Page 108 of Wild Scottish Beauty

I’d hated that for him.

Usually so robust and confident, instead Ramsay’s eyes had an almost feral look to them when he’d spotted me at the pub, his hair messy, his face gaunt. He’d been punishing himself and Loren Brae with his anger for the better part of a week, and more than one person had been pleased with Graham’s punch.

But not me.

It had taken everything in my power to not run out and hug Ramsay when he’d gotten hurt, to fix him, to fix us. It’s what I normally would have done. But I’d held strong, thanks to Agnes lecturing me about protecting my boundaries, and I’d forced myself to turn back to the bar and order another drink when Graham returned.

Now, I tried to push those thoughts away as I arrived at my grandparents’ cottage on the outer end of Loch Mirren, about a half hour drive from Loren Brae. I’d finally been able to make time to see them and had borrowed Sophie’s car to visit. I won’t lie, it was harrowing driving on the other side of the road, but I was proud of myself for managing to arrive incident-free at their doorstep.

Instantly, I was greeted with memories of my youth when I stopped in front of their cottage. Set across the street from the loch, the house was a cute two-story stone cottage backed up to rolling, green hills with an abundant garden full of flowers and vegetables. My gran loved pottering in the garden, and my grandpa had indulged her whims through the years, building small greenhouses for year-round herbs and veggies, and creating trails through the land. I remembered running through the flowers as a child, feeling like I was lost in the Secret Garden, one of my favorite childhood books.

“Willow! Just look at yourself. All grown up.” My gran and grandpa crowded the front door and tears pricked my eyes. It had been years since I’d seen them in person, only over Zoom calls, and this felt like coming home. We stood in the doorway in an awkward three-person hug, and the scents of cinnamon and apples drifted from the house.

“Come in, come in. I just have some apple fritters from a recipe I was fussing around with coming out of the oven.” My gran, a round woman with wild curls and a stack of necklaces at her neck, motioned me back to the kitchen. I inhaled the scents of her cooking, stopping at a hallway of photos, and smiled at a photo of my mother holding me as a baby.

She’d been so happy.

It was one thing I’d always noted in every photo I had of her, plus the memories that I held close to my heart. Her laugh. Always smiling, always laughing. It was something that I’d tried to emulate my whole life, and whether it was because of her, or because of who I was at my core, I’d always tried to be everyone’s sunshine.

It just hadn’t been enough for Ramsay.

Shrugging off thoughts of him, I let my grandparents fuss over me, putting together a little tea tray of sweets and mini sandwiches.

“This is a proper tea, I’m so lucky,” I gushed, appreciating the Scottish tradition of a three-tiered tea tray with miniature food. I mean, I don’t know what other people think, but I love tiny food presented well. It was just so cute.

“This is the first proper day of sunshine we’ve had in a while. I thought we could take our tea down by the edge of the garden. Near the rose bushes?” my gran asked. “Would you mind carrying the tray out?”

“Of course.” I picked up the tray of mini sandwiches, and hummed as I left the back door, and wandered down the stone path that ran between opulent rose bushes, and several lilac trees that would likely be in bloom in a few weeks. It was quiet out here, the soft tinkling of running water in a bird bath, the light breeze rustling a few branches. The garden was still dormant, ready for spring, and I tilted my face to the sun.

It was time for rebirth.

Rounding the bushes, I skidded to a stop and almost dropped the tea tray.

“Ramsay,” I gasped.

“Here, let me.” Ramsay strode forward, gently removing the tray from my fingers, and put it on the table.

I stood, frozen, my world tilting.

Ramsay looked, well, he looked incredible.

This part of the garden was almost fully enclosed from the rest of the backyard by clusters of rose bushes and one beautiful willow tree. In front of the tree sat a lovely wrought iron bench, and a matching bistro style table with two chairs. There, a basket piled with fabric had been placed, and Ramsay stood next to the table, his muscular arms crossed over his chest.

I drank in the sight of him, and tears filled my eyes when I realized what I was seeing.

He’d madeourtartan.

The one we’d designed together that night, when we’d laughed and argued, picking out colors and patterns until we got it exactly right.

He wore a proper kilt in our pattern, along with matching vest and suitcoat, along with a sporran, boots, and thick wool socks.

I’d been right. The tartan we’d created together was perfect.

Helpless not to, I met his eyes and saw nothing but pain and sadness there.

“You made it,” I said, my voice watery.

“I had to. I stopped all production on any other tartan until I could get this made.”

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