Page 105 of Wild Scottish Beauty

But I needed Willow to walk away.

I’d failed spectacularly.And I almost lost her forever.Seeing her disappearing into that burning building had done something to my heart that I wasn’t sure I’d ever recover from.

She’d almostdiedbecause of me and my messed-up family dynamics.

That brilliant burst of sparkles and light could have been snuffed out because Andrew had taken his vengeance too far this time.

Willow needed to go home where she was safe, because clearly, I couldn’t keep her safe here.

I was angry.

Angry that Andrew had betrayed meagain.

Angry that Willow had almost gotten hurt.

Angry at myself, for betraying Miles by sleeping with his sister.

It was more than just sleeping together, my brain whispered to me. Which, I fecking knew, because it took everything in my power not to chase Willow down and beg her to forgive me for being an absolute jerk just now. Because I had been. On purpose. I needed Willow to put the distance there. I couldn’t do it myself. I’d fall head over heels for her and somehow try to figure out how to spend the rest of my days keeping her safe.

She’d infiltrated my business. My bedroom. My mind. Like someone shooting off a confetti cannon in my heart. There were colorful pieces of her everywhere I looked, even now in the smoldering ruins of my shop, the vase of flowers she’d put on my desk half-melted.

And so I let the best thing that had ever happened to me walk away because I was just so damn angry that I couldn’t see straight. Turning, I stomped down the street and straight through the doors of The Tipsy Thistle, even though it was early for the lunch rush. Graham looked up in surprise from where he held a clipboard behind the bar.

“Hey, mate. Sorry to hear about the shop. That’s a rough go of it.”

“Whisky.”

“Yes, sir.”

And so it began.

A week later,Graham told me I was no longer welcome at his pub.

Turns out, I’m not a good drunk when I’m miserable. Who knew?

Still, I decided to test how “really” kicked out I was by returning to The Tipsy Thistle after I downed a bottle of wine by the ruins of my old shop.

It had been a hell of a week.

The absence of Willow in my life was becoming unbearable.

Which was ridiculous. I’d been fine before she’d come along. I should have been fine after.

And yet I wasn’t.

Not even a wee bit.

Not even at all.

The reasons that had made sense to me the day after the fire had begun to blur under my need to see her, to hear her laughter, to dive into the softness that was Willow. Instead, I was driving my parents crazy by coming home late, sleeping on the couch until noon, and overall being such a crabbit beastie that even my own mum had suggested that I return to my place in Edinburgh.

My own mother.

Could you believe it?

Willow’s laugh stopped me in my tracks, just inside the door, and I drank in the sight of her like a prisoner seeing the outside world for the first time in years.

“Nope, mate. You’re out,” Graham snapped, rounding the bar and coming toward me.

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