed her legs, licking the salt from her lips. ‘She used to make the best comfort food whenever I was tired or stressed.’
Struan smiled softly. ‘Aye, there’s nothing like a big bowl of carbs to cry into. Though I can’t say I get the whole fine dining thing, honestly. Why are the portions so small?’
‘Because the flavour is intense, and chefs work hard to make sure it’s appreciated without distractions. You wouldn’t decorate an art gallery with patterned wallpaper.’
‘Bollocks. If you give me a pizza, the cheese isn’t a distraction. It’s gooey, melty goodness.’
‘Oh, are those the technical terms?’
‘Aye,’ he grumbled.
‘If I’d known we had an expert right here in Belbarrow, I wouldn’t have bothered going to culinary school.
’ Rae laughed, sipping the wine straight from the bottle since he hadn’t brought glasses.
‘I must admit, I did wonder about it myself when I first started. If I were a customer, I’d probably choose a big, juicy burger over a slice of foie gras. ’
‘Now you’re talking. With bacon and pickles.’
Struan offered the bowl back to her, but she shook her head. Stress, carbs, and non-elasticated jeans made for quick bloating.
Still, she pinched a shortbread slice from the basket, delighting in the buttery crumbs that melted on her tongue. Gran was definitely the better baker. ‘What about you? How did you end up as a guide?’
He shrugged, tucking his hair behind his ear before it could blow across his face in the evening breeze, made crisper by their proximity to the mountains. ‘I couldn’t settle on anything else. Then I saw the local rescue team advertise a training course. It made me think of Dad.’
Rae ignored the temptation to reach out and take his hand. She settled for lying down on her stomach to match his level, bones sighing in relief after the long day spent mostly on her feet.
It had been awful when Martha’s dad had passed.
She’d been too young to know what to say or do, so she’d hugged her more than was probably wanted, watched old Disney movies with her long past midnight, and listened when Martha had confessed how hard it was, how scared she was, because it was the first time they’d realised that people could leave the house one day and not come back.
When her own dad had been diagnosed with IBD not long after, Rae had been terrified that she’d end up facing the same loss.
More so because the world had kept going, even when both Martha and Struan had shown up tired and blotchy-faced and half as happy as they’d been before.
She was scared of that part the most: the after, when the grieving period was over and people expected you to shake off the sadness.
As the eldest, Struan had probably struggled more with that, and she suspected the pressure was why he’d started staying out late and coming home high.
It spoke to his strength that he’d ended up here, doing something that would prevent other kids from going through the same thing. If they’d been able to find Mr Macgibbon on time, he might have survived the bike accident.
‘He’d be proud,’ was the best reply she could offer.
‘Maybe I could take you out,’ Struan suggested.
Rae almost choked on her drink. ‘Can you stop asking me out?’
Amusement glittered green in his eyes like leaves catching the sunlight. ‘I meant on a hike, not a date. There’s a gorgeous spot by Foxglove Falls you’d like. Peaceful, like here, only the view’s even better.’
‘Oh. Right.’ She sagged in relief, and perhaps a little disappointment, which was wrong – only she couldn’t quite remember why.
Struan was good, kind, funny, if not a little bit silly.
And he was attractive. So, so attractive that, when he licked his lips, her thighs clenched together, desperate for even a bit of friction.
‘I don’t see why it would be so terrible, though. Are we not enjoying dinner together now?’
‘Are you done?’ She snatched the bowl away before he could take another bite, covering it with tin foil and placing it back in the picnic basket.
Even as she stood, Struan made no effort to follow, rolling onto his back like he had every intention of staying here all night.
He slung an arm over his eyes to protect them from the sun, the paler skin under his biceps only making the coil in Rae’s belly furl tighter.
She’d never thought of all the places she could kiss somebody before, places she might have forgotten, but he was baring them without realising it.
A tuft of underarm hair crept out of his T-shirt sleeves, fabric sticking to his ribs and hips.
His stomach was visible again, too, indented by the button on his jeans.
She imagined leaving a mark like that; she would have liked to be a dimple on his skin.
Sunstroke. It had to be. In a desperate attempt to distract herself, she picked the low hanging cherries above, so ripe they were more black than red. Good. She needed something tart to take the edge off whatever madness was roiling inside her.
‘Dessert?’ With Struan’s voice sticky as syrup, Rae wondered if he was doing it on purpose. All this subtle flirting, the insistence he spend time with her…
Was he trying to seduce her? Why? Martha had told her about his weekend flirtationships down at the tavern. Apparently, plenty of people wanted to conquer Ben Nevis, and she couldn’t blame them.
But she couldn’t be one of them.
Or maybe she could. As she turned back to him, she saw his eyes had wandered to her arse.
She might have been embarrassed, having always complained about being disproportionately bottom-heavy, if not for the dark hunger in his eyes.
It was nothing like the leer Colin had given her earlier, more rapture than desire.
Worship, like Struan had said. The sort she apparently deserved.
She should leave. Only, she couldn’t remember anybody ever marvelling at her like this before.
For the first time, having a bigger body didn’t feel like a hindrance, but rather something that offered an abundance for him to devour.
Something she commanded, not the other way around.
It didn’t stop her from shifting coyly, so unused to feeling this bare.