Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

C onnor strode along the cobblestone street towards the Seaview Café. The afternoon was beautiful, full of promise. Unless you counted the fact that he only had three days left here. Three days before the rig would claim him again.

He needed to see her, to breathe her in, to lose himself in her scent and her touch and the way she made him feel like he was more than a rigger with a tarnished image.

Enjoy it while it lasts , he thought, a twinge of bitterness in his chest.

Pushing open the café door, the bell’s jangle was nearly drowned out by the scuffle of his boots against a cardboard box and an oversized Ikea bag dumped right in the entryway.

‘Careful, Bannerman. Or you’ll break your gorgeous neck,’ Kirsty called from behind the counter.

‘Trying to set up a booby trap for me?’ he grumbled.

Kirsty rounded the counter, her smile all sizzle and sass as she planted a quick kiss on his lips. ‘It’s not my fault you’re a clumsy bugger.’

‘You said you liked that about me.’

‘I lied,’ she shot back with a smirk.

He raised an eyebrow, feigned hurt on his face. ‘Your parents around?’

‘Nope, another GP appointment. So I seized the afternoon for a bit of decluttering,’ she gestured vaguely in the heap’s direction.

‘What’s with the indoor yard sale?’

‘Just some junk from my old room. Figured it was time.’ She hoisted a shoulder. ‘I mean, it’s not like I’ve been murdered and my parents need to keep my room as a shrine for the press.’

Her attempt at humour didn’t mask the discomfort in her tone. There was a pull in his chest, a desire to tread lightly. ‘So, charity shop for all this?’ He gestured towards the pile.

‘Yeah, and the bin for the rest.’ Kirsty began sorting through a box. Then she paused. ‘Oh, did you hear? Lucy is back!’

‘Lucy?’

‘My best friend? Threatened to fry your balls if you ever hurt me, but then wasn’t around to make good on that promise?’

‘Wait… Loopy Lucy? Didn’t she emigrate to Canada with her family? Wow, that’s… What’s she doing back in Cairnhaven?’

Kirsty glowed with pride. It was endearing. ‘My girl got herself a high-profile job on a wind farm.’

Connor had always liked Lucy, loopy or not. For once, she’d let him keep his baws. ‘Wind is better than oil.’

He picked up a tattered notebook, the pink cover faded from age, stickers peeling at the edges. ‘Hey, isn’t this one of your old storybooks?’ He flipped through the pages filled with curvy teenage handwriting.

Kirsty’s head snapped up, horror and sentimentality crossing her features. ‘God, that’s ancient. I thought I’d lost that ages ago,’ she whispered, taking the notebook from him. Her fingers traced the cover, then flipped through the pages. ‘Look at this…the outline of a cheesy fantasy novel I never finished.’ A soft laugh escaped her as she glanced up at him. ‘Remember my Pratchett phase?’

‘Aye. He was one of the best.’ He watched her face light up with memories.

But her smile vanished quickly. ‘I had such big, swooping dreams.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper, her eyes not meeting his. ‘I’ve lost them all.’

He reached out and took her hand. ‘You’re a professional writer.’

She pinched her eyes shut as if to lock tears in. ‘Not really. I’m a content producer. Chasing clicks and conversions. It’s not what I wanted to be when I left here. Not at all.’

‘Hey, that’s not everything you are.’ He pulled her into his arms, kissing her forehead. ‘You’re a lot more, Freckles. Don’t you forget that.’

She laughed, a sound that was more a sob than anything else. ‘You’re so sweet with your unfounded loyalty, you know that?’ Resignation settled in her face. ‘But did you know I’m writing under a pen name? Christie Monroe. Mostly because people in London always got my name wrong anyway, so eventually I stopped bothering. I never told anyone here. Maw knows, but… Never mind.’

He tipped her chin up, so she had to look at him. ’Of course I mind. With you I always mind.’

Connor watched as the words filled the charged space between them. Her attempt to brush off her confession didn’t fool him; he saw the strain behind her eyes, the battle between pride and disillusionment.

‘Listen, Freckles.’ His hands cradled her face. ‘Might not be the dream you set out for. But you’re more than your pen name. More than your job.’

‘Maybe.’ She stepped back, leaving a cold, empty spot where her body had touched his. He could sense her slipping away, retreating behind walls he’d hoped had disappeared.

And he wrestled with the biting fear that he was just a chapter in Kirsty’s story. A chapter she’d soon turn the page on.

Damn. That kind of spilled over. Behind the counter, Kirsty fiddled with the pastries. Her mind was miles away, reeling from the grenade she’d just dropped.

Christie Monroe.

The name hung between them, ready to detonate. She glanced over at Connor, who was lost in his phone, a picture of calm. There was something about the way he sat there, all broad shoulders and quiet strength. It was way too easy to get used to this. And way too hard thinking about losing it.

Was it a mistake telling him?

Kirsty’s heart twinged with anxiety. In an instant, the café was too small, too confining. She squeezed the piping bag, watching the icing coil onto the eclair. Her hands were steady, but a sick feeling bubbled up her throat as she tried to drown out the doubts screeching in her head.

What if he actually reads the trash I’ve been writing?

Connor glanced up from his phone, catching the tail end of an anxious expression on her face before she masked it with a bright smile.

‘You awright there?’ he asked.

‘Aye, I’m fine.’

But she wasn’t. The thought of Connor reading her work made her stomach flip. A month ago she couldn’t have cared less what he was doing let alone thinking. Now her throat tightened at the idea of him looking at her with disdain and disappointment.

It wasn’t all about his judgement, though.

It was also about her own.

What have you done with your life, your talent? Wasted it on writing cheap trash for clicks.

Kirsty stared blankly at the plate, skin prickling with insecurity. The empty café echoed with memories of afternoons as a teenager, dreaming about her future. About becoming a famous author. Writing moving, life-changing stories. Living in a little cottage, spending her days spinning tales by the fire.

Her teeth sunk into her lower lip. How woefully na?ve she’d been. The harshness of the real world had crushed those fanciful notions, one by one.

Here she was, back in her hometown after so many years away, no closer to those dreams than when she’d left.

Connor’s eyes stayed on his phone, brows perched low in concentration. Her pulse drummed at her temples as she watched him scroll and tap. She imagined him stumbling upon one of her latest articles – ‘Nine Signs He’s Just Using You For Free Wi-Fi’ – a quick piece she’d written fuelled by a gallon of coffee and her own jaded sense of romance. Or the piece on sex accidents in Britain’s A it was tinged with intrigue and a hint of amusement.

Yet Kirsty’s spine stiffened, her shoulders squaring like a boxer bracing for a hit. Fire crawled up her chest. Conversations about her writing always prodded a raw nerve. She exhaled through her nose, a sharp huff, and pasted on a weak smile. ‘I know, it’s a weird niche.’

A strand of hair fell over his eye. ‘Freckles,’ he said slowly, ‘I know you’re not proud of these pieces. Fair enough. But it’s still your writing. It’s your wit in there. Even if you’re hiding behind Christie Monroe.’ A half-smile curved the edges of his lips. ‘You’ve got talent. Even when you’re talking about pumping balloons.’

Her gaze faltered, surprised by the absence of censure in his tone. ‘You mean you’re not appalled and disgusted?’

He shook his head. ‘Appalled and disgusted? Are you daft? Why would I be? It’s a bloody job, Kirsty. We all have bills to pay. And at least you’re trying to follow your dreams. The rig isn’t exactly saving the world. But we do what we have to in order to survive.’

For a second, it seemed as if he was talking about something else than wages. Then relief washed over her, mixed with residual embarrassment. ‘Aye, but I wanted to write something meaningful. Not…not this. And I should be somewhat successful by now. But I’m not.’

He inched closer, his body heat seeping into her skin. His nearness made her head swim, her pulse kick into overdrive. ‘You will be. This is a stop, not the finish line. And what does success look like anyway?’

Kirsty exhaled, a weight lifting off her shoulders. Connor didn’t see her as a failure like her parents; he saw her struggle, accepted her compromise. Her fingers twitched at her sides, itching to reach out and touch the fabric of his shirt. To confirm that this moment was as real as it felt. Instead, she curled them into her palm, nails digging into soft flesh in silent reprimand. ‘You think?’

‘No doubt at all. Or maybe I’m just a sucker for those “Ten Tips to Tickle His Tartan” articles.’

‘You’re a daftie, Bannerman. But luckily, you’re also very, very hot.’

It took seeing her work through Connor’s lens to make her truly realise how much she had veered off path. The question now was: what was she going to do about it?

Kirsty adjusted her laptop on a corner table in the Seaview Café. She checked the camera angle, making sure the arrangement of pastry cases and coffee pots on the shelf behind her looked right. The mornings had got busier, but it was quiet enough for a call now. Tapping into the link, her stomach rumbled with a blend of caffeine and nerves. She had no clue what Charlotte and Grigori wanted. But knowing them, it wouldn’t be anything to break into song about.

The screen flickered to life, and there they were: Charlotte, with that too-perfect smile, and Grigori, habitually appearing like he’d rather be anywhere else.

‘Christie, thanks for joining us on short notice,’ Charlotte started, her tone a tad too chirpy. It grated on Kirsty’s nerves. ‘We’ve got some exciting developments to discuss.’

Grigori grunted his agreement, managing a nod that seemed more forced than enthusiastic. He always looked like he was about to head to the dentist.

Kirsty forced her lips into the shape of a smile.

Let’s get this over with.

‘So, we’re launching a new initiative,’ Charlotte continued, ‘a vertical dedicated to human-interest stories. It’s all about narratives that resonate. Mainly for social. Authenticity is key. But curated.’

Grigori chimed in, his voice like a wet washcloth. ‘And we want you to head it up. Editor-in-chief of this new project. It comes with a significant bump in salary and full creative control.’

The words hit Kirsty like a rogue wave. Exhilarating and shocking all at once. This could be the recognition she’d always longed for. Responsibility and a chance to shape stories that mattered.

Where does that suddenly come from? Is this a trap?

As she glanced through the window at a laughing couple strolling past, her heart sank a little. The gentle rhythm of Cairnhaven life had slowly re-captivated her soul.

As had Connor.

Was a career boost worth leaving this peace behind, the newfound sense of belonging that was settling in her core? London’s sharp edges and ceaseless grind seemed a world away, a distant memory of a life she’d outgrown without realising it.

She had to know more about the job. But she couldn’t form any coherent questions yet.

‘An editor job in London. That’s quite an offer.’ She tried to keep her voice steady. ‘I’m flattered, really.’

‘Of course you are. It’s an excellent opportunity. We need your decision by Friday,’ Charlotte pressed, her smile tightening. Probably because Kirsty wasn’t throwing herself in the dust with gratitude, dying to sign the contract in blood.

‘I know, I know,’ Charlotte purred, ‘two days isn’t long. But we just secured the venture capital and now the investors want to move fast. Sleep on it if you must and get back to me asap.’

Yes, the promise of a promotion loomed large. So did Kirsty’s parents, the pace of life in Cairnhaven, Lucy, and the image of Connor’s roguish grin, his gentle kisses and stupid jokes, the way he made her breakfast and cooked her dinner and then did the dishes, too, before he devoted himself to loving her.

A promotion is fantastic. But so is getting your brains fucked out every night by a wonderful man.

‘Sure. I’ll let you know. Thank you both for considering me. Speak to you soon,’ Kirsty replied politely, and closed her laptop. The echo of the new title, editor-in-chief, hung in the air.

What was their endgame? They wouldn’t offer her a promotion out of the blue after all these years. On the other hand, maybe it was her time?

Kirsty felt somewhere between a confused guinea pig and a clueless fall guy. She barely noticed the curious glances from a couple of regulars and the intent look from Isa, who’d come in for a coffee and caught the tail end of her conversation, waving at her as she left.

Kirsty waved back and mulled over her options. The job was a golden ticket, a door to a life she thought she wanted. Full creative freedom, human interest, people’s stories. Very much her thing. Other than writing a fantasy novel, this was as close to her dream as she would ever get.

But Cairnhaven offered a different kind of contentment. One she hadn’t realised she was seeking.

Why does deciding seem like giving up something either way? she wondered, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. Cairnhaven was weaving its way into her heart. Maybe it’s not about the big breaks, but finding where you fit…where you’re meant to be , she thought.

But where the hell was that?