“I didn’t . . . I didn’t mean anything. I didn’t.”

“I know,” said Lennox gruffly. “It’s all about the house. But really you want the hearts and flowers and everything like that. That’s what you think is important.”

“It isn’t! I don’t think like that at all!” She looked at him. “Will you . . . do you want to come over and eat later?”

“Ruaridh and I will probably eat at Alasdair’s,” he said, not catching her eye.

She watched him go, and something rose in her, something that threatened to overwhelm her, a flood of emotion and pain. As he ducked through the doorway, she said his name briefly—his first name. She hadn’t even known it until he’d told her.

“John,” she said quietly.

But although he stiffened for a second, he did not turn back.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Shut up, I know. He is too, though.”

“You were one first. Why did you have to push?”

“Maybe it’s better I know now that he’s a sullen bastard.”

“Oh for God’s sake, you knew he was like that anyway. Neens, you wouldn’t know the real thing if it came up and spat in your face.”

“I wouldn’t put that past him either.”

“Nina, WAKE UP!” yelled Surinder, whom she’d woken up. “It’s not about fricking romantic picnics and moonlit walks and storybook stuff! This is real life. Yes, he’s difficult and grouchy. He’s going through a divorce. He’s also sexy, solvent, and nice, and until about half an hour ago, he seemed very into you.”

“Oh God.”

“I’m coming up.”

“You can’t possibly have any more annual leave.”

“Mmm,” said Surinder.

“What?”

“Nothing,” said Surinder. “They owe me, that’s all.”

“Don’t come up. What could you do by being here?”

“Hang out? Buy ice cream to cheer you up? Smack you on the head and tell you to stop being such an idiot?”

“Maybe he’ll come over,” said Nina hopefully.

“He doesn’t seem the type to beg for forgiveness,” said Surinder.

And Surinder was right.

Chapter Thirty-four

Nina found herself up on her tiptoes late at night, peeking through the kitchen window to see—just to see—if his light was on. They’d barely crossed paths. It seemed crazy that they could have spent the last three weeks utterly naked with each other, completely open, vulnerable and as close to each other as two people could possibly be, and now they were supposed to pass each other on the street and not mention a thing about it. It was completely nuts. Now that Nina had the chance to think about it, she could have beaten herself up for pushing so hard, so soon.

And she wanted him so badly. She missed him desperately. Not just, she realized, the sex, although she missed that like crazy—it was as if she’d never eaten chocolate in her life, then she’d gotten a taste and now wanted to eat it all the time.

Everything before this, she realized, had been mere fumbles, nice, nervous, gentle, pleasant. They had been black and white, and this had been color; sex so intense she’d had headaches, or on one occasion burst out crying, and Lennox, not saying anything, had simply held her tight against his chest and wiped away her tears as they fell, had comforted her more than anything ever could, even if she hadn’t quite known why she was crying in the first place. Oh Lord, she missed him.

She missed the half dozen eggs placed on her doorstep from time to time; the home-brewed cider they had drunk in the kitchen. She missed Parsley sniffing around to welcome her home; more often than not now he was out in the high fields with his master, and on the rare occasions he was at the farmhouse, he was so tuckered out he couldn’t do much more than cock an eye at the van when she came home. She missed that odd feeling she got with Lennox that whatever happened, whether it was to a lamb, a dog, or herself, he would make it all right; he would figure it out. He made her feel more secure than she could ever have imagined.

She had one more look out of the little window, and was just about to draw the curtain and turn away when she caught, for a tiny instant, a reflection on the window across the way and realized that he was looking at her, too.

The breath caught in her throat and she stared at him, frozen on her tiptoes, just gazing, feeling a longing, a desperate wanting that threatened to overwhelm all thoughts of sense or reasonableness, that made her want to run across the courtyard . . .

Something clattered suddenly, and glancing down, she realized that she had knocked a plate into the sink, startling herself. When she looked back, he had gone. And she still did not know how long she had left.

It was hard, she thought, this self-realization business. She could barely read a word, and that was the final straw. He could take away her sex life, he could take away her peace of mind, her hopes for happiness, her home, her livelihood. But NOBODY was taking away her reading.

She should leave, she thought boldly. She should go to Orkney. Start over. She’d done it once, she could do it again. Start from the beginning, away from this whole town, away from the gossip and the prying eyes and the sheer hardship of being in such proximity to someone who had made her feel so much.

She told herself she absolutely was going to go. That it wasn’t a case of throwing down her last card—leaving forever—in the hope that it would force him to see sense, beg her not to go, make everything all right. She was going to stand up for herself. Again.

She threw on a dress it wasn’t quite warm enough to wear, applied some lipstick with a trembling hand, and, trying to fake a confidence she didn’t feel, flung open her front door.

He was standing there, his huge hands on the door frame. She jumped.

“Oh!”

“Nina,” he said, and his face was drawn. “I can’t. I can’t do without you. I can’t . . . I’m sorry. Please. I know I’m . . . difficult. I know I am. Give me another chance. I just want another chance. Please . . .”

He didn’t need to say another word. Nina grabbed him tightly and went to pull him to her, knowing that whatever was happening, she couldn’t let him go, couldn’t get him out of her system; he was in there, whether she wanted him to be or not, and she no longer had the slightest choice.