Chapter 35 #2
Another silence. Then Isla said, "I don't want to go back full-time."
"Good."
"Skye."
"Sorry." I heard her laugh faintly.
"I want to start with files."
"What kind?"
"Old projects. Remote. No sites." My attention sharpened.
"Actually, that's exactly what we need." I explained the Calder Heritage connection, Declan's records, and the Scottish project proposal we'd found in Finn's case. Isla went quiet when I mentioned the company name.
"I remember Calder."
"So do I."
"They sent Blackridge to us through Northmere."
"Yes."
"Do you think they chose us?" The question had been sitting inside me since yesterday.
"Maybe."
"Because we work historic properties?"
"Possibly."
"Or because they thought we'd follow instructions." I didn't answer immediately. Irish's attention shifted toward me.
"They miscalculated," I said. Isla's laugh held no humor.
"Clearly." Then she surprised me.
"I want to help audit everything." I sat down.
"Isla—"
"Beside you, Skye." The reminder stopped me because she had asked me to stand beside her rather than over her. I looked toward the table.
"All right."
"All right?"
"Yes."
"That was easier than expected."
"I'm evolving."
"Terrifying." Irish laughed quietly. Isla heard.
"Is he there?"
"Aye," Irish called.
I glared at him. Isla went silent for a second. Then, "Hello, Callum."
"Morning."
"You're keeping her out of buildings?" I folded my arms. Irish looked directly at me.
"No."
"Good answer."
"Apparently I don't have jurisdiction."
"You absolutely don't." I stared at the phone.
"I hate both of you."
"No, you don't," Isla said. The words came lightly. Still, something about them stayed with me after the call ended. I looked at Irish.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You always say that when you're avoiding an answer.
" I repeated his own line deliberately. He smiled.
Before I could say anything else, he reached into his pocket and placed something on the kitchen table.
A key. I stared at it. The brass was newer than the farmhouse key he carried, but the shape was similar.
"What is that?"
"Key."
"Very observant."
"Had Eamon bring it."
"When?"
"Last night." I looked from the key to him.
"Why?" Irish's expression became more serious.
"House has spare sets." I didn't touch it.
"Callum."
"I know."
"Do you?"
"Aye." He sat across from me.
"This isn't me asking you to move here."
"Good."
"Not asking you to leave Scotland."
"Also good."
"Not asking you to promise where you'll be six months from now." I waited. He pushed the key slightly closer.
"It's a key, Skye."
"You say that like it isn't symbolic."
"It's absolutely symbolic." I laughed despite myself.
"At least you're admitting it." His gaze held mine.
"I want you to be able to come here without asking me." That silenced me. He continued.
"If I'm in Carolina and you need the house, use it. If you're working on the restoration, come and go. If Isla eventually wants to see Ireland, bring her. If you need somewhere quiet, it's here." I looked at the key.
"And if we have a terrible argument?"
"You still have a key."
"If we break up?" His jaw tightened.
"Don't like that hypothetical."
"Still." He considered it.
"You'd return it if you wanted." Everything kept coming back to choice. I touched the brass with one fingertip.
"This matters to you."
"Aye."
"Why?" He looked toward the kitchen, the hallway, the study, everything the house represented.
"Because nobody gets access to my life by accident anymore." My chest tightened.
"I want you to have it." I picked up the key. It was surprisingly light. The meaning wasn't. Irish watched my face.
"No pressure."
"You've become irritatingly good at saying that."
"Practice." I closed my fingers around the key.
"I'll keep it." His shoulders eased. I leaned across the table and kissed him. When I pulled back, he looked at my hand.
"You're smiling."
"No."
"You are."
"I'm considering billing you for key-management services."
"There's the woman I know."
I laughed. For a while, we returned to the restoration plans.
We talked about Maeve's room becoming a library, Finn's becoming a guest room, and whether the upstairs landing could support another window without compromising the exterior.
Irish insisted the old kitchen table remain exactly where it was.
I agreed without argument. He wanted Da's study preserved more carefully, not as a shrine but because the hidden archive would eventually become part of the official record of what happened.
By early afternoon, sunlight had filled the kitchen.
The key remained beside my notebook. Every time I looked at it, something inside me changed.
Its importance didn't come from promising permanence, but from the fact that it demanded nothing.
It gave access without ownership. Belonging without surrender.
Exactly the thing I'd spent years believing didn't exist. Irish came up behind me while I stood at the sink and slid one arm around my waist.
"Thinking again."
"Apparently."
"About?" I looked down at the key.
"How irritating you are."
"Expected."
"And the house."
"Aye."
"And us." His arm tightened slightly. I turned within his hold.
"What?"
I studied him. There were moments when emotion announced itself with drama, but this wasn't one of them; there was no fire, no gunfire, no collapse, and no confession dragged out by grief.
Just sunlight in an old kitchen and the man I had somehow fallen in love with standing close enough that I could see the faint line beside his eyes that appeared whenever he smiled.
The realization didn't frighten me. That surprised me most. I touched his face. Irish's expression changed.
"Skye?"
"I love you, Rory."
The words came quietly, without hesitation or any need to explain which part of him I meant, because I meant all of him: Irish, Callum, and Rory.
The boy who had left this house angry. The man who had spent fifteen years punishing himself.
The biker who walked into danger for people he'd chosen as family.
The man standing in front of me learning how to stay.
For several seconds he didn't speak. I saw the impact move through him.
Then his hand came up and covered mine against his cheek.
"Say it again." I smiled.
"I love you, Rory." His eyes closed briefly. When they opened again, there was nothing guarded in them.
"I love you too, Skye." The words settled into the kitchen as naturally as though the house had been waiting for them. I kissed him slowly, without urgency or fear. When we separated, he rested his forehead against mine.
"Still terrifying," he murmured.
"What?"
"This."
"Good." He laughed quietly. I smiled. The key pressed into my palm between us. Outside, the old rose moved against the farmhouse wall in the wind, still overgrown, still imperfect, and entirely worth saving. So were we.