CHAPTER EIGHTEEN ~ ABBY ~ FOURTEEN YEARS AGO #2
But all of that would only hurt more, so I take Graeme’s hand and let him lead me down the hill and back home one last time.
Neither of us says a word on the short walk back to MacKinlay Tower. I’m not sure I want to know what Graeme is thinking anyway. My own thoughts make me wish I could shut off my brain. The plan I’m formulating is going to heap more hurt on both of us, but it’s safer this way.
I turn to Graeme the minute the apartment door closes behind us.
“I think I should sleep in the spare room tonight. And I think...I think I should call a cab to take me to the airport tomorrow instead of you driving me.” I attempt to explain my reasoning, but my voice is shaking so hard, I let the words fall away.
“If that’s what you want.” His jaw is clenched so tight, I’m surprised he can get the words out. “So we’ll say goodbye now, then?”
I nearly choke on the sob that rises in my throat. Graeme makes a sound of dismay as he yanks me forward and enfolds me in his arms. I’m not sure which of us is shaking harder as we cling to each other.
He gives me one final squeeze and then releases me, gently pushing me so I’m at arm’s length.
“I may be a fool and a masochist for saying it again, but I love you, Abigail Morton. This isn’t the end, and it isn’t goodbye.
” He dashes away the tears collecting on his cheeks as he takes a step back, putting more space between us.
The emotion is gone from his voice when he adds, “I want you to text me when you get to the airport safely, and then again when you get home, okay?”
Without waiting for a response, he turns and disappears around the corner. A moment later, his bedroom door clicks shut.
The next thing I know, I’m lying in bed in the spare room.
I blink and glance around. My suitcase is packed and my clothes for tomorrow are laid out.
I peek under the covers to see I’m wearing pajamas—or, more accurately, the Sunshine on Leith T-shirt I stole from Graeme a few days ago and have been sleeping in ever since.
I have zero recollection of getting ready for bed or finishing packing.
I look at my phone, expecting it to be close to the time I need to get up, but only an hour has passed since Graeme and I returned from Calton Hill.
I roll to face the window, imagining the view beyond of Moray House and Arthur’s Seat.
I close my eyes, but they pop right back open again.
I flop onto my back, then onto my other side.
After the strange fugue state of the last hour, I’m suddenly wide awake.
I tell myself it’s because it’s so early and not because this bed feels wrong, this room feels wrong, this whole damn thing feels wrong. And it’s all my own doing.
A clattering sound in the hallway makes me jump.
When it happens again, I sit up, eyes trained on the door.
I hold my breath, hoping Graeme is about to open the door and tell me he refuses to spend our last night apart.
It remains closed, but when another soft noise comes from the hallway, I get out of bed to investigate.
The apartment is dark except for the nightlight partway down the hall.
All of the doors are closed, and no light shines from under any of them.
A chill skitters up my spine when I remember Fern’s claims that our shared bedroom at the MacKinlays’ was haunted.
I’m about to return to my room when Graeme’s bedroom door opens, and he steps into the hall.
He never closes his blinds fully at night, so a faint glow surrounds him.
He looks like both sin and salvation as he stands there in nothing but his underwear, with his hair dishevelled as if he’s been running his hands through it.
“I’m an idiot,” I blurt. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t say the words before, but I do love you, Graeme. I love you so fucking much. And then I compounded my idiocy and hurt us both even more by not spending the night with you.”
“You’re not an idiot. Or if you are, you’re my idiot.” He moves closer, and I meet him halfway, practically launching myself into his arms. “Say it again,” he whispers in my ear.
I almost joke about him wanting me to repeat that I’m an idiot, but I’ve wasted enough time. “I love you, Graeme.”
“I love you too, a ghràidh.”
The first time he called me that last week, I asked what it meant.
He’d blushed—actually blushed—when he told me it’s Gaelic for ‘my love’ or ‘my darling’.
I’d asked if he said it by accident, and he replied, “It’s what my dad has always called my mum.
It sort of just slipped out, but it wasn’t an accident.
” I nearly swooned then, and I feel lightheaded again now as Graeme lifts me and carries me into his room.
We take our time undressing each other, sharing slow kisses as we go.
I attempt to memorize every inch of his body with all of my senses, never wanting to forget the feel of his skin under my fingertips, or the way his muscles quiver when my hand runs down his abdomen, or the sounds he makes as his control frays at the edges.
I also want to remember how his lips always linger on my left collarbone, and the way the vibration of his deep voice resonates in every inch of my body when he murmurs in my ear.
My skin feels like a live wire, sensitive to his every touch.
I’m teetering at the edge of orgasm before Graeme even gets me into bed.
We fall onto the mattress together, and he pushes me over that edge effortlessly with his fingers between my legs and his mouth on my breasts.
When he slides inside me a few minutes later, I cling to him, unable to get close enough.
My eyes sting, but I blink the tears away, commanding my brain to be quiet and let me be in this moment and only this moment.
Our bodies move together, our languid pace from earlier becoming frantic now.
My hands move restlessly over Graeme’s shoulders and back before dipping to grip his ass and push him in even deeper.
The low rumble in his throat has me gasping as pleasure sweeps through me.
As I ride the wave for a second time, I’m vaguely aware of Graeme murmuring in my ear, telling me how good I feel and how much he loves me.