‘I know.’ His smile made her heart twist. ‘You let yourself be persuaded into thinking it.’
It was true—her parents had persuaded her that marrying Farlan would be a mistake. Telling them that he was brilliant and talented and special had done nothing to dent their opposition. And yet if it had been just her parents’ objection she would have resisted them.
She could feel the words building, backing up in her throat. Let me explain. She almost said it out loud but what was the point? Farlan didn’t want explanations. That wasn’t why he had come back to Scotland or why he had wanted to see her again.
Like he said, he was just curious.
‘I should probably go—’
‘Yes.’ She managed to nod.
Good manners dictated that she should show him out, but her body wouldn’t respond. And he didn’t move either. Instead, he stood staring down at her, and then her breath stalled in her throat as he reached out and touched her thistle-shaped brooch.
‘Do you remember that day?’
She nodded slowly, her pulse skipping like a stone across her skin.
They had gone to the seaside. It had been the hottest day of the year—so hot that the sun had looked like a scoop of melting ice cream.
‘Taps aff,’ he’d yelled, dragging her across the dunes.
They had walked and talked, picking up the shells and wave-tumbled pieces of smooth glass that were scattered at the shoreline. After weeks cooped up in Farlan’s tiny, airless flat, the air had been so fresh and clean they’d been almost high on ozone.
But it had been more than that.
Walking along the seafront, they had understood that this was it for both of them. There would be no one else. It didn’t matter what anyone said or did, they had known.
It wasn’t young love. It was a love that would span a lifetime, cross oceans, scale peaks.
And so they’d decided to get tattoos.
Her breath echoed in her ears, short and uneven.
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It had been a dare at first, and then a test of how much they trusted one another.
Farlan would choose hers, and she’d choose his.
The catch: they wouldn’t get to see them until after they were finished.
But of course they had chosen the exact same tattoo of a thistle.
‘Every moment,’ she said quietly.
His eyes found hers and she felt her pulse start to hammer, softly at first, and then more heavily, so that it felt like an undertow, pulling her down and back through time to those frantic, endless moments in his small flat.
Mesmerised, she watched his fingers trace the outline of the brooch—and just like that she remembered the warm caress of his hand, the way she had burned so feverishly at his touch.
A current of heat rippled through her body, wrapping itself around her heart. It had been there right from the moment she had seen him walk into the room, simmering beneath the surface, only now he was too close for her to pretend it wasn’t happening. So close she could see the colour streaking his cheekbones, feel his warm breath mingling with hers.
‘Farlan…’ she whispered.
Their lips were barely an inch apart.
His eyes widened, and every part of her tightened in anticipation. She wanted to kiss him so badly she didn’t even realise she was leaning into him until the sharp, ragged screech of a vixen punctured the quivering silence.
Abruptly his face was shuttered and he withdrew his hand. ‘Get some sleep. You look tired.’