Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
For a moment, the room felt impossibly still. His words, soft, direct, unexpected, struck something deep in my chest. And when I looked up, his eyes weren’t teasing or casual. They were earnest.
My breath caught. I wasn’t used to someone saying things like that. Not about me.
I curled my fingers around my mug, as if it might steady the sudden tremor in my hands. The warmth didn’t help. Nothing could, when Oliver was looking at me like that. Before I could think of a response, he cleared his throat lightly and glanced down at his hands.
“I found out more about my grandparents yesterday,” he said, his voice gentler, as though sharing a piece of himself he rarely touched.
My heart slowed, then softened. “What did you find out?”
He hesitated, just long enough for me to sense the weight of whatever he was about to say.
“My grandmother…” He exhaled. “She was from here. From Pine Hollow.”
“Oh.” My voice slipped out small, surprised. “Oliver, I… I didn’t know.”
“Neither did I.” His eyes lifted, tired and vulnerable. “The woman who cleans the hotel, she was my grandmother’s best friend. She said she recognised me the moment I walked in. Said I looked like him.”
“Your grandfather,” I murmured.
He nodded. “Apparently he spent every summer here, until he met her and convinced her to follow him to London.” There was pain in his smile. Nostalgia too. “No one ever told me that.”
My chest tightened for him, for the boy who’d grown up never knowing this part of his history, never knowing the place his grandmother called home.
“It must feel strange,” I whispered. “Finding all that out now.”
“It does,” he admitted. “But… It also makes sense why he wanted me to come here and why he insisted I handle everything personally.”
I swallowed, nodding. “He wanted you to see this place. To know where she came from and in a way, to know part of your Scottish history.”
He didn’t speak, but the look in his eyes said I was right. I wanted to reach out to him then, to comfort him. But he beat me to it. His hand brushed mine first. Accidental, maybe? It was warm, careful even. My breath hitched again and I didn’t pull away.
“Small towns hold onto pieces of people,” I said softly, unable to look anywhere but at him. “Even when life pulls them somewhere else.”
He studied me with a softness I wasn’t prepared for. “Is that how it was for you?”
I nodded. “If I hadn’t gone to London when I did… I might have never left. But going made me realise how big the world is. How much I wanted to learn and see.”
His thumb brushed my knuckles, the smallest touch, but it sent heat spiraling up my arm.
“And your mum?” he asked quietly.
The ache returned, but lighter this time, easier to hold. “She always told me to see the world. To try. To taste everything. To live. But when she got sick, I came home. And after she passed…” My voice thinned. “I found myself unable to leave.”
He didn’t say anything at first. Just lifted our joined hands slightly, as if anchoring me.
“You’re allowed more than one dream,” he murmured. “More than one home.”
My heartbeat stuttered, because no one had ever said that to me. Not in a way that felt true. I’d settled on the idea I would be here for the rest of my life, even if I still craved adventures.
The silence between us grew then, warm and electric. His gaze dipped to my mouth and my pulse answered instantly. I leaned the tiniest bit forward, just enough to feel the pull, the question, the possibility hanging between us.
And then it hit me, sharp and sudden: If I kissed him now, everything would change.
I drew in a tiny breath and pulled back barely, but enough for the moment to break. Oliver blinked, as though waking from the same spell. He cleared his throat, letting go of my hand slowly, reluctantly.
“I should go,” he said quietly, voice low and rough. “Before… something happens.”
My cheeks burned. “Right. Yes. Probably… smart.”
We both stood, awkward and breathless and pretending we weren’t. He stepped toward the door and I followed, still feeling the imprint of his hand on mine.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “For tonight.”
“Anytime,” I whispered.
He gave me a small, crooked smile, the kind that made my stomach flip.
“So… I’ll see you tomorrow. At lunch?”
I nodded. “You will.”
“Good,” he murmured. “I… look forward to it.”
He opened the door and cold air rushed in.
“Goodnight, Brianna.”
“Goodnight, Oliver.”
When the door closed, I leaned back against it, the lock clicking under my thumb as though it might hold the chaos inside me in place.
My heart pounded painfully against my ribs, my hands trembled, and my breath came in uneven waves I couldn’t steady.
Because even though we’d both said before something happened… something already had.
Something soft, perhaps even dangerous. Something warm enough to frighten me in a way storms and uncertainty never had. I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to quiet the flutter beneath my palm, but it only made the truth sharper. I would be foolish to let this continue.
Completely and utterly foolish.
The fate of my bakery–my home, my mother’s legacy–hung like a blade above my head. Every breath I took, every step I made, every thought of the future… it all depended on him. On Oliver Grant. On whatever decision he made in the coming days.
And no matter how kind he was… no matter how gently he looked at me…no matter how close we’d come on that sofa, with fairy lights glowing behind him and something unspoken filling the air…
He was still the man holding the paperwork that could take everything from me. He was still the one who could call this entire life temporary with a single signature.
He wasn’t supposed to be safe. Or comforting. Or warm. Or funny. Or heartbreakingly human under all that London polish. He wasn’t supposed to feel like something I wanted to reach for.
We were supposed to stay where we belonged, acquaintances, nothing more.
But as I sat there in the quiet of my flat, my pulse racing, my lips tingling with the memory of how close he had been…
I knew that line was already blurring. And I wasn’t sure I had the strength or the heart to draw it back again.