Chapter 18
Rae halted on Struan’s muddy doormat, curiosity battling through her bleary mind.
She’d assumed Martha had been exaggerating when talking about his ‘wee bothy’ out in the middle of nowhere, but she hadn’t been too far from the truth.
Located at the foot of the Grampian Mountains, the house was nothing more than ruddy cobblestone walls and white-framed cottage windows surrounded by overgrown ferns.
The interior was far cosier than the crumbling paintwork suggested, but it was clear the squat building hadn’t originally been designed for comfort.
For starters, the bedroom was also the living room, and the bathroom faced the microwave as though Struan might like to multitask, an image she’d rather not have in her brain.
‘You live here?’ she questioned, leaning against the kitchen counter, which was right beside the front door.
Struan hummed a ‘yes’, before brushing past her to flick on the kettle.
‘By choice?’ she couldn’t help but add.
He raised his brow. ‘Is something wrong with it?’
‘Is something right with it?’ She eyed the brick fireplace warily. It looked as though it had been built by some poor Victorian child’s hand.
Struan clucked his tongue, heading to the bed to straighten out his crumpled duvet. ‘I’m sorry it’s not the Ritz, but it’s right enough. For me, at least. Sit down.’
She didn’t, instead wandering further in on wobbly legs.
Struan’s personality brightened some of the dark corners: photographs on the walls, a shelf of mostly guidebooks by the window, underpants on the floor.
He swiped the latter up, along with a pair of odd socks, a grey towel, and wrinkled jeans.
‘I don’t get visitors very often. Especially not ones used to luxurious studio apartments in the middle of the city.’
‘You overestimate my fanciness.’ Propped on the armchair was a worn acoustic guitar. She plopped down on the flat cushions and rested it on her lap, strumming one flat note. ‘Be honest. How many women have you “Wonderwalled” with this thing?’
He wrinkled his nose, making it harder to contain her silly, drunken smile.
Here, the weight of the day had finally slipped away.
She was outside of Belbarrow, away from the farm and her dad and all the things she was worried about.
She wondered if that was why Struan liked the mountains so much: they kept him contained, separate, while also allowing him the space to breathe, like her orchard did for her.
‘I don’t think “Wonderwall” is a verb.’
‘Your refusal to answer the question speaks volumes.’ She could imagine him, hair falling over his face, bracelets clacking together, tanned fingers plucking out a gentle melody.
It made shivers roll across her skin, or maybe that was just the first draught she’d felt all day whispering through the stone wall.
‘Are you really drunk, or did you just pretend so that you could attack me in my own home?’
She snorted and held out the guitar. ‘Will you play me something that isn’t Oasis?’
Struan took it, perching on the edge of his bed to balance it on his knee.
His gaze met hers, mirth dancing across his lips.
All she could do was stare, probably quite obviously considering she didn’t currently have control of her facial muscles.
She should have been panicking. They were alone together again, and there was a near-painful heat between her thighs, and her composure had disintegrated hours ago – yet all she could feel was gladness.
All she could feel was him.
He tucked his bottom lip between his teeth and strummed a few chords, head nodding to the stuttering rhythm, before he trailed off with a wince. ‘Okay, I don’t actually know how to play anything other than “Wonderwall”.’
Her laughter ricocheted through the room, too high-pitched, barely recognisable, but she couldn’t stop. ‘I knew it!’
‘I tried to learn more, but I’m not the best at sticking to one thing. Get distracted too easily.’
With an understanding hum, she kicked her legs over the arm of the chair, the room spinning around her.
He crouched beside her, brushing her hair off her cheek. ‘How’s the headache?’
‘Headaching,’ she admitted, eyes closing without permission. His featherlight touch trailed over her temples, to her cheek, her chin, and a soft sigh escaped her. She couldn’t remember the last time anybody had touched her so delicately, and she needed it more than she’d known.
She’d been relieved when he’d called, if also embarrassed by her own drunkenness. For a moment, the dark night had been endless, and she’d wondered how she’d ever get home. If she even wanted to.
With that thought came the memory of her dad kissing Myra, followed by his anger earlier that day and the lance of hurt he’d driven through her chest.
‘I think maybe he hates me,’ she murmured.
‘Who?’
‘My dad.’
A pause. ‘Of course he doesn’t. You’re the most important person in his life. He talks about you all the time when we’re out hiking.’
A tear trickled down her cheek. She was powerless to stop it, bones so tired she couldn’t muster the energy to wipe it away. He did it for her with the delicate pad of his thumb. Even with her lids shut, she could feel his frown searing into her.
‘He thinks I’m like my mum. I left him like she did.’
‘He could never think—’
‘He said it,’ she interjected. ‘Today, he said I’m just like her.’
Struan’s touch paused over her jaw. She opened her eyes to find his forehead wrinkled, lips pursed.
Angry. With her, like everyone else was, because all she did was make messes, even without meaning to.
She abandoned people without realising it, hurt people just by being her scattered self.
Even now, she felt as though she was doing something terrible just by being here without Martha knowing.
Just by feeling what she felt for the man in front of her.
Only then, he said her name so gently she almost crumpled, and she realised he was mad. But not at her. ‘Your dad has no right to say that. You’re nothing like her.’
‘You don’t know her.’
‘I know enough. I know you’re ridiculously talented and clever. I know you have the biggest heart I’ve ever seen. He should be proud of you, not resentful.’
‘Even if I left him behind?’ An echo of his words in the car the other day. They’d clung to her since. Despite her own mother’s abandonment, she’d never paused to think she might have unknowingly caused the same pain.
Struan’s head tilted. ‘That was never an attack on you, sweetheart. Every parent knows that they’ll eventually have to watch their kid live their own life. Look at my mum. She was happy enough to move away. It’s all just part of it.’
‘I thought I’d come home and everything would make sense again, but nothing does.
’ Least of all Struan, someone she’d never even considered wanting before.
Everything had shifted in her absence, and she had nobody to blame but herself.
‘I’m not a part of his life anymore. I’m not part of anyone’s life.
You’re so good, Struan. You take care of everyone.
I wanted to do that for the farm, but I don’t think I’m capable of it. I don’t think he even wants me to.’
Her tears were flowing too fast for him to catch, now.
‘Come here.’
It sounded like a plea, so she did, falling into his lap on the floor and letting him hold her.
He raked gently through her hair, stubble rubbing against her skin, the smell of the soil clinging to every bit of him.
It was the only place she’d felt even remotely at ease, and not just since coming home.
Since ever.
When he pressed a kiss to her temple, she nestled further into him, wishing she could stay like this forever, where nothing could touch her but the golden warmth and tenderness that radiated from him.
Maybe it was wrong to take advantage of it, but she’d forgotten that comfort could be found somewhere other than the icy-cold walls of a storage freezer or the rough carpet under her bed.
Maybe she’d even let herself cry a little bit longer tonight.
‘You’re good, Rae,’ he said. ‘You always have been. Your dad probably already regrets what he said.’
She pulled away to look at him, stomach coiling when she realised his hard thigh was pressing into her core. Gulping, she leaned closer, waiting for him to kiss her.
He didn’t, though she saw realisation darkening his features. ‘Not like this, sweetheart. Not tonight.’
Of course. Why would he want her when she was a drunk, crying mess?
Embarrassment searing through her, she clumsily pulled back, using the armchair to support her. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘I already told you, you don’t need to be.’
She wiped her nose, sniffling. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
’ It was him who had changed her, him who was making her fall apart with feelings she hadn’t even realised brimmed inside her.
She moved into the sort-of-kitchen, palm pressing into the cold wooden countertop.
‘I’m going to go to the bathroom, and when I come back, I’m going to go to sleep and we’re going to pretend this never happened. ’
‘Of course. Your favourite way of fixing things.’ His gaze fell to the floor, jaw pulsing with tension. ‘I can’t keep doing this, Rae. I don’t want to pretend anything. Not with you.’
Understanding trawled too slowly through her addled brain. They had to pretend, otherwise this would happen again. The falling apart, the sex, things that weren’t allowed. Things that Martha would have to know about. Things that Rae wasn’t prepared to tell her.
‘I’ll give you whatever you need,’ – he rose to his feet and inched closer – ‘but I’m not going to ignore what’s happening between us.’
‘You should.’
‘I can’t.’
Her fingers began to shake, eyes closing without permission as dizzying thoughts raced through her brain: what might happen if she let it. How he would touch her if she gave in. How terrifying it was to feel this way for the very first time.
The turmoil only cemented the truth: she was a bad person, because all she wanted was to kiss him again. Fuck, she’d even listen to him playing ‘Wonderwall’ if she had to.
She backed away like a wild, scared animal. His brows pinched, and he turned his attention to the kettle like he was waiting for it to pour itself into the mugs he’d set out.
‘Whatever you need,’ he said again, defeat dulling his tone this time.
All she really needed in this moment was him.
But as her empty stomach growled, what she actually said was: ‘Maybe a slice of toast?’
His smile was dry. ‘That, I can do.’