Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
GRAHAM
Istood outside Bonnie Books for a full three minutes like an absolute numpty, holding a paper bag with the fancy tea and almost talking myself out of leaving at least four times.
This was ridiculous. I was a grown man. I owned a successful business. I’d faced down drunk tourists, Kelpies rising from the loch, and once a very confused sheep that had somehow wandered into the pub during a wee wedding reception.
I could ask a woman to dinner.
Bloody hell, I was well known for asking women to dinner.
But this was Agnes. The woman.
The one to rule them all.
I rolled my eyes at my Tolkien reference. I’d been re-watching the movies lately when I was struggling to sleep.
Through the window, Agnes stood behind the counter, her auburn curls escaping whatever clip she’d used to pin them back, her reading glasses perched on her nose as she frowned at something on her laptop.
She was wearing a cream-colored jumper that looked soft enough to sleep in, and paint-streaked jeans that told me she’d been in the pottery studio this morning.
She was beautiful. She was always beautiful. And I was standing on the pavement like a lovesick teenager instead of actually going inside.
“Get it together, Kincaid,” I muttered, and pushed through the door.
The bell chimed and Agnes looked up, her expression shifting through several emotions in rapid succession—surprise, warmth, wariness, and something that looked almost like hope before she shuttered it away.
Or maybe that’s just what I wanted to believe.
Either way, she seemed less than thrilled to see me, which wasn’t exactly the welcome I was hoping for.
“Graham.” She straightened, pulling off her glasses. “Bit early for you to be up and out, isn’t it?”
“Shocking as this may be, I do try to rise at a normal hour.” Instantly I thought about what else rose with me in the morning, particularly when I was thinking of Agnes, and my brain scrambled for a moment. Agnes just blinked at me, waiting for me to continue, and I shook my head.
Get your mind out of the gutter, you bloody eejit.
“I, uh, I brought you something.”
I set the paper bag on the counter between us, suddenly feeling stupid. What if she didn’t like this tea anymore? What if she’d moved on to a different blend years ago and I was operating on ancient information like the pathetic piner I apparently was?
Agnes peered into the bag, and I watched her face soften.
“Is this...”
“The rose and cardamom blend from that place in Edinburgh. I know you used to love it, but if you’ve moved on to something else, that’s fine, I just thought—”
“Graham.” She looked up at me. “This is ... thank you. I haven’t had this in ages. They stopped carrying it at the shop in town.”
“I know. A friend of mine has a café a few towns over and she stocks it,” I rushed out, relieved.
“A friend, huh?” Agnes arched a brow.
“A happily married grandmother many times over,” I supplied, quickly, realizing my error and that she thought it was a girlfriend of mine. Damn it, already I was mucking this up.
But Agnes was smiling and something inside me loosened. Marginally.
“That’s very thoughtful,” she said softly.
“Aye, well.” I cleared my throat. “I have my moments.”
An awkward silence stretched between us, filled with all the things neither of us was saying. Agnes busied herself pulling the tea tin from the bag, turning it over in her hands like it was something precious.
I should ask her now. Just say the words. Have dinner with me.
“So,” Agnes said, at the same moment I said, “I was wondering—”
We both stopped.
“You first,” she said.
“No, you go.”
“Graham.”
“Agnes.”
She rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling. “I was just going to ask what brings you by. I’m assuming it wasn’t just to deliver tea, lovely as that is.”
Now. Do it now.
“Actually, I was hoping you might give me a book recommendation.”
What?
That was not what I’d meant to say. That was the exact opposite of what I’d meant to say. My brain had apparently decided to stage a mutiny at the worst possible moment.
Agnes raised an eyebrow. “Is that right?”
“Aye, it’s the way of it.” I lifted my chin, challenging her.
“Graham Kincaid, voluntarily reading something that isn’t a whisky catalog or a rugby score?” She pressed a hand to her chest in mock surprise. “Should I alert the press?”
“Och, I read.”
“Menus don’t count.”
“I read actual books. Sometimes.”
“Name one.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
Agnes’s grin widened. “That’s what I thought.”
“Okay, fine, maybe I’m not the most literary person in Loren Brae. But that’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To expand my horizons. Maybe I feel like becoming a man of culture and refinement.”
“And this sudden urge for self-improvement has nothing to do with finding an excuse to come bother me during business hours?”
“I am wounded by your accusation.” I put a hand over my heart. “Truly wounded.”
“You’ll survive.” But she was laughing now, that bright, genuine laugh that always made me feel like I’d won something. “Fine, come on then. What kind of books do you think you’d like?”
She came around the counter and gestured for me to follow her into the stacks. I fell into step behind her, trying very hard not to notice the way her jeans fit or the way her hair smelled like honey.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Something with adventure? Action?”
“So basically you want a book that reads like an action film.”
“Is that a crime?”
“Not at all. Reading should be fun.” She tapped a finger to her mouth. “I’m thinking historical fiction. Give you some adventure but also trick you into learning something.”
“Sneaky.”
She stopped in front of a shelf and ran her fingers along the spines, searching for something. I drank in the sight of her in her element—surrounded by books, completely at ease, a small furrow of concentration between her brows that I always wanted to kiss.
This was what I wanted. Not just the romance, not just the kissing and the rest of it—though God knew I wanted that too. I wanted this. The easy banter. The comfortable silence. The privilege of watching her exist in the world and knowing I got to be part of it. And that she enjoys me being here.
“Here.” She pulled a book from the shelf and handed it to me. “Start with this. It’s got shipwrecks, sword fights, buried treasure, and enough historical accuracy to make you feel like you’ve accomplished something.”
I looked at the cover. “Treasure Island?”
“A classic for a reason. And don’t give me that look. Have you actually read it?”
“I saw the film.”
“The Muppet version doesn’t count.”
“It was not the Muppet version.” It was absolutely the Muppet version. “Fine. I’ll read it. But only because you recommended it.”
“I’m honored.”
We stood there, the book between us, and the air shifted. The playful energy was still there, but underneath it, something else hummed—that current that was always running between us, the one we both pretended not to notice. Or at least, I hoped we both pretended not to notice.
Ask her. Now. Before you lose your nerve.
“Agnes.” My voice came out rougher than I intended.
Her smile faltered, something wary creeping into her eyes. “Graham...”
“Have dinner with me.”
The words hung in the air.
Agnes went very still.
“Dinner,” she repeated.
“Aye. You and me. Real conversation and a bottle of wine between us.” I met her eyes and held up the book. “I’m told it’s what refined people do.”
“We eat together all the time.”
“Eating at the pub while I work is not a date, Agnes, and you well know that.” I took a step closer, close enough to see the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. “One dinner, Agnes. Just to see...”
“To see what?”
If there’s still something left between us. If what I feel is real. If you feel it too.
“To see if we can get through an entire meal without you making fun of my reading habits.”
She laughed, but it sounded strangled. “Graham—”
“I know you’re going to say no.” The words came out before I could stop them.
“I know you’ve got a hundred reasons why this is a bad idea, and I’m sure they’re all very logical and well-researched because that’s who you are.
But Agnes...” I reached out, not quite touching her, my hand hovering near her elbow.
“I’m tired of pretending I don’t think about you every single day.
I’m tired of watching you from across rooms and wondering what would have happened if you hadn’t ended things.
I’m tired of being your friend when I want to be so much more than that. ”
Agnes’s eyes were bright, too bright, and her throat worked as she swallowed.
“You don’t understand,” she whispered.
“Then help me understand. Bloody hell, Agnes. Talk to me. Tell me why you keep pushing me away when you look at me like—” I stopped, not sure I should finish that sentence.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m something you want but can’t let yourself have.”
She flinched. Actually flinched, like I’d struck her.
“Graham, I can’t—it’s not that simple—”
“Then explain it to me. Please.” I did touch her then, my fingers brushing her elbow, and I felt her shiver. “Whatever it is, whatever you’re afraid of … you can tell me. I can handle it.”
“You can’t.” Her voice broke on the word. “You really, really can’t.”
“Try me.”
She looked up at me, and for one heart-stopping moment, I thought she would finally tell me. I could see it—the words gathering behind her eyes, the truth pressing against her lips. I sucked in a breath and waited.
Then she stepped back, putting distance between us, and her walls went up again. It was like watching someone pull a curtain closed on their emotions.
“One dinner,” she said, surprising me.
I blinked. “What?”
“One dinner. That’s all I can give you.” She wrapped her arms around herself like she was cold. “And it’s not a date. I’m just saying ... one dinner should be fine. And then you have to stop asking.”
It wasn’t what I wanted. It was barely a crumb compared to the feast I was starving for.
But it was more than she’d given me in years.
“Okay,” I said carefully. “One dinner that is very specifically Not A Date.”
“I’m serious, Graham.”
“I know you are.” I couldn’t help the smile that tugged at my mouth. “So am I. One dinner. I’ll pick you up tonight at six. Wear something nice, because we’re going to that Italian place in the next village.”
“You’ve already reserved it?” Agnes arched a brow at me.
“I’m told ladies like a confident man.” I smiled when her eyes narrowed.
“Don’t make me immediately regret my decision,” Agnes warned.
“That’s me leaving then.” I held the book up in the air. “Put it on my tab?”
“Aye, that’s fine enough then.” Agnes shook her head as I backpedaled, moving fast toward the door with the book clutched in my hand.
Did I have time to read it before dinner?
“See you later. For our date.”
“It is not a date,” Agnes called, her voice sharp.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Agnes.”
She glared at me, but there was no heat in it.
I held up the book she’d given me. “I’ll try to make headway on this for tonight.”
“Don’t you have work? And it’s three hundred pages.”
“I’m highly motivated.”
“You’re highly ridiculous.”
“And yet you agreed to dinner with me anyway. What does that say about you?”
She shook her head, but a smile was tugging at her lips despite her best efforts to suppress it. “It says I have terrible judgment and an inability to say no to stubborn Scottish men who show up with fancy tea.”
“I’ll take it.”
I clutched Treasure Island like a trophy, my heart lighter than it had been in years.
“Graham.”
I turned. Agnes stood in the aisle between the shelves, arms still wrapped around herself, looking uncertain and so enchanting it made my heart hurt.
“The tea really was thoughtful,” she said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I held her gaze. I’d do anything for you, because I never stopped loving you. “See you tonight, Agnes.”
I left before she could change her mind, the bell chiming behind me as I stepped out into the morning sun.
One dinner. Not a date. Didn’t mean anything.
Bollocks to that.
It meant everything.
And I was going to make sure she knew it.