Page 23 of Isla

"In the Highlands, where the mist embraces,

There lived a woman with tender graces,

In the pub's warm hum, a love did brew,

With every pour, her heart anew,

Slowly falling, like leaves in the fall,

In Scotland's arms, she found it all."

I swallow hard. I don't miss the ambiguity, how it could be about a man or about my love affair with my homeland. "Tender graces, eh?"

"Artist's prerogative," he says, winking.

"Okay, lover-boy. Time to get to work." I roll my eyes, pushing him toward the front of the pub, my cheeks hot.

The pub is slammedfrom open to close, and both of us are dragging by the time I lock up. We drive back to the house in silence, the bite in the air a sweet caress after the dank air of the pub. I need to figure out how to get more circulation in there. No. That's not my responsibility anymore. I haven't had the time to think about what I want to do now that the pub isn't part of my future, and the uncertainty keeps niggling at the back of my mind. I could always help Charlie and the guys with the castle, but I've never been one to do something because it's what's most convenient. I like taking the path of most resistance.

"What are you thinking about?" Henry asks, his gaze glinting in the moonlight as we pull into the driveway.

"I'm thinking about the fact that I have no idea what I'm going to do with my life now.”

A look of regret flashes over his face, but he recovers quickly. "You would do well with anything you put your mind to."

"I agree, but I live on a tiny island in the middle of the ocean. There's only so much I can do here. There's already a café. No need for a restaurant since the pub already serves food." I sigh. "I'll figure it out eventually."

"That makes me feel like absolute shit, Isla."

"It should," I say honestly. "But I promise Iwillfigure something out. I always do." Henry gets out of the car and stretches, a delicious sliver of his abdomen glowing in the moonlight. He walks around to my door, and I let him open it, taking the hand he holds out to me.

"I'll help in any way I can, Isla. Just say the word."

"Thank you, Henry." I glance down at the cottage, wondering how wise it is to invite him in and get more attached than I already am. I meet his midnight blue gaze, butterflies exploding in my stomach. Fuck it. "Do you want to come down with me? I'll make a fire and some hot cocoa. I think I may even have the stuff for s’mores."

"Sure. I'm going to shower first. Meet you down there in ten?"

"Okay." I pull my jacket tight around my shoulders, fighting back a shiver, and start walking toward the cottage.

"Isla, wait." Henry jogs toward me, slipping his jacket off his shouldersand carefully draping it over mine. "I can't stand to see you shiver like that."

"Thank you." I clench it around my body and hustle down to the cottage before I freeze to death. Once inside, I flop onto the couch, bringing the jacket up to my face and breathing him in. This is dangerous. Allowing myself to get caught up in my feelings is a really bad idea. I’ve kept the embers of my heart banked for years, and now Henry comes along and douses it with gasoline. Ugh.

I nearly have a heart attack when he bursts through the door, a guitar slung over his shoulder.

"Sorry! I didn't realize it wasn't closed all the way. Don't you want to change?" He asks, looking down at me snuggled deep in his coat.

"That's probably a good idea."

He holds his hands out and helps me up, wrapping his arms around me once I'm on my feet and giving me a long hug. I relax into his body, his sweater bumpy against my cheek. "Go on. I'll start the hot cocoa," he says, pushing me toward my bedroom with gentle hands.

I fully expect him to be floundering in the kitchen when I come out wearing a matching lounge set, but he's not. He's setting two cups of hot chocolate on a tray, along with the ingredients we’ll need to make the s’mores. A man that doesn't need to be told where things are and what to do? I’m in so much trouble. I open the door to the deck, barely stopping myself from inhaling as he passes by. He sets the tray on the table between the chairs and begins building the fire with military precision.

"Impressive," I murmur, sitting down on the edge of the chair, leaning forward to watch him.

He looks up at me as he's striking a match, the fire reflecting in his eyes and highlighting the fullness of his lips. God, those lips.

"I used to go camping a lot back home. I've perfected my technique over the years."

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