Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
GRAHAM
The lunch rush had finally cleared out, leaving the pub in that particular state of quiet that always felt like the eye of a storm. I usually closed for an hour or two in the afternoon and I liked the place empty—just me, a bar that needed wiping, and my own thoughts.
The Tipsy Thistle had been a dream of mine that Sophie’s uncle had helped me keep going when times hit hard.
I hadn’t had much to call my own growing up.
My dad had skipped town when I was a wee bairn, a wanderer of sorts, I was told, and my mum worked two jobs to make ends meet.
More often than not, I’d taken my tea at the castle, under Hilda’s watchful eye, and had grown up craving a sense of home and community that I’d been missing in my own life.
When the property had become available, and I’d been offered an interest-free loan to polish up the space and make it my own, I’d jumped at the chance.
No, going off to uni and moving away was never on my list. I was happy here, well, happy enough, and being close to home allowed me to keep an eye on my aging mum. I’d built something that I was proud of, and even in some of the recent lean years, I was making it work.
If only I could make my love life work, too.
Bloody Agnes.
It felt like all my thoughts were about Agnes these days. I tried, unsuccessfully, to rid her from my brain, but since that never worked, now I just let my brain obsess about her. Because pretending she didn’t matter wasn’t doing me any favors.
I’d barely slept after walking her home last night. Every time I’d closed my eyes, I’d seen her face in the streetlight—that look of longing and fear, of all things, like I was something she desperately wanted and couldn’t allow herself to have.
Or perhaps that was my hope projecting.
It doesn’t matter. It can’t.
What the hell did that even mean?
The door swung open and I looked up, ready to paste on my professional barman’s smile, only to find Lachlan and Munroe walking in like they owned the place.
“We’re closed between shifts,” I said, turning back to the glass I was polishing.
“Good thing we’re not customers then.” Lachlan slid onto a barstool, all easy confidence and knowing eyes. “We’re concerned mates.”
“Concerned about what?”
“About the fact that you look like someone’s pissed in your porridge,” Munroe said, taking the stool next to Lachlan. “And have done for approximately ... how long would you say, Lach?”
“Ten years? Give or take.”
“Longer, aye? Maybe ten now? Sounds about right.”
I set the glass down harder than necessary. “Did you two rehearse this?”
“Didn’t need to.” Lachlan grinned. “We’ve been watching you moon over Agnes Wright since before Sophie showed up and turned all our lives upside down. Figured it was time for an intervention.”
“I’m not mooning.”
“You’re absolutely mooning,” Munroe said. “It’s embarrassing, frankly. You’re a grown man. A business owner. You could take on half the lads in the Highland Games. And yet you turn into a lovesick teenager every time that woman walks into a room.”
“I do not—”
“You rearranged the whisky shelf three times last week because she mentioned she liked the Talisker better than the Lagavulin.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
He had me there.
“Look,” Lachlan said, his voice gentling slightly, “we’re not here to take the piss. Well, not entirely. We’re here because you’re our mate and watching you torture yourself over this is getting painful.”
“There’s nothing to torture myself over. Agnes made her choice years ago. She doesn’t want me. End of story.”
“Bollocks,” Munroe said flatly.
“Excuse me?”
“I said bollocks.” He leaned forward, elbows on the bar. “I’ve seen the way that woman looks at you when she thinks no one’s watching.”
“That’s not—”
“It’s exactly that,” Lachlan said. “Sophie’s noticed it too. All the women have. They’ve been trying to figure out why Agnes keeps pushing you away when she’s clearly mad about you.”
My heart did a funny wee dance in my chest. “She’s not mad about me.”
“Graham.” Lachlan fixed me with that look—the one that said he could see straight through my bullshite.
“I’ve known you since we were lads throwing rocks at each other behind the schoolhouse.
I’ve never seen you like this with anyone else.
Not once. And I’ve never seen Agnes look at anyone the way she looks at you.
So either you’re both bloody eejits, or there’s something else going on. ”
I grabbed a rag and started wiping down the bar, needing something to do with my hands.
“She ended things,” I said, the words scraping out. “Years ago. Told me it was too much, too fast. That she valued my friendship more than a relationship.”
“And you believed her?”
“What was I supposed to do, call her a liar?”
“Yes,” Munroe said, at the same moment Lachlan said, “Absolutely.”
I threw the rag down. “You two are unbelievable.”
“We’re right is what we are.” Munroe reached across the bar and helped himself to a glass, then poured himself a pint without asking.
“Look, before Lia, I was a disaster. Convinced myself I didn’t deserve happiness and that I wasn’t really cut out for a relationship.
You know what it took to get my head out of my arse? ”
“It took someone telling me the truth—that I was using my past as an excuse to avoid taking a risk.” He took a sip of beer and pointed the glass at me. “Sound familiar?”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Isn’t it?” Lachlan raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been hiding behind Agnes’s rejection for years. Telling yourself that there’s nothing you can do. Means you never have to actually put yourself out there and risk getting hurt again.”
“I walked her home last night,” I said through gritted teeth. “She knows I care about her. That I’ve waited for her, all right? There comes a point where you can’t push, lads. She has every right to not want to be with me.”
“Did she say she doesn’t love you?”
I paused, the question landing like a punch.
“She said...” I struggled to remember her exact words. “She said it doesn’t matter. It can’t.”
Lachlan and Munroe exchanged a look.
“That’s interesting,” Lachlan said slowly.
“How is that interesting?”
“Because she didn’t say that she didn’t want you. She said she can’t. Isn’t that a big difference?” Munroe set his glass down. “Sounds to me like something’s stopping her.”
“Like what?”
“How should I know? I’m a distiller, not a mind reader.
Ask one of our witchy women.” Munroe shrugged.
“But I have learned a lot in business through the years, and I think when someone tells you no but looks like they really want to say yes, well, there’s usually a reason. And it’s usually not about you.”
I stared at him.
“Since when did you get so smart?”
Lachlan snorted. “The point, Graham, is that maybe you’ve been asking the wrong questions all these years. Instead of why maybe you need to figure out what is stopping her?”
All I could see was Agnes’s face last night and the tears glistening in her eyes. The way she’d said it can’t like the words were being ripped out of her.
“I remember when she came back from uni,” Lachlan said, his voice going softer. “You two were like each other’s shadows.”
“We were perfect together,” I murmured, memories from that summer rushing over me.
She’d been different when she came back. Still Agnes—sharp-tongued and book-obsessed and beautiful—but there was something new in her eyes. A confidence. She’d grown into herself. And when she’d looked at me that first night at the pub, it was like she was seeing me for the first time.
Of course, I’d thought. Of course. There you are.
We’d been inseparable for three months. Three perfect, maddening, incredible months where I’d thought I’d finally found the missing piece I’d been looking for to complete my life.
And then she’d ended it. Out of nowhere. Said it was too much, too fast, that she needed to focus on the shop, that she valued our friendship too much to risk it.
I’d known she was lying. I’d seen it in the way she couldn’t quite look at me when she said it. But what could I do? Demand she love me? Force her to stay?
So I’d respected her choice. Backed off. Not being able to hold her at her gran’s funeral had ravaged me. I gave her a wee hug, told her how much her gran had meant to me, and had stepped away. I still miss that wonderful old woman.
And then I’d put myself through the ultimate torment: trying to date other women and pretend I wasn’t comparing every one of them to the woman who’d shattered my heart.
“Even if you’re right,” I said slowly, “she won’t tell me what’s stopping her. I’ve asked. She just shuts down.”
“Then stop asking and start showing.” Lachlan spread his hands. “Try something else.”
“Like what?”
“Like actually pursuing her, you daft man.” Munroe rolled his eyes. “Ask her on a proper date. Not a casual grab a pint as mates thing. Flowers. Dinner. The whole bit.”
“She’ll say no.” I rolled my eyes. It was practically her favorite pastime at this point.
“Probably. But at least you’ll have tried something different.” Lachlan leaned forward. “Look, I’m not saying hound the woman. I’m saying show her you’re serious. That you’re not just pining from afar—you’re willing to put yourself out there, even if it means getting rejected again.”
“I’m not pining,” I scoffed and they both laughed.
“Never has a man pined so hard,” Lachlan said.
“The piningest piner to ever pine, I say,” Munroe agreed.
“I may just spit in your pints the next time you lads come in,” I said.
“Och, just go for it, mate. This is becoming ridiculous,” Lachlan pushed.
“And if she still says no?” I threw the towel down and leaned on the bar, meeting his eyes.
“Then at least you’ll know you gave it everything.” Munroe drained his pint. “But mate, I don’t think she’s going to say no. Not if you really go for it.”
“Based on what?”
“Based on the fact that she stares at you when you’re not looking like you’re the answer to any question she’s ever had,” Lachlan said, holding my gaze. “I’ve known Agnes almost as long as I’ve known you. That woman loves you, Graham.”
The words slapped me. Fuck, but it was what I wanted to hear, wasn’t it? But from her mouth, not Lachlan’s.
And maybe they were right. Maybe I’d spent so long respecting her rejection that I’d stopped actually fighting for her. Stopped showing her that I was worth the risk, whatever she was afraid of.
“Fine,” I said, surprising myself with the word. “Fine. I’ll ask her on a proper date.”
“That’s the spirit.” Munroe clapped his hands together. “When?”
“I don’t know. Tomorrow? I’ll bring her coffee, ask her to dinner—”
“Not just coffee. Bring her something she actually wants.” Lachlan grinned. “You know that tea she likes? The fancy stuff from Edinburgh?”
“The rose and cardamom blend?”
“That’s the one. Bring her that. Shows you pay attention.”
“And wear the blue jumper,” Munroe added. “The one that makes your eyes do that thing.”
I stared at him. “What thing?”
“I don’t know, they just ... do a thing. Women like it when your jumper does a thing with your eyes. Lia told me so. Trust me.”
“This is deeply uncomfortable.”
“This is us helping you not die alone surrounded by whisky bottles and regret.” Lachlan stood, fishing some coins from his pocket and tossing them on the bar. “You can thank us at the wedding.”
“There’s not going to be—”
“Blue jumper. Fancy tea. Proper date. Stop being a coward.” Munroe pointed at me as he headed for the door. “We believe in you, mate. Even if you’re too thick to believe in yourself.”
“Och, and stop flirting with other women, aye?”
They left laughing, the door swinging shut behind them, and I was alone again with the quiet and my thoughts.
But for the first time in years, those thoughts didn’t feel like a complete dead end.
Something’s stopping her.
I kept turning the words over in my mind as I finished wiping down the bar, restocked the garnishes, ran through all the mindless tasks that kept a pub running between shifts.
Were they right? Could it be so simple as asking her on a proper date?
How many times had I asked the woman to bloody marry me and she’d ignored me?
I mean, in fairness, I’d half been joking, but that was largely out of frustration.
Something had changed the day we’d split and Agnes had never given me a straight answer for it.
It was out of character for her, not to be direct with me, or really, anyone, so I couldn’t fathom what had changed.
And it had made me lose sleep more often than I’d like to admit.
Pretty Agnes with the soulful eyes and whip-smart brain. She kept me on my toes, and the memory of her kiss had warmed me on more than one lonely night. She was both siren and sentinel, luring me forward and pushing me back.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’d go to Bonnie Books with her favorite tea, and I’d ask her to dinner. A real dinner. A date.
And if she said no?
Then I’d ask again in a different way. Or at the very least, finally get her to be honest with me about what was really stopping her, or if she’d finally run out of excuses.
I was done being passive. Done waiting for her to come to me.
Done accepting a holding pattern that was slowly killing us both.
Either way, I deserved answers. Real answers.
Not just these half-arsed explanations she’d used through the years to push me away.
Because Lachlan was right, we did know Agnes.
And Agnes never did anything half-arsed. Something wasn’t adding up here.
Aye, I’d flirted with other lasses over the years, and aye, I had noticed her annoyance at that.
If she wasn’t in love with me, would she not have reacted?
Would she have simply laughed and rolled her eyes?
What if I hadn’t misread her looks, her lingering touches on my arms, and the occasional flirtation?
We’d maintained our friendship—as she’d hoped—but had she wanted more even if she hadn’t asked for more?
She wouldn’t be sitting at my bar every other day if she didn’t still wish for something, would she?
I just had to hope that whatever Agnes was so afraid of, we could face it together.