Page 102 of Scotch on the Rocks

I felt like I’d been blasted onto another planet. If there was one thing Alistair could be relied upon for it was his absolute certainty on being right, and nine-point-five times out of ten, hewas. His intelligence and confidence had been a big part of my initial attraction. Now he stood in front of me, not only admitting to beingwrongbut apologising for it. That frankness smothered any fire I had left. Like hot coals tossed into snow, I practically sizzled under his stare.

Wilting beneath the urge to just let all of this go.

I kept moving for a few moments – feet shuffling from side to side as one song bled into the next – considering the two possible paths before me. One where I remained cocooned safely in my bitterness for another six years and the second … I didn’t know that I was brave enough to take it. I’d let this grudge mould me for so long, I didn’t know who to be without it.

“If I decided to forgive you, what happens then?”

His smile sat right on the cusp of hopeful. “Then, I suppose we’d be friends again … Only if that’s something you’re ready for.”

“I’m not sure.” My shoulder brushed his chest as he spun me beneath his arm.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me. I don’t expect you to.” When I came back to face him, the bleakness in hisexpression caught me off guard. “I know I don’t have the right to ask you for anything but … I feel like there’s this gaping hole in my chest and you’re the only person who can fill it.”

“Alistair … I’m not …”Shit, I couldn’t believe I had to say this. “I’m not in love with you anymore, I haven’t been for a long time.” I’d been hurt that his actions left me feeling small and unwanted. That wasn’t love. It was exactly what Heather had said, the loss of my own self-worth.

“I know that,” he said, a little hollowly. “I told you, I want to spend time with you. To be … friends.” His eyes, almost identical to Callum’s, flicked away as he spoke. Flustered. Hesitant. “Do you think it’s possible?” So damn hopeful.

Shit. We couldn’t tell him tonight.

My attention shifted as we swayed, searching for Callum. Would he understand a blinked SOS code?

“If I say yes, will you take the ring back?” I asked Alistair.

His rhythm faltered and I knew I’d surprised him. “Deal.” But the word was heavy. Like a rock dropped into water.

32

Callum

Callum: Want me to swing by the house later?

Mum: New meds seem to be working; he’s fallen asleep in front of the TV. Don’t worry yourself, have some fun.

Callum: I always worry.

Mum: Who’s the parent here?

Callum: Hard to say. Mrs Brodie used to say the Macabe brood were raised by wolves.

Mum: She was always an old grump, that’s why the school fired her.

Callum: I think she retired after Heather filled her desk drawer with worms and called it a science project.

Mum: She was a very inventive seven-year-old.

“So I said to him, Marcus, if you want my grandmother’s china set, you’re going to have to talk to my lawyer.” Jill Mortimer finally paused to take a breath. Sucking obscenely loudly through her straw. “Can you believe the audacity of the man?”

“It sounds like a bad situation.” Head pounding frommusic and the little fact of my brother currently spinning the love of my life in his all too capable arms, I was scraping the bottom of the barrel for my diplomacy.

Jill scoffed and signalled to April who lingered behind the bar for a refill. April topped up Jill’s glass without a word, her moss-green eyes sliding to me as she punched the soda gun a little harder than necessary. I cocked a brow in question, and her eyes narrowed. Never one to take a hint, I stuck out my tongue, fully committed to this silent conversation without the faintest idea of what was actually passing between us. Sweet little April could have been communicating anything from,Stop acting like a maudlin prick,to,Your kilt’s tucked up at the back and your arse is on displayto the entire village.

I patted a hand down my backside, finding the plaid hanging exactly as it should be. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d been caught unawares. Wearing a kilt wasn’t for the faint-hearted.

With a final glare, April cut down the bar to the next patron and Jill pulled a silver hip flask from between her breasts. Averting my gaze to confirm that Juniper and Alistair were in fact still dancing, I said a little too bitterly, “You brought your own whisky?”

“Heavens no.” She unscrewed the cap, adding a very generous glug of a clear liquid to her glass. “It’s gin. I might be forced to give up my Scottish citizenship, but I can’t stand the stuff.”

“Then why did you come?”

---