Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

T he market bustled with tourists and locals alike, drawn by the aromas of fresh seafood, pastries, and the underlying tang of malt vinegar from Mr Fergusson’s fish and chips stand.

Connor adjusted the display of Liz’ homemade pies, trying not to glance too often at Kirsty as she piped fresh buttercream from the mini-fridge onto another batch of cupcakes. Her ‘no regrets’ cupcakes, as she called them, were a hit. He’d scoffed at the idea. But people were keen, talking about the messages. They were like fortune cookies. He caught snatches of laughter, and his gaze would inadvertently follow the sound back to Kirsty. Every time she deftly spun the piping bag, there was a tug in his chest that refused to fade away. Connor watched her wrists flick with an artist’s precision, her face set in concentration beneath wavy locks. He longed to brush those strands back, to feel the silkiness between his fingers.

And when she smiled…

This damn woman made his world shrink down to her, just by breathing the same air.

This was torture.

Most of the time, he was attempting to focus on potential customers. ‘Try the steak and ale,’ he’d say, with a nod toward her maw’s masterpiece. Once or twice, he’d received a sinister glance through slanted eyes. One or two people had turned away once they’d spotted him. He couldn’t ignore the twist in his gut each time, discomfort prickling his neck as another sideways glare met his eye. These people sure could hold a grudge.

Not such a brilliant idea to have the town pariah sell the pies.

And of course there were the curious looks of those who knew them from fourteen, fifteen years ago. Who remembered they’d been school sweethearts.

Yep. Torture.

Between handing out cupcakes and frosting new ones, Kirsty was checking her phone, waiting for a text from her mother that the operation went well. Was routine, but still.

Connor watched how a lad in a Hawaiian shirt leaned over Kirsty’s side of the stall. His smile a little too wide, his laugh a touch too loud. Definitely a bit too young. The guy edged closer, saying something that made Kirsty toss her head back with a giggle, her auburn hair catching the sun. The brown was fading a bit and her red was coming through again.

He wasn’t surprised that men were flirting with her. There was an artless charisma to her that drew certain people in. An uncut charm. Kirsty was fierce, a force to be reckoned with.

Like back in secondary school, when she’d kicked his brother’s pal Jamie Emslie in the balls.

Third week of secondary one

Jamie Emslie was two classes above him. For some reason – probably to do with Alistair – he’d decided to pick on Connor. With an infuriating smirk, Jamie shoved him against the wall. ‘I don’t like your stupid face, ya twat. Twatface.’

Connor, smaller and quieter, tried to keep calm. He didn’t want any trouble. His books scattered on the ground, and he scrambled to pick them up.

Right then, Jamie rammed his knee into his face, missing his nose by a hair’s breadth.

Kirsty had seen everything and stormed across the yard. Jamie barely had time to react before she was upon him. ‘Picking on smaller boys? How brave. Leave him alone.’

Jamie laughed, dismissive. ‘What are you gonna do about it, eh? You’re a stupid girl. Stupid ginger minger.’

Kirsty’s foot shot out, connecting squarely with Jamie’s groin. The sound was a dull thud, followed by a sharp inhale and a whimper. Jamie’s face went pale. He crumpled to the ground, hands clutching his crotch, and fainted.

Connor froze, mouth agape. The yard erupted in chaos, kids shouting and rushing over. Kirsty stood her ground, breathing hard, eyes blazing with anger and satisfaction, red hair gleaming. She looked at him and her expression softened a fraction. ‘You alright?’ As if she hadn’t just incapacitated a boy almost twice her size.

But why? Because he’d taken her poem from Maisie so she couldn’t make fun of Kirsty?

‘I’m sorry he did that to you. He’s a bully.’ She took his hand and squeezed it. ‘I don’t think he’ll do it again, though.’ And she smiled as bright as a supernova.

Connor nodded, speechless. From that moment, it was her. Inescapably and forever carved into his heart.

A smile flashed across his face at the memory.

What a girl.

Now she was a bold beauty. Hidden beneath all that tough snark was a soft soul. Deep down she was tender and precious and caring. She was so damn special.

Always had been. Always would be.

But he would never, ever tell her that. He couldn’t risk it. They were just becoming reacquainted. He didn’t want to scare her away or piss her off again.

Not that he’d matter to her in that way anyway. That train had left the station long ago, and he’d been the driver. It had been his fault.

No, he was here to make up for his mistake, plain and simple. To be supportive.

The low rumble in his chest was drowned out by the hustle of the festival around him. Judging by his smug grin, that dimwit with a bad taste in clothes was trying to impress her. Cocky prick.

A muscle in Connor’s jaw bunched as the stranger’s hand happened to brush against Kirsty’s when he gave her the money. A touch that lingered a fraction too long. He took his sunglasses off and his eyes roved freely, taking in her form with an appreciation that set Connor’s teeth on edge, blood thrumming in his ears.

He had no right at all. Zero. Zilch.

And yet.

He wanted to slice that guy’s back open, tear his ribs from his spine and spread his lungs out.

Aye, full-on blood eagle.

Until now, Connor had thought of himself as a calm, peaceful, stable guy. Obviously not where Kirsty Munro was concerned.

Must be a thick drop of Viking blood in his Aberdeenshire ancestry.

Whenever she thought he was too busy to pay attention, Kirsty snuck glances at Connor from the corner of her eye. Socialising wasn’t his thing. In fact, he’d always rather avoided community events. Except rugby. It was astonishing he was here today. Connor could be charming when he wanted to be, but he was picky about whom he let in. He had never been much of a people person. Not even with his old teammates.

She also recalled the upheaval when the Bannerman’s big bakery in Cairnhaven had closed after seventy years. Her mother had mentioned it once or twice on the phone – weirdly, just the bakery and not Connor. The town blamed the two brothers for culling forty jobs. Which was a lot in a place like this. Something told her that there was more to the story than met the eye.

During the day, Kirsty had noticed some people gawking at Connor as if he were Edward I – the Hammer of the Scots – reincarnated.

But still here he stood, next to her like an oak, handing out her mother’s pies and small talking his introverted arse off. For hours. Even though he must hate every minute. Selling meat pies as a vegetarian. Without payment. Without a single complaint.

Impressive.

And so annoying. He was making it way too hard to categorically despise him for all eternity.

Kirsty frosted another batch of cupcakes, watching Connor force a smile at Mrs MacIver who was scrutinising the pastry like it was the Scottish crown jewels. He explained to her it was indeed Liz Munro’s tried and tested recipe. Kirsty could tell he was trying to be patient. It was oddly endearing, watching the pescatarian offer reassurances that, yes, the filling was made with locally sourced beef.

Observing Connor, she detected little things she’d missed before. The way his hands moved as he wrapped up the pies, little tufts of golden hair on his fingers. The curve of his forearms flexing subtly with each twist of the paper. How much he made an effort. It unravelled something tight within her chest, like someone pulling a knot out of a rope.

As another customer approached, Connor braced himself visibly, straightening up. Kirsty had to turn her attention to Mrs MacIver, who was coming over to her side. The elderly woman smiled knowingly, her eyes darting between Kirsty and Connor. ‘You two make a fine pair running this stand together. I remember years ago, when you were inseparable.’

‘Aye, ages ago. The past is the past, right? I’m trying to help my maw out while she’s in hospital,’ Kirsty explained. ‘Da’s watching the café and Connor was kind enough to help out.’

‘Oh, no. Is Liz all right?’ Mrs MacIver asked with concern on her face.

‘Nae worries. She’s getting a new hip today. Expecting her text any minute now.’

‘Och, I got a new hip ten years ago. It’s smashing. I can jump like a young deer again. Would you like to see?’

Kirsty tipped a cheeky smile. ‘Please, Mrs MacIver. I have cupcakes to sell. You’d be too much a distraction with your funky dance moves.’

In the late afternoon, the crowd slowly thinned out. Day one was coming to an end, and there hadn’t been a bloodbath in the Seaview Café’s stall.

I’d call that a success .

Connor was meticulously counting the takings, his face crumpled in concentration. Most people had paid by card anyway. But some of the older Cairnhaveners still preferred cash.

Kirsty had been meaning to say something all day, but they’d been so busy. Which was fantastic. Her cupcakes had sold out, she’d probably spend all night making a bigger batch for tomorrow.

But that wasn’t what weighed on her mind.

She cleared her throat. ‘Listen, Bannerman. About the other night at the quarry…’

He glanced up, those deep eyes that saw right through all her layers catching hers.

‘I didn’t mean to…fall apart on you like that. Wasn’t fair to unload on you. Inappropriate. Uncool.’

Connor closed the box with a gentle click and straightened up, turning to face her fully. Hints of copper glinting in his dark hair. ‘Don’t ever apologise to me for being human, Freckles.’ He leaned back against the stall, arms crossed, a shadow from the canopy above cutting across his face.

She looked away, a flush creeping up her neck. It was one thing to maintain an old grudge from afar; it was quite another to hold on to it when he was being near and so…bloody reasonable and disgustingly nice.

‘Aye, well,’ she muttered, trying and failing to keep the gratitude out of her voice. ‘Thanks for not making a big deal out of it.’

‘We’ve gone through enough for me to know you’re as tough as they come. A moment of vulnerability doesn’t change that.’

‘Still, let’s not repeat that,’ she said with a mock sternness.

‘Besides,’ he continued unfazed, unfolding his arms and stepping closer, ‘you’ve been there for me in the past. So fair’s fair.’

Kirsty was rooted to the spot as he narrowed that small space between them. He was talking about his rugby back injury, when she’d cared for him for weeks and they’d got closer. Right after the school dance when she’d noticed he’d suddenly grown up. Not just in height, but in his shoulders. He’d got rid of his braces and for the first time in her life, young Kirsty’d had an incurable case of butterflies.

She glared up at him, trying to ignore the way her heart was punching against her ribcage. ‘I guess we do have history, don’t we?’

‘Aye.’

‘Thank you, Connor. For today, for the other night.’

The jarring beep of her phone shattered the moment.

MAW (6:54 PM) Surgery went well. Alive and awake, bit sore. Love.

Kirsty couldn’t explain the sudden rush of emotions. Relief, mostly. Only now that it loosened did she become aware of the strain that had kept her in an iron grip all day. She let out a mix between a sigh and a whimper.

‘Everything okay, Freckles?’

Kirsty would also never be able to explain why or how it happened. But her body moved on its own, drawn to the strength and comfort of Connor. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around his neck. He tensed up at first, but then he eased into her touch and rested his cheek against her temple. The world faded away. Nothing mattered. Her dad would be okay. Her mum would be okay. Her life would be okay. In that moment, all she needed was him. His strong arms around her. Grounding her.

Connor’s baritone resonated deep inside her chest. ‘I think you just remembered what it felt like when we were together, Freckles.’

‘Aye,’ she mumbled into his shirt, drawing in his familiar scent. ‘I might have.’

‘Good. It wasn’t all bad because it ended like it did.’

‘No, it wasn’t all bad,’ she admitted. With considerable effort, she peeled herself away from him and the balmy August evening got a tad colder.

But then she grinned. ‘Judging by the shape of your trousers, Bannerman, I think you just remembered, too.’