Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

‘ R emind me again how we got roped into this?’ Connor muttered, trying to balance two of Liz’s thawed and prepared pies as he and Kirsty made their way through the crowd. Overhead, gulls cried out, circling the stalls in hopes of an easy treat. That was the festival coming to a close for another year, and they were both exhausted.

Kirsty shot him a wry grin over her shoulder, curls bouncing as she navigated the throngs of people. ‘Because we’re a couple of pushovers and victims of the almighty community spirit.’

‘I recall a certain someone volunteering us both before I could get a word in.’ He had to raise his voice over the chatter and shrieks of children darting by with melting ice lollies. The noise of the crowd blended with the music drifting from the stage.

‘Stop complaining, Bannerman.’ Kirsty led them to the judges’ tent with the long table set up for the pie contest, where entrants were dropping off their creations. She turned to face him, cheeks rosy from the heat. ‘Besides, you know my mum’s pies are legendary. We’re basically doing a public service by entering them. And that’s what she asked me to do from her hospital bed. So…’

‘Public service, my arse.’ Connor snorted, carefully setting the pies down on the table. ‘And since when do you do what your parents ask?’

‘You’re grumpy because you didn’t get enough coffee this morning.’

‘I wouldn’t be so grumpy if someone hadn’t woken me up at the crack of dawn to help load a shit ton of pastries into the car.’ There was no real heat behind his words. Truth be told, he’d do just about anything she asked of him. He wouldn’t tell her that, wasn’t his place. But he was free to think whatever he wanted.

Even though there was only one thing he could think of anyway.

Connor let his gaze linger on Kirsty as she bent over the table, arranging the pies. Her top clung to her curves, the freckled skin of her shoulders glistening with a sheen of perspiration in the sticky summer heat. Memories of Friday’s… situation …flashed through his mind and he quickly averted his eyes, hoping she hadn’t caught him staring.

Heat stirred low in his belly, desire simmering under his skin like the sweltering summer sun. He had been plagued by a semi for almost the entire weekend. The way her linen trousers hugged the curve of her bum was criminal, taunting him with the promise of what he could never have again.

Because the mistakes of the past hung over him like a dark cloud, a reminder of the pain he’d caused her when he’d pushed her away that Hogmanay. He saw the hurt in her eyes whenever he closed his own.

The fact of the matter was: he had no right to even think about her. Especially not in that way.

But he couldn’t stop himself.

Every movement reminded him of his impossible feelings. It was as if a dam had burst inside him, unleashing a flood of pent-up longing he’d spent the last one and a half decades unaware of. Being so close without being able to touch her for three days was his own personal hell, and there was no way out. At least not for the next hour or so.

A kingdom for a cold shower and a wank. He remembered the moment on the rig. Should’ve been careful what you wished for, man.

He could make out the lacy edge of her bra, the jut of her nipples through the thin fabric. Connor swallowed hard, trying to will away the images that bombarded his mind. Flashes of creamy, freckled skin.

Christ, what was wrong with him? They were meant to be friendly, working together. Like normal adults. This constant battle between desire and restraint was slowly driving him mad. And the heat sure didn’t help. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Part of him wanted to kiss her. The other part was cursing the day she’d returned.

His eyes darted away as Kirsty straightened up, her task complete. ‘Stop standing there like an oversized gargoyle, Bannerman. Let’s get back to clear out the stall while the jury decides.’

I’d love to show you my oversized gargoyle.

The sun glinted off her hair as she marched ahead. And he followed her like a goddamn puppy. Sweat prickled along his hairline. It was hotter than Satan’s arsehole today.

The quiet was suffocating as they worked and packed up their stall, gathering the remnants of their successful day.

Kirsty’s hand reached out for the Tupperware, tipping it off the table, and in that moment her fingers touched his. He seized her wrist without a second thought, gripping it tightly. Those big blue eyes locked onto his, full lips parted. Connor’s pulse thundered, still holding her. The air between them crackled. He should let her go, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not yet. All he wanted was to pull her close and crash his mouth onto those sweet, supple lips. For the eternity of three seconds, there was nothing around them. Nothing but heat and electricity and burning need. There was only so much a man could take. ‘Careful, Freckles,’ he snarled through gritted teeth.

Before she could give one of her deflective, snippy retorts, a voice disrupted the fraught moment. ‘Well, if it isn’t the gruesome twosome!’

Connor released her as if scorched, taking a step back. He turned to see his old rugby pal Stephen Carnegie swaggering towards them, hands stuffed in the pockets of his chinos. ‘Look at you two, thick as thieves again, eh? Just like old times.’ He clapped Connor on the back, the slap reverberating through his tense muscles.

Connor trawled up a smile, grateful for the distraction. ‘Haven’t seen you in a while, man. What are you doing in Cairnhaven?’

‘I’m here with the bairns and the missus to visit my da,’ Stephen said. ‘A wee summer break. What about yous?’ His gaze darted between them.

‘Just helping the Munros out for the weekend,’ Connor said.

Stephen cocked an eyebrow. ‘Helping or hindering?’

Kirsty gave a small grunt. ‘I hate to admit it, but he’s not completely useless.’

‘Ah, you’re a sight for sore eyes, Kirsty Munro.’

‘Then I highly suggest you check with an optician asap, Steve-O.’

Stephen let out a laugh. ‘Always quick with your tongue,’ he said. ‘You’re looking well, Scotland suits you.’

‘Actually, I live in London. Just here for a couple of weeks to help the parents.’

‘Aye,’ Connor added, sounding involuntarily harsh. ‘She can’t wait to get back.’

Stephen looked from one to the other, his eyebrows crashing in the middle. ‘I have to say, I’m surprised to see you two together again after, well, you know…the failed Hogmanay proposal. Man, that was a bust!’ He gave a slow shrug. ‘But that’s water under the bridge. We were kids. I suppose time heals all wounds, right?’

Bile rose in Connor’s throat, the bitter taste lingering on the back of his tongue. Why on earth did the wanker bring that up of all things?

‘What proposal?’ Kirsty asked, consternation lacing her voice.

It was like being wrapped in a suffocating blanket of shame and regret, with a thousand needles pricking at his skin. Every fibre of his being cringed and recoiled at the mention of it.

‘How do you mean, “What proposal”?’ Stephen said. ‘Connor’s, of course! When he wanted to ask you to marry him right after midnight. We were all excited. Even though we thought it was a bit mental because you two were barely eighteen. But then…not sure what exactly happened. But you disappeared, and Connor was a mess for months. Nae wedding. Och, never mind. I’m bringing up boring old war stories like a pensioner. And you two were way too young to tie the knot anyway. Eighteen? Who gets married at eighteen?’ He shook his head, laughing in disbelief.

A cold sweat broke out on Connor’s forehead. The sound of his own heartbeat pumped in his ears.

Kirsty’s face was draining of colour. Made the freckles across her nose stand out like constellations. ‘What fucking proposal?’ she hissed as she turned toward Connor, searching for a hint of confirmation or denial.

‘I—’ Connor’s voice cracked. ‘That’s history. Not important.’ He glanced away, as if searching for an escape route.

They were interrupted by a gaggle of round-faced mini-Carnegies, dashing towards their father like pint-sized missiles.

‘Oi! Watch where yous are going.’ Stephen, oblivious to the emotional landmine he just jumped on, scooped the smallest one into his arms. The cameo of fatherly affection momentarily defused the edginess. With a nod and a half-hearted promise to catch up later, Stephen herded his brood away, leaving a strained silence in their wake.

Connor ran a hand through his hair, wishing he could rewind the last five minutes and shove Stephen into a patch of nettles before he could so much as utter a syllable.

Kirsty turned her blue eyes, now tinged with confusion and a hint of hurt, back to Connor. ‘You owe me an explanation, Bannerman,’ she said, her voice steady despite the mayhem swirling in her gaze. ‘What the hell?’

Connor gulped through a dry throat. ‘I had a ring in my pocket, aye. But you took off to London before I had the chance to do anything with it.’

Storm clouds gathered in her expression. Kirsty always had a hurricane ready at her disposal. Before she could delve into the downpour of questions, Isa’s voice, clear and commanding, spliced the weighted atmosphere that threatened to suffocate him. ‘Connor! Kirsty! Prize givin’ in two shakes of a lamb’s tail! Come now!’

Isa’s tone was enough to put the immediate conflict on pause.

‘We should…erm…probably go,’ he muttered, regret tangling up his words like a thistle in wool.

Kirsty picked up the empty Tupperware with more force than necessary. ‘Right. But this ain’t over.’

They reached the small stage set up in the market square, where Isa stood next an array of homemade pies like a queen in her court, so self-assured of her win this year with Liz in hospital.

Connor glanced at Kirsty’s profile – jaw set, lips pursed – a sure sign that the legendary wrath of Munro was biding its time, waiting for the right moment to strike and smite.

Isa waved them over. ‘Come on now, don’t dawdle!’ She stood proudly next to her display, the haggis turnover left of the Seaview Café’s golden steak pie.

Connor and Kirsty took their places between the other contestants. He leaned closer to her. ‘Look, can we talk about this later? In private?’

Her gaze remained fixed ahead, her mouth pinched into a thin line. ‘Bet on it, Bannerman.’ A red flush blazed up her neck. A sure-fire sign she was stewing in her thoughts. And not the happy kind.

He let out a sigh. They had got on fairly well this weekend. Not much time to talk, true, but she seemed more relaxed in his presence. They’d worked like a well-oiled machine. He’d been getting somewhere with her. Beginning to make amends. Becoming her friend, maybe.

Why am I always so stellar at ruining things?

John Ogilvy, a portly man with a brush-like moustache, owner of the local car shop and one of the festival’s organisers, stepped up to the microphone. His ruddy cheeks stretched in a jovial grin. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. You’ve all been waiting for it. I know I have.’ He laughed for emphasis. ‘Now it’s finally time to announce the winner of this year’s best savoury pie competition.’ His voice resonated across the square filled with Cairnhaveners and visitors, most of them already steamin’ at this point. Tomorrow was a bank holiday, and the booze put them in high spirits. Otherwise, who would’ve stayed to watch a pie competition?

How did I end up here?

A question Connor had been asking himself a lot recently. His face burned with discomfort, feet shifting under the spotlight. He hated being the centre of attention. It was like being under a looking glass, flaws and mistakes exposed and magnified. Ready to be ridiculed and humiliated and judged any second. Yet here he was, on a stage in the town square amidst pies and pastries, sweating like an ox. A bunch of people in that crowd still felt the occasional itch to strangle him. He’d rather be back on his shitehole of a rig, tossing around in his coffin-like bed.

Fucking stupid pie contest.

Isa’s hands were clasped tightly in front of her, eyes shining with anticipation. John Ogilvy cleared his throat and held up a small golden trophy. ‘The judges have tasted, deliberated, and yes, my friends, they’ve settled on a decision. The winner of Cairnhaven’s best savoury pie, sponsored by Ogilvy Motors, is…’ He paused for dramatic effect, hoping the crowd were holding their collective breath. But they were mostly just holding their drinks. ‘The Seaview Café’s steak pie! It’s the Seaview Café, congratulations.’

A lukewarm smattering of applause rose from the audience. Isa’s face dropped in shock and envy. While Connor wished he could blend into the stage background, Kirsty stepped forward to accept the prize. Her movements were stiff and mechanical. Ogilvy shook her hand, a tad too long and enthusiastically.

‘Erm…Thank you,’ she said into the mic, her voice as flat as a day-old pint. ‘It’s a great honour. I’d like to thank the academy… Sorry, joke aside. Maw, this is for you. And come to the Seaview Café for more pie and cupcakes, folks. You know where to find us, right over there. Okay, thank you.’

As she slipped back beside him, holding the trophy, Connor longed to reach out, to offer some form of explanation. But the words lodged in his throat. This wasn’t the time or place.

Ogilvy droned on about the pies, but Connor barely heard him over the pounding of his own heart. All he could focus on was Kirsty. The tiny tremor in her fingers as she gripped the trophy. He could almost see the gears turning in her mind, processing Stephen’s revelation.

That damn proposal. God, how daft he’d been with his cheap ring. Fully aware they wouldn’t marry for years to come – they’d had far too many plans. But even at eighteen he’d known that there wouldn’t be anyone else. Actually, he’d known since the day she’d stood up for him in school. He’d admired her from afar for four long years, awestruck and timid. Always looking out for that mop of flaming hair. Until that night at the school dance. When she’d put her hand into his, smiled at him, and said, ‘I think you’re ready to dance with me,’ he’d been a goner.

The modest applause died down as Ogilvy concluded his speech, and the crowd began to divert their full attention back to their drinks. As soon as the obligatory photos had been snapped, Isa came over to congratulate them. ‘I know what’s proper, I know when I’m beaten, and yer maw’s pie’s always been good. I hope she gets well soon. So congratulations.’ For a second, she seemed like she’d guzzled a handful of nails. But she composed herself.

‘I’m sure it’ll cheer her up,’ Kirsty said. ‘And the prize is going to make Da happy. So thanks, Isa. You’re a formidable opponent.’

‘Nae worries.’ She quirked a grin and patted Kirsty’s arm. ‘Do you know that the winner has to open the dance?’

‘What? No. And I don’t—’

‘Aye, but ye have to. It’s tradition ,’ Isa insisted.

‘I’m really not—’

‘You should dance with Connor.’

Kirsty grimaced. ‘No, thanks. Not necessary. And I didn’t bring my dance card.’

Connor looked down at his feet, palms cold. ‘Sorry, Isa. I have…a thing I have to go to.’

‘Aye. Yer telly.’ Isa was ruthless. She leaned in closer to Kirsty, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial tone. ‘Well, hen. It’s either him – or Ogilvy.’

As soon as Ogilvy caught wind of his name, an eager smirk spread across his face, and he winked.

‘Just a few minutes, lass,’ Isa said, her eyes gleaming with the kind of mischief that knew no age. ‘Only a wee twirl. You can do it.’

‘Christ! Fine!’ Kirsty blurted out, slammed the trophy on the table and turned to Connor. ‘Are you coming or do you need to fetch your ballet slippers first?’