Chapter 22 Finn
FINN
Tilda moves carefully, trying not to wake me, which is ridiculous. I’ve been awake since dawn watching her sleep while I try to order the thoughts running through my head.
I don’t do this. I don’t watch women sleep. I don’t let them stay the night in my bed, I’ve never even brought someone back to Benruar House. This place is my space, my sanctuary. The place where I can close the door and escape the world.
But watching Tilda curled into my pillow, her dark curls spread across the white linen, one hand tucked under her cheek, I can’t bring myself to regret it.
I should. This complicates everything, she works for me. She’s leaving in a matter of weeks. There are a dozen reasons why this is a terrible idea. And yet lying here in the pale light of dawn, all I can think is – when can I have her again?
I roll over in bed, the covers sliding to my waist as I push myself up to sitting.
“Tilda.”
She looks up, lower lip caught between her teeth as it does when she’s thinking. She hooks a curl behind her ear and stands, wrapped in last night’s blanket, the soft skin of her shoulders pale in contrast to the working tan of her arms.
Christ, she’s beautiful. Not in the polished way of the women at Glen Mhor last night, all hairspray and heels. She’s beautiful like the island itself.
She raises her chin in the familiar gesture I’ve grown to love and stares at me steadily. There’s vulnerability in her eyes, but she’s not backing down – she never does.
“This is the point where you tell me this was a terrible mistake.”
The words hit me harder than they should. Is that what she thinks of me? That I’d dismiss her – dismiss this – in the cold light of the morning?
I climb out of bed and catch her hand, pulling her towards me. The blanket falls away and she’s naked, all those delicious curves on display. My cock springs to life immediately, apparently having no interest in measured responses.
There’s a conversation to be had first.
“I don’t make mistakes,” I say, meeting her uncertain gaze. I need her to understand this. “I make decisions.”
Her lips part and a flush rises on her cheeks – not embarrassment, but something else. Her eyes drift downwards, and my control wavers dangerously.
And then we both turn, hearing a familiar noise from the kitchen.
“Much as I would like to take you back to bed,” I say with genuine regret, “there are dogs’ downstairs who’d lodge a formal complaint.”
“And Georgia’s coming in early this morning.”
Her voice is steadier now, though I can see the pulse jumping in her throat.
I nod once. “She is.”
“So—”
I run a hand down her back, allowing myself the pleasure of feeling the curve of her arse beneath my palm, giving it a light smack. She startles, eyes widening, sparkling with something that makes my blood heat. I file that reaction away for later.
“Go, Chaos.” I release her with a laugh and a kiss to the palm of her hand. Later, I promise myself. Later, I’ll find out exactly what else she likes.
“The walk of shame down the corridor,” she says as I bend to pick up the blanket, handing it back to her.
“Something like that.”
I watch her go, admiring the sway of her hips beneath the blanket, the way she glances back once more before slipping out of the door.
Alone in the room, I stand there, processing. My normally ordered world feels tilted on its axis. I should be focused on the distillery, on Jennifer’s schemes, on winning this bloody contract. Instead, all I can think about is the sounds that Tilda made last night when I—
I jump in the shower, resisting the overwhelming urge to give myself the release I so desperately want. My hand hovers over my aching cock before I pull it away with a groan of frustration.
It can wait until later and I’ll be damned if I’m coming alone with the woman I want down the corridor.
I turn the water to cold, but it does nothing to clear my head. If anything, it sharpens the memory – the taste of her skin, the way she gasped my name, the feel of her clenching against me as she came.
Focus, Kinnaird.
By the time I’ve dried and dressed, throwing on clean jeans and a T-shirt, the kitchen smells of toast cooking on the Aga, and the coffee is already poured.
Tilda’s moving around the room as if nothing has happened between us.
She’s traded the blanket for her usual work dungarees and a striped top, her hair twisted up in the loose knot she favours.
She’s humming to herself as she fetches the honey from the cupboard.
But I can sense an awkwardness building.
It’s the way she doesn’t look my way too long, turning her head and busying herself by finding plates, and wiping the cutlery dry from the drainer.
She thinks it was a lapse.
I don’t lapse. I don’t lose control, or at least I didn’t, until Tilda Maclean showed up at my distillery with her own brand of chaos and her basset hound and those dungarees which shouldn’t be attractive, but somehow are.
The dogs potter around the kitchen, nosing for toast crusts. I ruffle ears, add milk to my coffee, and sip while I lean against the counter, watching her. She acts as if she’s not aware, but her colour rises when she looks up and meets my eye.
The back door bangs as Georgia breezes in, blonde hair swinging, phone in hand.
“Morning,” she sings, oblivious to the tension crackling in the room. “Oh good, you two are up and at it early. Coffee, amazing.”
If only you knew, I think, suppressing a smirk.
Georgia takes a slurp from her mug then plops herself down on the bench, picking up a pile of papers she left yesterday.
She shoots me a quizzical look. “You look less grim than I expected after last night.”
“I can change that if you’d like.”
She grins and swipes the screen of her phone, showing us the Instagram reels from Glen Mhor last night. I let it wash over me. My attention slides to Tilda, who is standing on Georgia’s left, scrutinising Glen Mhor’s Instagram feed as if it was the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen.
She’s biting that lower lip again.
I want to cross the room and kiss her. Pull her into my arms in front of Georgia and make it clear that last night wasn’t a mistake, wasn’t a lapse, wasn’t anything other than exactly what I wanted.
But there’s work to be done. Malcolm’s on the way, we’ll be turning the malt later. Later, the engineers are due from the mainland to talk about a new labelling machine. But underneath, everything has shifted.
As I watch Tilda scribbling a plan for this week’s planting on the back of one of Georgia’s old printouts, I know with absolute clarity that last night wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t some whisky-fuelled accident. I’ve had enough of those in my life to know the difference.
It was a choice. My choice. Her choice.
And there’s no going back.
“Come on you two,” says Georgia, looking up with a frown as she glances between us. “Cheer up. Last night was grim, but it’s not the end of the world. We can still knock Jennifer’s socks off. We just have to get our heads together.”
I catch Tilda’s eye and the faintest smile curves at the edges of her mouth. There’s a question in her gaze – uncertainty, hope, heat.
I tip my head, acknowledging it, answering it.
“We can do that,” I say aloud.
Georgia beams, missing the subtext entirely. “That’s the spirit.”