12. London
The butterflies returned as soon as I left the B and B for Murray’s home.
Tierney had lots of concerned questions after we’d bumped into him on Main Street. However, I knew we’d done a bad job of pretending to be in a relationship, and I didn’t need Nee to tell me that.
“I don’t know what to say,” I’d told her impatiently as we’d walked up the hill to the guest house. “We’re trying.”
“You need to try harder or you’re going to get kicked out of Scotland and never be allowed to return.” My best friend’s words tremored with fear.
My tone softened and I squeezed her hand. “We’ll try harder.”
I had to discuss this with Murray, and he’d obviously had a bad day.
What I’d observed about Murray over the last eighteen months was that he had this steady calmness.
No matter the situation, even when it was a tense one like the time in the Lantern when this drunk guy who had a problem with Taran and Quinn had come in to accost us all …
Murray had rushed to stand in front of me so I didn’t get caught in the crossfire of that argument.
But he hadn’t been aggressive or irate. He’d been calm. Steady.
I guess that’s one of the reasons I’d felt safe enough to propose this deal to him.
Today at the harbor was the first time I’d seen him agitated, but when I discovered what people were saying about him, I realized why.
How could a town know this guy their whole lives and think he would use me like that? I mean, we were using each other, but they didn’t know that. They were positioning this like I was some naive little girl who had fallen in love with a guy who was only using her to get one over on his ex-wife.
One, I was almost thirty years old and far from naive.
Two, didn’t they know Murray better than that?
Yet the weird awkward kiss between us made my cheeks hot every time my mind wandered to it.
I groaned as I pulled my SUV to a stop outside the house. It was mortifying. He’d gone in for a peck, I thought he was going for something deeper, and I’d nearly face-planted when he pulled back.
I stared in mortification up at the house.
After prep, I’d gone to the grocery store to grab essentials, milk and the bagels I liked for breakfast. I didn’t want Murray to think I was a moocher.
Shona McIver, the woman who ran the fishmonger, was shopping in the store too and she’d approached me.
She gave me a friendly smile but there was a strain to it, and I understood why when she started grilling me about how long Murray and I had been dating.
I’d politely declined to provide her with information about my private life.
“Och, well, we’re just all so curious.” Shona’s smile had dropped. “Murray is a bit of a catch, you see. Always has been. He went from one serious girlfriend to another. But it wasn’t until he met Jill on the mainland that he married … Aye, it seems he has an aversion to his own islanders.”
That’s when I realized what weird vibes she was giving off.
Shona was jealous.
Had the divorcée been interested in Murray? Had something happened between them that I didn’t know about?
The idea made me feel an overwhelming possessiveness.
Like … it made me impatient and restless.
And deeply upset.
Because everyone might think Murray was mine, but he wasn’t really. Had he been with Shona at some point?
I’d blame that feeling of possessiveness for what I said next.
“Well, when his ‘own islanders’ go around suggesting a good man they’ve known all their lives would sink as low as to seduce a young woman into marrying him just to get his ex off his company’s books, is it any wonder he wouldn’t want to marry one of you?”
Shona’s jaw had dropped and I might have felt bad at her obvious outrage, but I was still bristling. I’d paid for my groceries and strode out without another word, knowing that what I’d said would probably spread through the village within hours.
Sitting in the car, I wondered how long it would take to reach Murray’s ears.
I had to face him at some point.
After I’d let myself into the mudroom, taken off my shoes and coat, I forced myself upstairs.
The delicious smell hit my nostrils before I was even halfway up.
My chef nose detected garlic, tomato, and thyme.
It was a novelty having someone else cook for me.
When I lived with Nick, he insisted on using a private chef whenever we ate in, which, in retrospect, was just another way for him to devalue me.
Living with Taran, I always cooked because it was my way of thanking her for giving me a safe place to land.
Along with the cooking smells was the sound of music on low.
I strolled into the kitchen and the music became clearer. To my surprise, it was one of my favorite bands, Lord Huron.
Murray turned his head to watch me enter. He stood at the stove, stirring one pot while another boiled away at its side. He’d trimmed his hair and beard for our wedding ceremony and he looked more handsome than ever.
Attraction swooped in my belly as our eyes met, and it was followed by a deep, aching sense of longing.
For a second, I wished this was real. That I wasn’t still picking up the pieces of the broken person I’d been eighteen months ago.
That I was together enough, brave enough, to reach out to this man and say, Let’s try this for real.
Because wouldn’t it be lovely coming home every night to a gentle man, a gentleman, who could cook and played my favorite music?
“Hey.” I laid the grocery bag on the counter opposite the island and faced him. “Whatcha cooking?”
Murray’s lips quirked at the corner. “Nothing fancy. Marry Me Chicken Pasta. Felt appropriate.”
I chuckled at the joke, relaxing at his teasing, as I wandered over to the island to take a closer look. “Nice. What is Marry Me Chicken Pasta exactly?”
“It’s a recipe Kelly sent to me. She’s always sending me stuff from social media, but we both liked this one.” He studied me as I rounded the island to peer into the pot. “Though it occurred to me about half an hour ago I’m cooking for a professional chef, and this might not be up to snuff.”
“Are you kidding?” I grinned. “Do you know how long it’s been since someone cooked for me that wasn’t being paid to do it?”
His expression softened. “Aye?”
“Yeah. It smells good.” I glanced around for ingredients, but Murray must work like a professional, cleaning as he cooked. “Do you mind?” I gestured to the wooden spoon.
“Go ahead.”
I took it and tasted the sauce, my brows rising … because it was good. “Chicken, thyme, garlic, parmesan, tomatoes … red pepper flakes?”
“Aye. Some basil, heavy cream, chicken broth, and black pepper. That’s some palate you’ve got there.”
“Yeah, you can develop your palate, you know. Mine has gotten better over time. Anyway, this is tasty.” The rigatoni pasta was already boiled and waiting for the sauce.
“Good,” Murray murmured, dipping his gaze, but I got the feeling he was pleased by my assessment.
“You know what else is good? The music. I can’t believe you listen to Lord Huron.”
Murray raised a brow. “You’re a fan?”
“Yeah, huge. I saw them live about five years ago.”
“Me too. They played Glasgow a few years back.”
“I am totally checking out your music collection after dinner.”
“Music a big thing for you?”
“Huge. My mom and dad wanted me to grow up and be a surgeon like them, so they started me on piano lessons when I was three. The tutor thought I was way too young, but my parents insisted. They made me keep up the lessons for years and while I resented the hell out of them for it, I did fall in love with music.”
“Were you good?”
I nodded. “Julliard’s precollege division was very interested in me, but the stage fright I felt performing in public never went away with practice.
Plus my parents were kind of horrified at the prospect of me becoming a musician.
They only got me into piano to strengthen my dexterity and precision so I could become a surgeon.
” Even I could hear the bitterness in my voice.
“They refused to let me audition, so between that and the stage fright I stopped practicing. They got so fed up arguing with me about it they let it go. I only ever played again when they weren’t home, which was a lot, so …
” I blew out an embarrassed breath. “Poor little rich girl. I know.”
Murray didn’t smile at my self-deprecation. “Your parents weren’t around a lot? Who taught you to cook?”
“Definitely not my parents. My dad’s mom, my nana, moved in with us when I was eleven.
She hated New York, but she had a heart condition and when my grandfather died, my dad didn’t want her living alone.
I think he kind of bullied her into moving into our apartment.
But for a while, I had a real parent in her.
Mom and Dad avoided the house even more because she held a mirror up to them about not being good parents to me.
“Nana taught me to cook, and it was the happiest time in my life. It only lasted two years because she passed away, but those two years changed everything for me. There was something about how much joy it brought her to feed people and see how much they liked her food … I caught the bug.” Feeling suddenly vulnerable at having shared so much, I pushed away from the island.
“Let me put my groceries away and set the table. Where are your plates?”
Murray directed me, going with the subject change. I set the table that was in the connected living room next door. We both opted for water with our dinner, so I poured some and then retrieved cutlery, making small talk as we moved around the kitchen.
Not long later we sat next to each other at the dining table. I’d deliberately set Murray at the head and me beside him. If he wondered at the choice, he didn’t say anything.
After my first bite of pasta, I sensed him watching me, as if waiting to see if I approved.
It was kind of hot.
I smiled. “It’s very good. Thank you.”
Pleased, he nodded. “You’re welcome.”