Chapter 24
Heather—Present Day
H eather woke to rain writing a soft, stubborn script on the Scotsman’s tall windows—and to Flynn’s warmth behind her, one arm heavy at her bare waist, one ankle thrown over hers like he’d conquered the bed in his sleep. The room smelled faintly of soap, him, and the memory of last night.
She smiled into the pillow just as he stirred.
“Good mornin’, mo ghràidh ,” he murmured into her shoulder, voice rough with sleep and other excellent things.
“Mmm.” She tipped her head back for a kiss—a slow, sweet one that earned a quiet sound of protest when she pulled away. He grinned against her neck like a man both forgiven and rewarded.
“Cruel thing,” he sighed.
“Necessary,” she said, rolling around to face him. “We have a whole day of being harmless ahead of us.”
Flynn propped himself on an elbow, his dark hair doing whatever it liked. “I can do harmless.”
“You can do charm ,” she corrected. “Harmless is ambitious.”
His gaze slanted down her naked body—decidedly not harmless.
“Aye,” he said. “Breakfast, then penance.”
“Touristing,” she corrected, yanking the duvet out of his hands.
“Same thing.”
By the time they made it downstairs, Edinburgh had shaken off the worst of the weather. The city gleamed: wet stone, glossy cobbles, everything catching the light as if freshly varnished.
Claire pinged her just as the coffee arrived.
Queen Byrdie has claimed the velvet armchair in the sun.
Staff now take orders from her. All well. x
Heather snorted and showed Flynn the screen.
“She’s a tyrant,” he said solemnly. “I support it.”
Heather typed back— kiss her paws for me —then slid her hand into his. “Ready to fool them?”
“Lass,” he said, pulling out her chair with an unnecessary flourish, “I was born ready.”
They let the city carry them. Up the Royal Mile—bagpipes, chatter, and the swirl of tourists—then down a narrow close until Victoria Street bent under their feet in its candy-colored curve.
“Rule one,” Flynn said, pausing at a window full of antique maps. “Do what normal people do when they’re not hiding stolen secrets.”
“Buy a scarf we don’t need?”
His eyes gleamed. “Exactly.”
He plucked a soft blue and rose tartan from a stall and wrapped it around her neck with a tenderness disguised as practicality.
“Perfect,” he said. “ Criminally perfect.”
“Do you say that to all your felonies?”
“Only the pretty ones.”
They bought fish and chips from a stall where a seagull served as security. A busker coaxed Caledonia out of a fiddle like the sound itself could keep them safe for one more hour.
“ Chips taste better when you can’t feel your fingers,” Heather said, reaching for more vinegar.
“Science,” Flynn agreed, stealing one and earning a wrist-slap. “Careful with that. People will clock you.”
“For what?”
“For bein’ happy, obviously.”
“That illegal?”
“In some boroughs.”
She laughed—bright, ordinary—and he kissed the corner of her mouth because that’s what a boyfriend in public would do.
In a café window they caught their reflection: her scarf, his arm slung comfortably around her, two people with too much daylight between them to be suspicious.
Behind the glass, a man turned a newspaper page without looking up.
Heather’s stomach tipped.
Kerr.
Profile unmistakable.
She didn’t slow. “Keep walking,” she murmured.
Flynn’s hand tightened around hers: affection on the outside, strategy on the inside.
They made curriculum of the day: the Writers’ Museum, a tiny bookstore with a cat that judged them less harshly than Byrdie, and Grassmarket’s vintage stalls.
Flynn tried on a hat that made him look like the world’s most attractive scoundrel; Heather pretended to faint and demanded restitution in pastry form.
He fed her the first bite of an apricot jam tart from The Milkman while tourists tried not to openly stare.
“Do we look convincing?” she asked, watching a red Lothian double-decker thunder by.
“Lass, we look like a brochure.”
Another glimpse of Kerr—leaning near the curb on the George IV Bridge, one hand to his ear as if the city were too loud. Speaking briefly. Glancing once their way.
Flynn murmured, “What d’ye reckon he’s tellin’ them?”
“That I’m frivolous and ordinary,” Heather said with a shrug. “That I’m my father’s daughter after all.”
Flynn kissed her temple. “Good. Let him be wrong.”
They climbed toward the castle with the afternoon crowd. On the Esplanade, Heather leaned against warm stone and looked over the city—spires, trains, Arthur’s Seat watching everything.
“We’re a postcard,” Flynn drawled. “He must be bored out of his skull.”
She followed his line of sight: Kerr by the ticket gate, speaking to a blonde museum liaison—probably Erinn—gesturing lazily, already losing interest in the direction she’d gone.
“He’s satisfied,” she said.
“Aye. He’ll report you’re finished.”
“Good.” Heather slid her hand into Flynn’s back pocket purely to sell the narrative. “I could use something in my life that ends neatly.”
Flynn chuckled into her hair. “I make no promises about neat, Campbell.”
They let evening happen:
— a Rose Street bar with sweating glasses
— mash so buttery it should’ve been illegal
— a faux-argument over the last bite
— a soft-lit photo posted to her socials with the caption:
It’s the little things.
Across the road, a dark car idled for a moment, then left.
“Think they’ll sleep tonight?” Flynn asked, tucking the bill under its clip.
“They think I will,” Heather said. “That’s enough.”
They walked back to the Scotsman with umbrellas closed; the drizzle had decided to be cinematic.
In their room, Heather flopped onto the bed. Flynn locked the door and set the chain like muscle memory.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Long road West. Mallaig. Ferry. Skye.”
“Under Duncan Restorations?”
“Aye.” He shrugged dramatically. “Client needs me. Wife demanded a scenic detour. What’s a man to do?”
Heather laughed. “Claire’s going to send Byrdie updates every hour.”
“She’ll make the cat a banner,” Flynn said. “Queen of the Radiator.”
“She already is.”
He stepped between her knees and tugged her closer by the scarf he’d bought her. That gentle pull—half joke, half anchor—hit her right in the chest.
“We do this fast,” she said. “Quietly. Let Henderson think I’ve gone home and lost interest.”
“And then we vanish into the Hebrides,” he murmured. “Like the wrong people readin’ the wrong code.”
A pause.
“Flynn?”
“Aye, lass?”
“Thank you for today.”
“For buyin’ you a scarf and callin’ it strategy?”
“For being obvious with me in public.”
His smile softened. “Mo chridhe… I’m about to be very obvious.”
“Promises,” she teased, tugging him down into a kiss that tasted like resolve wrapped in sweetness.
Later, with Flynn in the shower, she stood at the window and watched the street.
A figure flicked a cigarette into the gutter and walked off into the dark.
Not Kerr.
Good.
She pulled the curtains shut, switched off the lights, and helped Flynn pack the lie:
Two daypacks, the folder of coded copies, clean socks, the tartan scarf that would make the wind on Skye her enemy.
“Alarm for five,” Flynn said, setting his phone face down. “We’ll get ahead of any keen eyes.”
“Do you think they bought it?” she asked, sliding under the duvet.
He gathered her close, kissed her hair, and spoke with quiet certainty.
“They’ll sleep thinkin’ we’re done.”