Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
CAMERON
Lochaven, Scotland
The first thing I notice is the quietness.
It’s not the absence of sound exactly, but only the low hum of tires on pavement and the wind brushing past the car.
A quiet that has spaciousness to it, like the world has stretched out and exhaled.
I surface slowly from sleep, a heavy, disoriented kind from too many hours folded into an airplane seat and not enough real rest.
“Cam,” Gregg whispers softly, rubbing my leg gently.
I blink, my eyes adjusting to the slanted amber light spilling through the windshield. The sky ahead of us is wide and pale, and clouds stretch thin like brushstrokes. There are greens I don’t have names for rolled out in every direction.
“We’re almost there,” he adds. “About ten minutes. Did you sleep well?”
I sit up, rubbing my face, my neck stiff. We had stopped off for lunch and a break somewhere between Manchester and Liverpool. “When did I fall asleep? Somewhere around… Lockerbie?”
He smiles. “Much earlier. You started dozing around Lancaster, but were gone before we made it to Carlisle.”
I glance out the window, suddenly alert. The landscape is breathtaking. No grand reveal, just mountains easing into view, pine forests darkening at their edges, the Cairngorms rise quietly in the distance like they don’t need to impress anyone.
“This is… Lochaven?” I ask.
“Just outside,” he says.
Late afternoon light settles over everything, soft and honeyed, the day winding down gently. It is just after five, early evening by Scottish standards, Gregg had explained earlier, but it already feels like a pause.
“I was thinking,” he continues casually. “We could stop at the Thistle and Fir for dinner. Proper pub food, nothing fancy. Then maybe grab a few things to take back to the house.”
The house. The way he says it, so simple and unassuming.
“That sounds perfect,” I say, my voice still rough with sleep. “As long as you don’t expect me to be conversational for at least another half hour.”
He laughs. “I’ve already had nearly five hours of you snoring peacefully. I think I can manage.”
“Five hours?” I gasp. “I must have been exhausted! And I do not snore.”
“You absolutely do,” he retorts, glancing at me with a fond and teasing look. “Very softly. Almost charming. You have every night we’ve been together.”
The Thistle and Fir Pub feels like it has been standing forever.
Low ceilings are crossed with dark timber beams with stone walls that hold the Scottish evening chill at bay.
The air smells of smoke, and something rich and savory drifts in from the kitchen.
Gregg slides into an old bench across from me, looking perfectly at ease, like this was one of his natural habitats.
“I thought you’d like it,” he acknowledges. “It’s unapologetically itself.”
“I already do,” I reply, running my fingers along the worn wood of the table. “It feels very honest.”
A server appears, and Gregg doesn’t hesitate.
“Scotch, please,” he says. “Single malt. Neat.”
Then he turns to me, softer. “I was going to suggest you try a dram, unless you’d rather—”
“I’m actually not drinking anymore,” I interrupt gently.
The words land cleanly. No apology. No explanation. Gregg doesn’t flinch. He just nods once, like I’ve told him something important and he is filing it carefully away.
“Thank you for telling me,” he says. “Tea? Or something warm?”
“Tea sounds perfect.”
Gregg looks quickly to the server, then back to me. “Actually,” he adds, his mouth open slightly, searching for words. “I think instead I’ll actually have—”
“Oh no,” I cut him off, shaking my hands in protest. “You don’t have to drink something else because of me.”
“You’re certain?” he confirms.
“Absolutely!”
When the server leaves, Gregg leans back, studying me.
“Is this new?” he asks quietly.
“New-ish, as of Sunday,” I admit. “It’s necessary.”
“I won’t push,” he says immediately. “Never.”
“I know.” I smile, grateful in a way that surprises me. “It means more than you realize.”
His scotch arrives, amber catching the light. He lifts the glass, inhales, then pauses.
“I’ll still offer,” he remarks lightly. “But only because I think it’s polite.”
I laugh. “Duly noted.”
A moment later, menus in hand, Gregg scans his with purpose.
“You have to try the haggis.”
“I absolutely do not.” I blink.
“You absolutely do,” he counters. “I tried clam chowder, so you get to try haggis. This is not negotiable.”
“Gregg—”
“Trust me,” he says, leaning forward conspiratorially. “And if you hate it, I’ll personally apologize to Scotland on your behalf.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s a big promise.”
“I’m a brave man.”
I sigh theatrically. “Fine. But if I die—”
“I’ll write a moving eulogy.”
Laughter and low conversation hums around the room. I watch him lift his glass again, the light dancing across his face. He’s home, alive and free.
Our meals arrive with little ceremony, fresh from the kitchen on heavy ceramic plates that radiate warmth even before they are set down in front of us.
The haggis sits proudly at the center, dark and rich beneath a glossy sheen, its exterior just slightly crisped.
A generous pool of gravy surrounds it, steam curling upward in lazy spirals.
It carries with it a smell that is earthy and savory and unexpectedly inviting.
Nestled beside it are clouds of buttery mashed potatoes and roasted carrots, their color bright against the darker tones of the plate.
Gregg’s face lights up like someone greeting an old friend.
“There you are,” he announces reverently, already reaching for his knife and fork.
Without wavering, he cuts straight in, the blade parting the haggis with ease. The interior is coarse but tender, flecked with herbs and spices. He takes a bite and his eyes close briefly as he chewed.
“Still perfect,” he declares, already going in for another forkful. “After all this time.”
I watch him with a mix of amusement and skepticism, then take my own cut, cautiously. The moment the fork hits my tongue, I stall.
It isn’t what I’d expected at all. It’s warm and deeply seasoned, rich without being heavy. The spices bloom slowly, peppery, savory, and comforting. I chew, then swallow, and feel my shoulders relax.
“Oh.” I sigh quietly.
Gregg looks up, trying not to look smug and fails. “Is that a good ‘oh’ or ‘uh-oh’ this was a mistake?”
I take another bite, this one bigger. “Oh… I was very wrong.”
He grins victoriously. “That’s the correct response.”
I smile, shaking my head as I go back for more.
The remainder of the car ride is quiet in a comfortable, unhurried way.
Outside the windows, the countryside blurs past in the remnants of daylight.
The sky, which is the color of bruised lavender, illuminates the tall pines with shadows.
Gregg continues to drive with the same easy confidence; one hand rests lightly on the wheel as the road narrows into a quiet lane.
I’ll admit, after a long day of driving and me being a passenger princess, he still carries the same energy he had when he picked me up hours ago.
“This is us,” he announces softly as he turns onto a gravel drive, the crunching underneath the tires deliberate.
Two stone pillars rise up on either side of the drive, their surfaces darkened with age and streaked with moss.
Ivy curls stubbornly at their edges. There are no gates, only a suggestion that long ago, there had been something meant to keep the world out.
We cross a small stone bridge that arches over a narrow stream. The trees close in around us, their trunks straight and towering, shielding us from the dull sky. Then the forest opens up, revealing Strathwyn Castle.
A symmetrical castle stands solid and imposing against the land. Stone turrets rise toward the dim sky, expansive windows catch the remaining light.
“I know it probably seems like a lot,” Gregg admits. “It was originally built as a hunting lodge. But was eventually expanded into a residence.”
Even with the Victorian and Gothic additions that have been layered over the centuries, there is something rugged at its core, as if the house itself has grown out of its surrounding landscape.
Orderly and intentional, manicured gardens hug the immediate perimeter.
But beyond them the land gives way to wilderness.
Pine forests stretch endlessly, and rolling hills fade into mist covered peaks.
Gregg slows the car as we approach along the circular drive, pulling around a stone fountain that appears dry. I glance at him, catching the shift in his expression, he seems totally at ease and at home. And I feel incredibly out of my league.
“This is… Gregg, this is incredible.”
The car idles for a moment before Gregg shuts it off, and in that brief silence, the scale of the place seems to expand.
I stay seated, his hand still on my thigh, and my eyes trace the lines of the castle as if I could take it all in at once.
I’ve seen beautiful homes before, I mean I’d grown up comfortable but this, this is an incredibly different world.
The turrets catch the last sliver of light like sentinels, their shadows stretch across the drive.
The windows glow faintly from within, warm and watchful, like the house were aware of newcomers.
I imagine the generations that have passed through these doors.
Men and women dressed for dinners and hunts and wars and weddings, each one adding a layer to the story Gregg now carries whether he wants to or not.
“So this,” I say softly, breaking the silence. “This is where you come from? Where you feel most at home?”
Gregg turns to me and studies my face carefully, like he is bracing for some sort of judgement. “It is,” he answers simply.