If Things Were Different (In a Heartbeat #1)

Chapter 1

BLYTHE

I miss my husband all the time, but there are times when his absence hits harder. Such as right now when my five-year-old is over being stuck in her seat with three hours remaining in our flight.

Eric would have had her in his arms, playing some game or making silly faces, and she’d be enthralled. Well, three-year-old Maggi would have been.

A wave of grief smashes into me when I realize I have no idea how he would have handled our daughter two years after the last time he danced in the living room with her. I have a picture of it. How many people can say they have a picture of the very last time their husband held their kid?

He’s standing there in his suit—minus the jacket—arms wrapped around her right after swaying to the Sportscentre theme, their morning ritual. And he’s got his lips pressed to her temple, smiling as he breathes in his “favourite smell in the world.”

Five minutes later, Maggi was in my arms, and he was kissing me goodbye. I desperately wish I had a picture of that kiss. Mourn the fact I can’t feel his lips on mine anymore.

An hour and forty-three minutes later, there was a police officer at my door.

Eric MacTavish, married father of one—dead at age thirty-two. Blythe MacTavish, mother of one and a widow at the ripe age of thirty.

Maggi drops her tablet for the third time, and I’m so close to taking it away. But I’m well aware that if I do that, she’s going to have a full-blown meltdown, and I’m too emotional to add everyone staring at me to my day. I already feel ready to burst into tears.

As I’m bending to pick it up, she kicks the seat in front of her again before I can stop her, and my stomach plummets as the man seated there sits up and looks back through the slit between his seat and the one next to him.

Then he’s rising, turning to face us, and I swear my throat drops clear out of my asshole.

Calm brown eyes spare me a glance before they shift to Maggi.

“I’m so sorry.” I rush to say, before he has a chance to scold my child. “I’ll tie her legs down with…” I look around frantically, although who am I kidding? I’m not going to tie my kid’s legs down. The last thing I need when getting off this flight is a police escort.

“It’s alright.” He chuckles, and my eyes snap back to him to see if he’s kidding.

I’m greeted by an easy smile, no malice in sight.

“I was going to see if maybe you wanted to switch seats?” He gestures between his and the empty middle seat.

“There’s no one in front of me so she can kick to her heart's content.”

I’m about to tell him that no, it’s quite alright, he doesn’t need to do that.

Then it dawns on me that it’s not a matter of need for him but rather a matter of want.

Maggi has definitely kicked the seat a few times, and we still have a few hours to go before landing in Glasgow.

Who knows how many more kicks she’ll get in before the end.

I glance down at Maggi. “Do you want to sit in this nice man’s seat?” I ask.

Maggi stares up at him, and I wait for her to shrink back as shyness takes over. But she holds his stare. Her defiant little chin jutting out so aggressively that I have to work hard to suppress a giggle.

“Alright, Roo, let’s pack up and switch seats,” I coax, releasing a relieved breath as she does as I say.

People talk about the terrible twos, but so far five has been the hardest age.

She’s at a point where she wants to do it all herself.

Unless she’s the one asking for help, receiving it is a nonstarter.

But right now, she’s packing away her colouring book, tablet, and stuffed Nessie, looking up every few seconds to smile at the brown-eyed man.

When her little backpack is zipped shut, she slings it onto her back, refusing my help as usual before she skirts by me and heads for the centre aisle where the man is now waiting.

I watch as her confidence melts in front of him.

He is far less intimidating while kneeling on his seat than he is standing at the end of our row.

He offers Maggi a bright smile, and she half returns it before scooting into the new row, past the man in the aisle seat who is fast asleep.

“I am really sorry about the kicking,” I say, stopping in front of the guy and failing spectacularly at not noticing the width of his chest or the way he smells like he just showered and not like he’s been on a plane with stale dry air for hours.

“No worries. She’s a kid.” He shrugs, gesturing for me to follow my daughter.

It’s when I’m about to follow that I realize he had been sitting in economy plus, the space between the rows wider than it had been in ours. He’s already settling himself into Maggi’s old seat, wincing as his knees connect with the back of his old one.

“This doesn’t seem fair to you,” I hiss over the back of the seat at him.

Brown Eyes shakes his head. “Honestly, it’s fine. I’m used to it.” He grins, pulling his headphones on, effectively ending the conversation.

I want to keep going, though, keep letting him know this isn’t necessary, that I’ll pay him back since he obviously upgraded.

But I know a “please leave me alone” gesture when I see one, so I turn around and slump into the chair.

There is indeed no one in front of us, but it wouldn’t matter if there was.

At just over three feet tall, Maggi’s legs are too short to connect with the seat anyway, and I have a feeling he knew that.

My breath catches the minute the plane touches down. This is the first time I’ve been back to Scotland since Eric’s death, and part of me wants to throw myself on the floor and scream how it’s not fair to be here when he’s not.

I confessed to my sister a couple of months ago that I almost wish someone had something awful to share about Eric.

But people have only ever had lovely things to say.

Reminders of what a good man he had been.

Of course, deep down, I don’t want that.

I want to only be able to share the good things with Maggi when she asks about her dad.

Bringing her to the place he was born and where his family lives is a way to ensure that she will always be connected to him in some way.

It’s a way for me to remain connected to him beyond our daughter.

Maggi’s little hand in mine reminds me I have someone other than myself to worry about at the moment. She’s a handful, but I don’t know that I would have survived losing Eric if I didn’t have her to live for.

At the gate, I pull the tablet out of the seat pocket and hand it back to Maggi, distracting her while the other passengers disembark.

I don’t need to be wrestling with a five-year-old and trying to pull down my carry-on while impatient people huff around me.

Besides, I tell myself, this means a shorter wait when we get to the luggage carousel.

When the plane is nearly empty, I stand and begin gathering our things while Maggi stays seated, blinking sleepily down at an episode of Bluey.

“Is this yours?” I turn to find Brown Eyes holding my carry-on.

“Oh, yes, thank you.” I hesitate before reaching for my bag, only to have him pull it back.

“I can take it for you. Looks like you’ll have your hands full.” He nods behind me and I turn to see Maggi sound asleep.

“Didn’t sleep a wink on the flight, but the second we’re on the ground, out cold.

” I laugh. “If you’re sure, that would be amazing,” I confirm, gesturing at my bag as I sling my purse across my chest then reach down to unbuckle Maggi and pull her into my arms, careful not to knock either of our heads off the overhead bins.

“What brings you to Scotland?” he whispers as we make our way up the jetway.

I peek down at Maggi. “You don’t need to whisper. This kid could sleep through an avalanche.”

He laughs, a deep dimple appearing on his right cheek. “Lucky kid.”

“I know, right? Um, we’re here for a wedding. You?”

“Same.”

I shift Maggi, already dreading how much longer the walk is to customs. “I bet half the other passengers are here for a wedding too,” I ponder aloud. “July in Scotland, everyone’s favourite.”

“Not mine,” he says without missing a beat. “I’m partial to November over here.”

I nearly stop walking due to shock. I doubt anyone in history has said that their favourite time to be in Scotland is November. “Wait, are you serious?”

That dimple somehow deepens further as his grin grows. “Yeah, it’s not as busy. I can’t stand crowds,” he admits.

“But it’s so rainy,” I counter.

He shrugs. “I like the rain.”

“And cold.”

He laughs softly, the warmth of it at odds with what he says next. “I like the cold.”

“Next you’re going to tell me you like chocolate from home more than over here.”

He stops abruptly, a look of horror masking his face. “I would never,” he says in a hushed tone before he starts walking again, catching up to me in a couple of strides. “I do have a slight addiction to Coffee Crisp, though. I’d probably pick that over anything here.”

“Wild.” I smirk, shifting Maggi to my other side and shaking my arm.

“Wanna trade?” he asks, holding up my case as if it weighs nothing.

I’m about to say sure, but then I’m hit with a vision of Eric carrying Maggi, and the thought of her in another man’s arms is too much.

“No, it’s okay. I’m a bit stiff from the flight, that’s all.”

Thankfully he doesn’t push the subject, and before long we reach customs, separating briefly to line up at different booths.

He waits a few feet away once he’s through, and I start to wonder how this ends. Is he going to help with the rest of my luggage? I have two suitcases and I planned to get a cart, but with Maggi still sound asleep, I’m not sure how I’m going to manage it all.

“Do you have a ride sorted?” Brown Eyes asks, pulling me out of my spiral as we come to stand among the other passengers waiting for their luggage.

“Oh yeah. My fath—”

“Excuse me,” another passenger grumbles, brushing past and knocking me off balance.

I manage to stay upright, shifting Maggi back to my other side again. “Knowing him, he’ll already be here, pacing the arrivals area.”

“Doting grandfather?” he asks.

“You have no idea,” I reply, offering a soft smile. My in-laws were the best from day one, but since Eric’s death they’ve been incredible, even from across the ocean.

I notice his gaze dip quickly to my left hand before turning his attention to the luggage carousel when the alarm buzzes. “What does your luggage look like? I’ll grab it for you.”

“Bright purple,” I can feel my cheeks heat at the admission. Suddenly bright purple luggage seems childish. Although I’m not sure what I expected when I told my purple-obsessed daughter she could pick out our bags.

He nods and walks toward where the luggage is starting to tumble down the ramp. I wince as a large case lands on a smaller one, hoping mine make less of a statement upon their arrival.

A grey case, about half the size of my own, comes next, and I watch as Brown Eyes grabs it and sets it down without taking his eyes off the ramp.

“Mommy?” Maggi asks sleepily.

I pull my eyes from the carousel to look down at my daughter. “Yeah, Roo?”

“Is Papa here?” She rubs her eyes and yawns.

I brush her hair back from where it has stuck to her cheek with the drool that’s likely now on my shoulder. “He’s through those doors.” I turn a little to my right so she can see where I’m pointing. “Are you excited to see him?”

“Mmhmm.” She grins, waking up more by the second. I find this is when she looks the most like Eric. So many people say she’s a mini-me but she wakes up the same way her father did. The same dark eyes and thick lashes, the same sleepy little hum.

“I hope you don’t mind sharing a cart,” Brown Eyes says, making me jump a little. I’d almost forgotten about him. “I’m not sure I can balance it all. Oh, hello,” he says, realizing Maggi is awake. “Welcome to Scotland.”

The Maggi from the plane, the defiant one, seems to have been left onboard as she buries her face in my neck.

“She’s going to play shy now, apparently.” I chuckle.

“It’s alright. Shall we?” He begins pushing the cart, and Maggi shifts, turning her head toward our good samaritan. I don’t need to look at her to know she’s watching him, studying our companion. My daughter is a people watcher.

“There are my girls!” I hear Thomas, my father-in-law, shout, and Maggi is wiggling her way out of my arms, running, and jumping into her grandfather’s before I can even think of letting her go.

Locks of her golden brown hair bounce chaotically as she runs to him, and a fresh wave of emotion slams into me as he swings her into his arms in a fierce hug.

Thomas used to yell, “There’s my boy!” when we’d come over before hugging his son like he was afraid to let him go.

Eric inherited his father’s hugging style, and it’s something I miss most. Every reunion since his death has resulted in me having to prepare myself for this moment, and yet despite how much it hurts, I’m grateful for it.

Grateful to my in-laws for continuing to be such an incredible presence in my life.

Forever in their debt for the kind of comfort they bring me even when I know their pain runs just as deep.

“Oh, Blythe,” Thomas says, wrapping his arms around me, pulling me hard into him while Maggi wraps her arms around our legs. “I’ve missed my girls,” he says, drawing back and taking my face in his hands. “You look good.”

“Thanks.” I force a smile, but I can see in his own expression that he doesn’t buy it. He knows he’s Eric, just thirty years older. I’m sure one day this won’t be as hard. I just can’t imagine it right now.

I glance back to our luggage, realizing quickly that Brown Eyes isn’t there anymore, and my stomach drops. I hadn’t thanked him for all his help today. But then I catch a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired man cutting through the crowd toward the exit.

“Thank you!” I call, earning a quick glance over his shoulder, a grin, and a quick wave.

“Who was that?” Thomas asks as he pushes the cart by me with Maggi perched on the handle in front of him.

“Just a kind stranger,” I offer, glancing once more at the far exit he disappeared through, wishing I’d at least gotten his name.