Page 53 of Scotch on the Rocks

I never used emojis. They were fucking humiliating.

“He also mentioned you planned to paint today, so I wore my best work clothes.” Heart a solid lump in my throat, I looked her over again, finally noting the loose denim overalls that somehow managed to hug her curves.

“Oh, you don’t need to help.” I’d been putting off the job for days now. My heart doing this uncomfortable galloping beat that left me feeling lightheaded whenever I pictured myself making this very permanent change. Sure, I could repaint it if Fiona hated it, but it would never be Alexander’s work.

“If I need to bulldoze you, I will, Juniper Ross. I’m here, I’m helping, get used to it.” Her hands settled on her hips.

All right then.“Did you just full name me?”

“You left me no choice. You were about to fob me off with someI can handle it alonebullshit.”

“Icanhandle it alone,” I pointed out, leading her fromthe storeroom beside the kitchen. Hank didn’t even look up from his food prep.Still ignoring me then.

“Callum told me not to take no for an answer.”

“He said what?” I halted. She kept walking. The sink wobbled between our dual grip. “You know what? Never mind – the man meddles more than Jessica Brown.” Desperate to change the subject from anything Callum-related, I asked, “How’s things at the distillery?”

“Busy, but good.” She adjusted the weight as we approached the stairs. “I think we might need to hire more staff, the orders have more than doubled in the last few months. I found Ewan crying in the dunnage yesterday.”

Ewan was Kinleith distillery’s youngest employee. A sweet lad if not a little jumpy.

“Actual tears?” She nodded. “Mal can’t bethatgrumpy.”

“He’s not these days.” Her smirk was pure female satisfaction. “Ewan cut his hand and felt too bad to leave in the middle of a work day. Mal drove him to the surgery, obviously. And Jacob can’t keep up with the workload anymore, though he won’t admit it.”

“Sounds shit.”

Her nose screwed. “There’s still so much to do before the ceilidh next month, we might need to consider hiring someone off-island. You’re coming to the ceilidh, right?”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” The distillery’s seventieth anniversary was approaching and to celebrate they’d invited half the village for an evening of whisky and live music. April had been organising it for months. “I bet eighteen-year-old April didn’t see this in her future.” Just a few years ago she’d been walking the red carpet in Cannes, not a denim overall in sight.

Her grin was luminous. “I actually love it, working with Mal every day, being close to you and Heather. Which makes it even more shit that I’m leaving in a few months.”

Ordinarily, I’d distance myself with a sarcastic comment, how we wouldn’t even notice her absence. But I couldn’t bring myself to say it. April’s return had changed things around here. Made me and Heather a little more whole, lightening the ancient baggage that lay between us. So instead, I blurted, “Callum stroked my ear.”

She almost tripped up the step. “What kind of stroke?”

“Is there more than one kind?” Her pitying expression suggested I’d been sleepwalking for half my life. “Apparently so,” I muttered. Setting down the sink, I brushed my hands on my jeans. “Let me show you.”

Stepping close enough our thighs brushed, April laughed lightly as I twirled one of her stray curls around my finger, just as Callum had done to me. I’d replayed that tiny interaction so many times I had the exact pace and pressure perfected. Her eyes danced but she held still as I tucked the curl behind her ear with tantalising slowness, allowing the tip of my finger to graze the arch of her ear, down the lobe where I pinched once and drew away.

Silence stretched. The smallest flush painted her pale cheeks. Then— “Oh, Juney, you are so fucked.”

“What are you guys doing?” We were standing so close, our noses brushed as we turned in unison. Mal waited at the top of the stairs, a wary quirk lifting his brow.

“Telling June how screwed she is,” April said.

Mal glanced between us. “How’s that?”

“Callum stroked her ear.”

He grimaced, coming down the stairs to pick up the sink. “Please tell me that’s not a euphemism for something.”

“The less you know the better.” I continued up the stairs, patting his shoulder as I edged past.

“Thank Christ,” I heard him mutter before I turned down the hall.

“I booked the pitch for five-thirty—” A low voice rumbled from inside room five.Callum. My pulse thundered, as if attuned to the sound of him. I told myself the brief pause on the threshold was simply to catch my breath from the climb. Nothing to do with the man waiting on the other side.

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