Page 44 of Scotch & Shortbread

“It was pretty great. Angus was the best little dog, too. He lived for seventeen years.” Alex’s mind drifted back to the happy times of his childhood with his trusty pup always in tow of himself or his siblings.

“Wow, that’s a long time for a dog. He must have had a good life with you and your family.”

“Aye, he was spoiled.” Alex found himself smiling. “Da was always giving him bits of meat from dinner when mam wasn’t looking.” Despite the darkness of the room, he could tell Quinn was smiling too.

“Do your parents have any pets now?” she asked, and he could feel her gaze on him.

“They never got another dog. I think it broke their hearts when Angus died. It was hard on all of us, but I think worse for them as my brother and I no longer lived at home. Angus wasn’t part of our everyday life anymore, but he was everything to my parents.”

“Aww, that’s hard.” Her voice was soft and soothing.

“They did end up taking in a stray tabby cat a few years back though. Talisker.”

“Talisker?”

“Aye, he’s a golden orange cat so Da named him after his favourite whisky.”

Quinn snorted a laugh. “Of course he did.” Quinn’s easy humour had a way of making Alex feel at ease with her, and in the darkness, it was easier to keep his unbidden attraction at bay.

“I told ye whisky is very important to us Scots.”

“Talisker,” Quinn repeated as if trying the name on her tongue.

Something about laying in the dark with her and talking reminded him of the nights he used to stay up late with his brothers when they were kids. When they were supposed to be asleep, they’d often stay up half the night, hidden under the blanket, blethering about cars and girls. Their parents none the wiser. Alex rolled over to face her now.

“What about ye? What was your favourite Christmas present?” It surprised him, just how much he wanted to know.

“Well, any Christmas I got a Barbie doll I was happy.” He could tell she was grinning, and for a moment, he wished there was enough light to see those lush lips and the dimple on her cheek.

“Oh, I get that. That was me with Lego. Just wasn’t Christmas without a new Lego set.” He found himself relating.

She laughed. “Exactly, but for me it was Barbies.”

“Aye, my sister Orlagh always got Barbies too.”

“The best present I ever got was when I was seventeen.” Quinn’s voice grew nostalgic. “It was from my grandmother.” He could hear Quinn take a shaky breath before she continued, and without thinking, he laid his hand over hers on the mattress between them.

“She’d passed away two weeks before Christmas that year, but she’d already scoped out a present for me. A typewriter. It was old, secondhand, and weighed a tonne.” Alex had to stop himself from reaching out into the darkness to stroke her face. The way she spoke, he could hear the heaviness of the memories and God, help him, he wanted to hold her, comfort her. Instead, he silently listened and kept his hand covering hers, letting his fingers wrap around the small expanse of her palm.

“I found it in her room on Christmas Eve. It was hidden under a towel in a corner of the bedroom ready for me. It had a simple handwritten tag and two little metallic green star bows stuck to the top.” Alex gently squeezed her hand beneath his and he could hear her the unevenness of her breathing.

“It felt almost like a gift from beyond the grave. One final loving memory of my Grandmother for me to treasure. God, I loved that typewriter,” she said wistfully.

Alex wanted to pull her into his arms. He could hear the tears in her voice. “Do ye still have it, lass?” he asked gently.

“I do.” Her voice was quiet emotion. “And the tag and the bows.” She paused, "I even kept the towel.” Her light laugh was tender and full of emotion.

“I cannae blame ye.”

“The towel feels somehow almost as important as the typewriter. I can see her in my mind, putting it over the typewriter and hiding it from me until Christmas. It is just such a sweet thought. I can’t bear to get rid of the towel.”

“Makes total sense, lass,” he said reassuringly. “Ye obviously loved yer Gran verra much.” He felt her fingers gently grip at his. Alex understood far too well. He’d wanted to hang on to everything his sister had ever touched when she died.

“Do ye use the typewriter for yer writing?” he asked genuinely.

“Oh heck no. As much as I adore that typewriter, it would make me crazy to try and do my work on it.” She snickered.

He chuckled. “Aye, I suppose laptops are the way of it now.”

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