Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
AGNES
Ichanged my outfit four times, which was ridiculous.
Why had I even said yes to this?
This wasn’t a date. I’d been very clear about that. It didn’t mean anything. I glared out the window toward The Tipsy Thistle. It was just two old friends sharing a meal at a restaurant that happened to have tablecloths and a wine list longer than my arm.
The fact that I’d shaved my legs and put on mascara meant nothing. Nothing.
“You’re being a freaking eejit,” I told my reflection, tugging at the neckline of the green wrap dress I’d finally settled on. It was the nicest thing I owned that wasn’t covered in paint or clay dust, and it made my skin look rosy—not that I cared about that. Not that I wanted Graham to notice.
The knock at my door came at exactly six o’clock.
Of course it did. Graham had many faults, but tardiness wasn’t one of them.
The man ran his pub with military precision—every keg tapped on schedule, every shift covered, and he had every regular’s order memorized.
It was one of the things I’d always admired about him, that steadiness. That reliability.
It was also one of the things that made him dangerous to me. A man you could count on was a man you could love. And loving was the one thing I couldn’t afford to do.
For the hundredth time today, I questioned whether I should be doing this. I’d made a promise to my gran, hadn’t I? What was I even doing? Worry gnawed low in my gut even as I took a breath, smoothed my dress one final time, and opened the door.
Graham was wearing a blue jumper that made his eyes pop. He’d trimmed his beard, the edges neat and precise instead of their usual slight wildness, and his hair was actually styled instead of just shoved back from his face. He looked like he’d put in effort.
And he was holding a small bunch of anemones tied artfully with a bow.
“Och, Graham, those are lovely,” I said, reaching for the flowers.
“Who said they were for you?” Graham asked and I froze, my fingers a hairsbreadth away from the stems.
“Oh, I … I …” I was so flustered, and Graham let out a low laugh that had my insides heating.
“Of course they’re for you.” Graham pressed them softly into my hands. “Though their beauty pales in comparison to how you look tonight.”
I turned away to put the flowers in a wee vase before I did something stupid like launch myself at him.
“You clean up all right yourself,” I said, glancing over my shoulder as I filled the vase with water.
It was a simple pot I’d made when I was experimenting with a lovely icy blue glaze, surprisingly close to Graham’s eye color now that I thought about it, and one of my favorites, and I took the time to gather my emotions.
Damn it, but the man had a way of getting under my defenses.
Anemones had been the first flowers he’d ever given me.
I was twelve, and he was fourteen, and there’d been some Valentines thing at school—one of those days where everyone hopes someone brings them a wee sweetie or a card.
But nobody had gotten anything for me. I’d been sad, sure, but I hadn’t made a fuss of it.
But Lachlan must have said something, because later that day, Graham had appeared, a bundle of soft white anemones in hand, and had shoved them at me before disappearing.
The water splashed over my fingers, cold enough to shock some sense back into me, and I plunked the flowers inside the vase. Naturally, they looked as charming as could be, and I sighed.
This was just dinner. Just one meal.
Between good friends.
“Ready?” Graham asked when I finally turned.
“As I’ll ever be.” Which was a lie, really, since I was fairly certain Graham would forever keep me off kilter like a boat with a torn sail being battered about in a gale.
The restaurant, La Stella, was a small Italian place tucked into a converted cottage on the outskirts of the next village.
I’d heard about it—everyone in the area had—but I’d never been.
It was the kind of place couples went for anniversaries and special occasions, intimate and romantic in a way that almost threatened my poor wee heart that was trying desperately not to notice how good Graham smelled tonight.
“Graham,” I said as he pulled into the small car park. “This is...”
“Fancy? Aye, I believe that’s the point of taking someone to dinner.”
“This is the kind of place people go on dates.”
“Is it?” He turned off the engine and looked at me with exaggerated innocence. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“I have no idea what I’m doing.” Nerves twisted in my stomach, and I matched the movement, twisting the ring at my finger. “This is—”
I was confusing even myself. What I needed to do was keep Graham out of danger, and at the same time, the only place I wanted to be was curled up in his arms. How was it that the only person who had ever truly made me feel safe was the one port I couldn’t return to in this storm of magick that had entangled my bloodline?
“This is just food, Agnes.” He climbed out before I could argue further, rounding the car to open my door with that same ridiculous chivalry. “Come on, Agnes. One dinner. That’s all I asked for. Let me make it a good one.”
I wanted to keep protesting, but even I was getting tired of myself at this point.
And he was standing there in the soft light from the restaurant windows, hand extended, looking at me like I was the only thing in the world worth seeing.
I was so tired of saying no. So tired of building walls and pushing him away and pretending that my heart hadn’t yearned for him every day since I’d broken it off.
Had it all been an exercise in futility? Did all roads simply lead to this anyway? Confused and uncertain, I bit my lip and then took his hand and let him help me from the car.
The inside of La Stella was everything the outside promised—warm and intimate, with pillar candles flickering in squat olive oil bottles and the smell of garlic and freshly baked bread filling the air.
The walls were exposed stone, hung with old photographs of Italian coastlines, and soft music played from hidden speakers.
A dark-haired woman with a warm smile greeted us at the door.
“Mr. Kincaid,” she said. “Your table is ready. Right this way.”
The hostess seated us in a corner booth, tucked away from the other diners, with a view of the small garden, lit up with fairy lights, visible through the window. She handed us menus, recited the specials with practiced ease, and disappeared with a promise that our server would be with us shortly.
I stared at the menu without seeing it, acutely aware of Graham across the table, watching me with that patient intensity that had always made me feel seen in ways I wasn’t sure I wanted. I twisted Gran’s ring at my finger, nerves doing their best to make me feel on edge.
“You’re fidgeting,” Graham said, amusement coloring his voice.
“I’m not fidgeting.” I was one hundred percent fidgeting. I shifted in my chair and glared at him.
“I’m just ... this is strange,” I admitted. “Being here with you. Like this.”
“Strange bad or strange good?”
“Strange ... strange.” I kept my eyes on the list of pasta dishes. “I haven’t been on a date in a while.”
“This isn’t a date. You were very clear about that.”
I looked up sharply, but he was grinning, clearly enjoying himself.
“Have I mentioned that I hate you?”
“No, you don’t.” Again, that easy smile lit his handsome face, and his confidence would have been annoying if he wasn’t just so damn attractive.
Our server arrived—a young man with a cheerful manner who introduced himself as Marco and seemed genuinely delighted to be serving us. He took our drink orders—wine for me, sparkling water for Graham—and left us to peruse the menu.
“I believe I mentioned that the carbonara’s excellent, as is the risotto, I’m told,” Graham said. “In case you were having trouble deciding.”
“How do you know so much about this place? I didn’t think you got many nights off to go out?” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Or is this where you bring all your dates?”
Graham’s lips quirked.
“Lachlan brought Sophie here, and they raved about it.” He shrugged. “I’ve been wanting to bring you for a while now.”
Marco returned with our drinks and took our food orders—carbonara for Graham, mushroom risotto for me—and left us alone again with the weight of everything unspoken.
“Can I ask you something?” I asked, surprising myself. I took a steadying sip of my wine, easing the tension slightly, and met Graham’s eyes across the table.
“Always.” That was him. Always steady. Always there.
“Why haven’t you given up on me?” I rushed the words out in a whoosh of air, but I figured, what did it matter at this point? We were both dancing around what we wanted to say, so at the very least, maybe I could start to understand him more.
Graham went still, his eyes softening at the edges as he watched me carefully. This was probably the most honest conversation we’d had in years.
“What do you mean by that, exactly?”
“I mean ...” I gestured vaguely between us. “This. Us. Whatever this is. I ended things years ago. I’ve turned you down more times than I can count. I’ve watched you date half the women in the Highlands—”
“That’s a slight exaggeration.” Graham shook his head ruefully. But I just edged forward.
“—and you’re still here. Still asking me to dinner. Still looking at me like...” I couldn’t finish the sentence. He looked at me like I was worth fighting for.
Graham was quiet for a long moment, but when he spoke, his voice was rough.
“Do you remember that time at school? When Jamie McAllister was giving you grief about your mum being a single mum?”
The question caught me off guard.
“I remember,” I said, leaning back to take a sip of my wine. It wasn’t a favorite memory of mine.
“You were standing in the corridor outside the library. I was coming back from football practice, and I heard him before I saw him. Saying all that shite about your mum.”