CH 1-10

Summary

Iona Stewart is pretty sure she’s having a premature midlife crisis. Recently made redundant, permanently unlucky in love, and back living with her parents, she’s desperate for a change of scenery. So when an opportunity comes up to work in a hotel in the Highlands, it seems like fate has stepped in. The problem? Her new boss is Ryan Thorne. Her former friend. Her first crush. And the boy who broke her heart nearly 17 years ago. She had no intention of ever seeing him again after that night. And it seems he isn’t that keen on having *her* around either. Be prepared for some nineties flashbacks, a flirtation with a much younger man, many awkward encounters and *hopefully* a happy ever after . . .

Prologue

June 1999

It’s after midnight on a warm June night as the girl gets out of the taxi and walks slowly up the driveway to her house. After the taxi pulls away, there’s silence. Everything is still, but the air feels heavy. Earlier, it was brimming with possibility.

Not anymore.

The girl sits down on her doorstep, unwilling to go inside just yet. She looks down at the dress she chose so carefully, so excitedly, for tonight. When she slipped it on six hours earlier, she’d felt more beautiful than she ever had in her life.

Now it’s just a reminder of how the evening turned to shit in a heartbeat.

She allows a tear to fall. She meant it to only be one, but her control is weakened tonight, and the drops plop onto the satin of the dress, darkening the violet colour in the spots it touches.

“Just get it out of your system,” she tells herself. “Let it all out, then make a plan.” The plan is already forming in her head as the last tear falls. She knows what she’s going to do.

By the time the second taxi pulls up ten minutes later, she’s composed herself. Touched up her make-up in case her parents are still up – she doesn’t want them to know she’s been crying. As far as they’re concerned, they need to think she’s had the time of her life. There’s going to be no reason for them to suspect she’s actually had her heart broken tonight.

She sees the boy climb out of the other taxi, and she resists the urge to hide. He starts to walk up his path, his head down, but then turns back suddenly and spots her. After a brief hesitation, he crosses the road towards her, and something in her heart seems to pinch. Tears nip at her eyes again. Don’t, she urges her body. Don’t betray me like this.

He sits down beside her. “What happened tonight?” He asks after a moment of silence. His voice is husky. “I thought we’d be leaving together.”

Me too, she thinks to herself. I thought so many things about tonight that never happened. She swallows back a bitter laugh. Nearly chokes on it.

“I – I wasn’t feeling too great, thought I’d best just head home,” she lies. Well, it’s only half a falsehood; she did feel pretty sick after what she witnessed. “And you seemed . . . otherwise occupied, so I didn’t want to disturb you.”

She shoots him a sly look. His handsome face screws up in a wince. “Oh. Yeah. That.” He rubs his chin. That’s his tell when he’s feeling awkward or uncomfortable. So he should.

She shrugs and meets his bright blue eyes. Forces her face to stay blank. “No big deal.” More lies. But she’s hardly going to tell him the truth now. He doesn’t deserve her honesty anymore.

“Are you feeling better now?” he asks. His gaze is concerned. Caring. At least, that’s how it appears.

“Yep.” She nods. “I think whatever it was is out of my system now.” The sentence has a double-meaning, of course.

It was just a crush, she thinks. I’ll get over it.

She has to.

She just wishes she hadn’t begun to believe it was actually reciprocated. How very silly of her.

She stands. “I’d better go inside.”

He pulls himself to his feet, too, as she takes her key out of her bag. He reaches out to touch her arm, and she tries to ignore the way the hair on her skin quivers at this. Her body hasn’t quite caught up with her brain.

“Are we okay?” He asks quietly. “Still friends?”

“Of course.” She pushes the door open, forcing a grin she doesn’t mean. “Friends forever.”

He doesn’t seem convinced. But he returns the smile tentatively. “You’re leaving for your gran’s in the morning, aren’t you?” She nods. “Have a great time, yeah?”

“I will. Thanks.” She takes one last look at him, committing his face to memory.

“See you soon,” he says softly as she closes the door.

She leans against it, hearing his footsteps fading away as they crunch down the driveway. There’s a hint of spite in her smile now.

Little does he know that if she gets her way, he’ll not see her again for a very long time

Chapter 1

2016

Exactly 365 days after my last date, I’m celebrating by . . .

Going on a date.

Given my last date resulted in me being unceremoniously dumped by my boyfriend of six months, it’s probably understandable why I’ve left it so long to give it another try.

Some people like going on dates. Those people blow my mind. Because I hate dating. All these dating sites and apps and single events like speed-dating? For me, they seem so contrived. Perhaps it’s because I came of age in the nineties, before everyone had the Internet and mobile phones and social media. Most of the couples I knew growing up had met at school, or at an underage club night, or – the ultimate meet cute – while getting drunk in the park on a Friday night. Classic.

My hope when I was younger, I guess, was that I’d either be struck by a severe case of love-at-first-sight – which sadly is still yet to happen – or I’d have some sort of slow-burning friends-into-lovers trope that would eventually blow me away with its ferocity.

Once upon a time, I actually thought there was potential in the latter option.But I no longer believe in fairy tales.

Love doesn’t just “happen” these days. Romantic comedies feed us bullshit. Life isn’t like the movies. Instead, we have to puff ourselves up, put on our best selves . . . and try to convince other people to swipe right on us when half the time we barely feel like swiping right on ourselves.

Cynical? Me? Yep.

I, Iona Stewart, am a fully paid-up member of the Society of Cynics. I could probably actually be chairwoman, but just being cynical already takes up too much of my time. I couldn’t be bothered dealing with any additional red tape.

I used to be the most hopeless of all the romantics. I swallowed up romcoms, devoured Sweet Dreams romance novels, and dreamed of my own happy ending. I even had a real-life hero in mind that I hoped to achieve that goal with.

Turned out he didn’t return my feelings, and I don’t think I’ve ever been quite the same since.

But hey, I’m probably being over-dramatic. I’m in my thirties now, I’m mostly over some petty teenage heartbreak.

Anyway, I was talking to you about my date, wasn’t I? (Sorry, I go off on a tangent at times – I may as well tell you that upfront.) I don’t really want to go on this date and normally I probably wouldn’t, but a few factors have changed for me recently.

For one thing, I was made redundant. Which was a bit of a pain as I actually did like my job. It was just an admin job but I enjoyed the people and the camaraderie, and I didn’t spend all of my Sunday worrying about Monday morning, so that can only be a good thing in my view.

The redundancy also forced me to make the decision to move back in with my mum and dad, at least on a temporary basis. I needed to save some money while I was trying to find a new job, and it seemed like a wise decision at the time . . . But God, it’s so weird living with them again in the house I left at 18 without a backwards glance.

They leave me in peace most of the time, don’t get me wrong. Allowing me to just rattle around, come and go as I please. It’s not like my social life is at its peak right now though – if I’m not at a temp job, I’m either at the gym, or reading in my childhood bedroom and wondering why my life has never went to plan.

I’ve never felt lonelier.

So am I going on this date with the hope that it will actually come to anything? That it’ll be the start of a beautiful relationship?

No.

Quite simply, I’m going so I can speak to someone other than my parents or random temp colleagues. So I can go out for an actual meal for the first time in weeks.

Plus, my friend Lily said that John, the guy she’s set me up on the date with, is hot. If I’m going to have to sit across from a stranger at dinner and try and make conversation, it’s probably easier if I have something pretty to look at. And sure, I had a little stalk of his Facebook, and he is definitely a good-looking guy. I did get the vibe from the photos that he knows it, but is that necessarily a bad thing?

A memory slips, unwanted, back into my mind of another guy, one who was completely unaware of how beautiful he was. I blink repeatedly as if doing so will reset my brain and rid myself of those thoughts. Of course, given I’m in the middle of trying to apply mascara at this point, I end up with a clump of it in my right eye. Ouch.

Why is it that every time I think I’m going to actually pull off the perfect make-up look for a change, I fall at the final hurdle? Highlighter en pointe. Flawless contouring. Eyebrows are almost looking symmetrical for a change. Eyeshadow blended beautifully. Bloodshot, weeping right eye. Fabulous.

Thankfully, by the time I sort out my mop of dark blonde curls and wriggle into my trusty little black dress (yep, it’s a cliché but sometimes it’s a cliché for a good reason), my eye has calmed down with only a hint that it’s been running uncontrollably for the best part of 20 minutes. I check my reflection, coming to the conclusion that I’ve done a pretty decent job making myself presentable.

Hopefully, John will think so, too. Although I still find myself not really caring that much.

I’d make a great cat lady if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m severely allergic to most cats. Which is a shame because catch felines, not feelings would have such a good ring to it as my new life motto.

John is actually better looking in person than his photos would attest to. Which is admittedly unusual in this day and age with so many filters on offer.

Sometimes I think longingly of the days where we took photos of ourselves on a disposable camera with no idea what we’d even look like until we finally remembered to finish the film and got the pictures developed three months later.

But then I remember the lovely filter my phone camera has that adoringly smoothes out my fine lines and find myself grateful for technology.

Anyway, back to the date. Sorry! It doesn’t really get off to the best start when the waiter arrives to take our drinks order and, without consulting me, John orders a bottle of cab sav. He sends the waiter on his way before I can even protest.

I detest red wine. I was looking forward to a fruity cocktail or a crisp refreshing glass of dry white. But he didn’t even give me a chance; he didn’t even ask me what I wanted. I chalk up an imaginary bad mark on his dateability chart.

“What are you going to have to eat?” he asks me, pale blue eyes meeting mine over the menu.

I don’t know about you, but I always check the menu online before I go out to eat, in massive detail, so I’ve known what I’m having for a week, since the date was first decided. I still make the pretence of looking at the menu first, though, as if I’m still considering my options. “I was thinking the mozzarella in carrozza followed by the spaghetti carbonara,” I reply. I’ve been dreaming about the starter in particular for seven long days.

He draws in a sharp breath at my words. “What?” I ask him.

John shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s just . . . Do you have any idea how much fat is in those dishes?” He looks me up and down as he says this. My dress, my LBD that has never let me down, suddenly feels too small and tight, and I’m angry that he’s making me feel this way. And furious at myself for letting him.

“I’ve got a vague idea,” I say dryly. “I’m okay with that.”

I’m already wondering if I should downgrade to just a main so I can get out of here as quickly as possible. But I’m too riled up now.

“Well, I hadn’t been planning on getting a starter, but if you are…” He says begrudgingly, turning the pages of the menu. I roll my eyes. It isn’t like I’m expecting him to pay for both of us, if that’s what he’s worried about.

He orders a Caesar salad to start followed by a fish dish and visibly winces when I state what I want. “Anything else?” The waiter asks. “Garlic bread for the table? French fries?”

Before John can open his mouth, I say “Both please.” Oh, and because he’s already wound me up . . . “Also, could I please have a large glass of Pinot grigio?” I glance pointedly at John. “Unfortunately, I don’t like red wine.”

“You should have said,” he hisses at me as the waiter nods and walks away.

“You didn’t give me a chance,” I retort. To his credit, he does look a little embarrassed at that.

“Sorry,” he mutters. Then he smiles. It’s dazzlingly white, and I can tell this is his secret weapon, the thing he uses to get his own way. Unfortunately, it holds no truck with me. “Let’s start over. Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself? How long have you and Lily known each other?”

We manage to salvage the night somewhat, but the conversation is a bit stilted. It’s probably because we have pretty much nothing in common.

Yes, we both go to the gym. But I mostly go because I also like to eat high calorie food like mozzarella in carozza and spaghetti carbonara. And I don’t have much else to do at the moment. He goes because he’s obsessed with maintaining his six-pack and, to be perfectly honest, “going to the gym” seems to be pretty much his whole shtick.

Actually, though, it turns out we do have one more thing in common. My friend Lily. It becomes increasingly clear, as her name comes up repeatedly in conversation, that John has a thing for my happily married friend. I can’t help but wonder if she was aware of this little crush and hoping to distract him.

She probably should have found someone more suited to him to distract him with. Although I suspect she would need to clone herself.

I won’t be seeing him again anyway.

After we pay – him itemising every item on the bill to be sure we paid for our own food and drink, of course – he actually still has the bare-faced cheek to ask if I fancy a “nightcap” at his. And, yes, he even uses the air quotes.

I politely decline. Although I do laugh and make a face first, before I recover myself. I don’t think he’s too pleased about that. I probably put the tiniest of chips in his massive ego.

Ultimately I’m glad he didn’t have any personality traits I was actually attracted to, I think as I sit in the taxi back to my childhood home.

He could be the otherwise most perfect guy in the world, but I just couldn’t be in a relationship with a bloke who watched me distastefully as I ate deep-fried cheese, almost- but not quite – ruining my enjoyment of it. I’m sure he was one step away from saying “a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips”. I have to admit I briefly considered ordering dessert, just to test this theory.

My lips curl in a smirk, though, as I remember deliberately letting that last slice of cheesy garlic bread linger on the plate between us. I watched John look longingly at it. He thought he was being subtle but he was practically eye-fucking it. “Would you like it?” I asked him. I could see the temptation flicker across his face; he was about to open his mouth and agree.

I cut in before he could. “Oh sorry, of course you don’t! It’s way too unhealthy for you,” I said, smiling as I picked it up and popped it in my mouth.

The gutted expression on his face, I reflect, was probably the highlight of my night.

Chapter 2

2016

What a waste of a night that was.

The food, admittedly, was amazing . . . But my enjoyment of it had been severely marred by John’s disapproving eyes on me the whole time I was eating.

I need something sweet now.

By all rights, having had a starter, main, and two sides to myself, I should be full to bursting point . . . However, everyone knows you have a secret dessert stomach, and that’s currently running on empty and craving sugar. So I ask the taxi driver to pull up at an ice cream shop and wait while I go in to order.

There’s so many of those shops these days, aren’t there? They’ve just sprung out of nowhere; it feels like there’s at least one on every street in Glasgow now. I’m not complaining, though – my sweet tooth loves it.

I opt for a portion of churros filled with white chocolate and some salted caramel to dip them in. I briefly consider buying some ice cream too, but that seems a bridge too far.

If only John could see how strong my willpower really is

, I think sarcastically, as I slip back into the taxi for the last few minutes of the ride.

Reflecting again on the disaster of this evening, I decide that it will probably be a while before I attempt dating again. Maybe I’ll just give up on it completely; it’s not for me. Perhaps I really

am

, as the Alice Deejay lyrics once proclaimed, better off alone?

I think, not for the first time, of escaping. I’ve been feeling . . . trapped for a while now. Even before I lost my job and gave up my flat. Just almost claustrophobic with the need to break out of the walls of my current life.

I’m desperate for a change.

The taxi pulls up outside my parent’s house, and I trudge up my drive, a memory striking me as I do so of the last time I got out of a taxi here. Nearly seventeen years ago now.

Prom night 1999.

I stop and turn, my eyes drifting to the house across the road. There’s an unfamiliar car in the driveway, but the building itself is in darkness.

I take a deep breath, my eyes fluttering closed as I remember how betrayed and heartbroken I had felt that night. It’s weird how some memories, even years later, still feel crystal clear. I can take myself back to that moment easily, and I’m in it all over again, with high definition and surround sound.

The enticing smell of my churros snaps me back to the present, and I stuff one in my mouth as I stick my key in the lock. I can hear chatting coming from the living room, and I remember that my mum had said our neighbour – and her best friend – was coming over for a couple of drinks tonight.

My heart sinks a bit. I’m not in the mood for small talk; I’ve socialised more than enough for today. But seeing Lena Thorne is never easy for me anyway . . . It just brings back painful memories and makes me think about her son.

My thoughts that maybe I can sneak upstairs without being detected are quickly squashed when my mum shouts, “Is that you, Iona? Can you come through?”

Stifling a sigh, I slip another churro into my mouth and walk towards the living room door. “I’ve just been on the date from hell,” I announce as I enter. I’m thinking if my mum and Lena see how knackering my day has been, they won’t expect me to hang around.

Instead, the first thing I see is a pair of bright blue eyes burning into mine.

Ryan Thorne

.

Oh dear god, what is

Ryan

doing in my living room?

And why is my mouth full of fucking churro?

I try to swallow it in one go and start choking while my mum, apparently oblivious, says “look who’s here!” She gestures across at Ryan like I’ve suddenly lost the ability of sight. Like he wasn’t the very first thing I focused on when I walked through the door.

The churro finally dislodges itself from my windpipe and slips downwards, giving me breathing space and the ability to speak again. “Hi Ryan,” I say coolly, forcing a smile. “It’s been a while.”

His responding smile is tight. “Iona,” he nods. “Nice to see you.”

“Sit down,” Lena says. She seems excited. “Have a glass of wine.” There’s a spare glass sitting there which makes me wonder if they’ve been waiting for me to come back.

“Ryan is just down for the night, so Lena brought him over for a catch-up,” my mum explains, splashing wine into the glass and passing me it as I sink unwillingly into the armchair opposite Ryan. “He runs a hotel up north.”

I

know

.

I know what the hotel looks like, I practically know its exact coordinates on a map.

I know a surprising amount about Ryan too, especially when you consider I’ve not spoken to him in seventeen years. Social media can often reveal a lot, even when you’re not friends or following each other.

Our gazes lock momentarily again. He always did have the bluest eyes, I find myself thinking. He looks knackered though. Stressed. There’s a slight frownline indented between his brows and dark shadows under his eyes.

That being said though, he’s still just as handsome as he was back then. Possibly

more

so, I think unwillingly, my eyes drifting over his short trimmed beard and full lips. Why is it that guys seem to age so well without even

trying

? In the meantime I’m slathering my face with twenty different kinds of acid each day and wondering how long it will be before I eventually succumb to the stabby lure of botox. It’s so

unfair

.

I last saw Ryan, I estimate, about eight years ago. It was Christmas day and I’d been here for dinner. As I was about to get into my car, he’d pulled up outside and got out. Our eyes had met, recognition lighting up his face. The first contact we’d had since 1999. I’m pretty sure my heart skipped a beat. I thought he was going to come over and see me . . .

Then a beautiful blonde girl got out of the passenger side of his car and tugged on his arm. He threw me a casual wave and walked away with her without a backwards glance.

And it took me about six months to recover from that briefest of interactions.

How long will it take me this time?

I can’t help but wonder, turning my attention to the wine in my glass. It’s taking the edge off my shock.

“Iona, we had an idea.” My mum breaks into my thoughts. I look towards her blankly. “We were talking about your redundancy and how you’re just temping at the moment.”

Oh great, tell Ryan what a loser I am.

I bite my lip, feeling myself flush bright red. “Oh,” I mumble.

“Well, turns out Ryan had just been telling his mum he has a vacancy at his hotel he needs to fill pretty urgently,” my mum continues.

Hold on,

she isn’t suggesting

. . .? I glance over at Ryan. His lips are set in a thin line.

“We think it would be the

perfect

fit for you!” Lena exclaims.

“What?” I ask faintly.

“Well,

think

about it!” My mum is pushing the hard sell on this. She must

really

want me out of their house. “Your degree is related. You have tons of experience working in hotels. You’ll get free board so you’ll save some money.”

I’ll get to escape

, I find myself thinking. It’s almost tempting but . . .

“And of course you and Ryan are old friends,” Lena breaks in, reminding me of exactly why it’s not a good idea to even

consider

this. “So you’ll already know someone there!”

She thinks it’s a selling point, of course. As far as I’m aware she has no idea we haven’t spoken since 1999. I don’t reckon Ryan would have told her.

“We need more wine,” my mum says. “And maybe some cheese?”

“I’ll help.” Lena jumps to her feet. “Ryan can tell Iona some more about the job while we do that.”

A thick silence falls immediately as soon as they leave the room. I don’t want to look at Ryan again. He’s clearly been browbeaten into this as much as I have.

So I’m surprised when he stands up and walks towards me.

“The job is yours if you want it,” he says. His voice is low and intense. “It’s sort of an assistant manager role, basically working under me and making sure everything is kept ticking over. . . Not that there’s many staff to manage.

“The girl in the current role is going on maternity leave for a year in a few weeks time. I had someone else lined up but he got a better offer so I’m a bit stuck. I don’t really have the time to go through the whole recruitment process and I do know you have lots of experience.”

I nod slowly. Trying to process this turn of events.

“Here’s the thing though . . .” He trails off thoughtfully and then he looks straight at me. His eyes are steely and that makes me realise the fundamental difference between the young Ryan and this Ryan. He’s hardened now. The sweet boy I once knew is probably still in there somewhere but life eventually got to him and he had to toughen up.

“I need someone I can rely on. I don’t want to take a person on who just decides it’s too much hassle a few days or weeks in and just . . . Ghosts me.” He finishes. There’s a definite challenge there. He’s not just talking about the job.

He’s getting a dig in there about the way I disappeared out of his life. As well as implying I’m generally unreliable.

I know he doesn’t want me to work with him. But he’s also desperate. And having the pressure put on by his mum. And my mum.

And

I’m

desperate too. Because this, actually, could be my dream job. Or

lead

to it, at least.

I’ve always wanted my own hotel. When kids were playing fake shop growing up, I was playing pretend hotel. Welcoming my parents and brother home at night like I was checking them in, and leaving After Eights on their pillows. I usually went in and stole the After Eights for myself afterwards but that’s irrelevant. This job could be a stepping stone for me.

And I wanted to get away. A small village in the Highlands would be perfect. This is the exact opportunity I was looking for . . . Minus the fact I’d be working for the boy who once broke my heart.

Can I cope with that? I ask myself.

Ryan broke my heart because he didn’t return my feelings. I know this already so I’m going into this with open eyes. We probably will never be friends again like we once were, but I’m sure we can be civil, just like good colleagues should be.

I think I can do this.

Our mums have walked back into the room and are looking at us expectantly.

I nod firmly. “I’ll take the job.”

Surprise passes over the sharp planes of his face followed by an expression I can’t quite work out.

“You can rely on me,” I find myself adding.

He turns and walks back to his seat and I’m pretty sure I hear him mumble “I bloody well hope so” under his breath.

I’m already wondering if I’ve made a huge mistake.

Chapter 3

1995

I first met Ryan Thorne on the first day of my third year in high school.

I remember feeling disorganised and in a rush that day as I had slept in, too excited to sleep properly for most of the night. I really loved school. Enjoyed learning new things. I couldn’t wait to study the subjects I had chosen.

Of course, there were subjects I had to do. Like English (good). Maths (bad). French (meh). A science (physics in my case. Blurgh). But drama, art, computing, and geography? All my own choices. The rest I would tolerate. And ultimately, ace.

I hurried from my registration class to the first class of the day . . . Computing. Of

course

, my reg class was probably the furthest anywhere could probably be from the computing department. And I had no idea who would be in the class, if I would even know anyone, so I was extra nervous.

The very first thing I noticed was that the boys outnumbered the girls considerably. I wasn’t that bothered about boys yet, though. I’d started to notice them that summer when I’d been at my gran’s place, but I hadn’t really had a crush on anyone at that point. Well, apart from maybe Zack from “Saved By The Bell” but he didn’t really count, being a TV character and all.

My second observation was that there was only one spare computer left, so I dashed over to it and dropped into the chair before I could draw any attention to myself. Luckily, the teacher didn’t seem to be in the room yet; I quickly discovered Miss Ryder was usually late because she was usually half-stoned, and I didn’t need to hurry after that.

As I started pulling my belongings from my bag, I heard a muttered “shit” from beside me. I couldn’t help but giggle – swearing did that to me back then. I glanced around at the source of the profanity and met the rueful eyes of the boy beside me.

“Sorry,” he said wryly. “I just realised I forgot a pen. You don’t have one I can borrow, do you?”

I was happy to help. I also had a mass of pens at my disposal. I loved stationery and spent most of my pocket money on it. “Sure, what’s your poison?” I asked, unloading the contents of my pencil case on the desk between us. “Blue, black, multicoloured, ballpoint, fineliner? I can even do you a freshly sharpened pencil if you’re so inclined.”

“Wow.” The boy looked at my pile of pens in awe. “I think I’ll settle for a standard blue ballpoint if that’s okay.”

I plucked one out of my selection and passed it over to him. “Yeah, you don’t want to go too hard too fast.”

He laughed. He was cute, I noticed, in a slightly nerdy way. Floppy dark blond hair, a sweet smile complete with dimples. His eyes were such a vivid blue that they couldn’t even be concealed behind the lenses of the wire rimmed glasses perched on his nose. “Thanks,” he said. “You’re a life saver. I can’t believe of all the things I forgot to pack this morning, it was a

pen

. What an idiot!”

“You can keep that one,” I replied, unable to help grinning at him. “As you can see, I have a more than adequate supply.”

“That’s a bit of an understatement – you could start your own pen store,” he joked. We were still giggling when the teacher walked in and started taking the register.

I don’t ever remember introducing myself to anyone back in school. Maybe we did, but I don’t think so. You just kinda got to know people’s names. So I didn’t know this boy. Our school was big. I’d never seen him before. I was waiting for his name to be called out so I could learn it.

“Iona Stewart?” As Miss Ryder shouted my name, I half-held my hand up in acknowledgement and called out “here.” She nodded and moved on, but I saw the boy next to me smile to himself, and he mouthed something that looked like my first name. A warm feeling tingled inside me, one I didn’t quite understand.

His name was next on the list, and then I knew he was called Ryan Thorne. Cute.

The teacher started walking around the class with handouts as Ryan turned back to me again. “Iona is an unusual name,” he commented. “Isn’t there an island called that?”

“Yep. It’s next to Mull.” I winced before confessing: “My parents claim I was conceived on Iona. I’m still not sure if they’re kidding or not.”

He laughed again, but this time, it was accompanied by a hint of a blush, and I realised I probably shouldn’t have started talking about my own conception. I began to feel hot colour stain my own face, so I was glad when the teacher started talking and we had to turn our attention to the class.

I can’t really remember what I learned in computing. The Internet wasn’t really around back then, so it wasn’t that. It was my favourite class, though.

And the deciding factor that made it a favourite was definitely Ryan. That whole year, we sat next to each other, and we had such a good laugh together.

In our Monday class, we would discuss whatever selection of Channel 4 sitcoms we’d watched on the previous Friday night. In the Friday class we would tell each other our weekend plans.

For the Wednesday class, the subject was usually something random. Did OJ Simpson do it? Or did “Country House” really deserve to be number one over “Roll With It”? We’d fit these discussions in before, after and occasionally during the lesson, whispering when Miss Ryder had her back turned.

It took me probably a couple of months to come to the realisation that I didn’t simply like Ryan . . . I

liked

him.

That feeling of anticipation every time I was headed for that subject, something squeezing tightly somewhere near my heart on the rare occasion I spotted him outside of class . . . This was my first crush.

I just hadn’t seen it coming

at all.

Probably because all the romance novels I devoured had led me to believe heroes are almost exclusively tall, dark, and handsome. I hadn’t expected to end up crushing on a fair-haired, blue-eyed nerd who wasn’t much taller than myself.

I kept the crush to myself, only letting my diary in on my secret. I didn’t tell my friends; it felt somehow like something I needed to protect. I obviously didn’t tell Ryan either. I didn’t want to make things awkward between us when we got on so well.

Sometimes, though . . .

Sometimes

, I did think he might actually fancy me, too. There was just a vibe I got from him at times. A certain look on his face when we were laughing and joking together. A moment when I was struggling with a piece of work on my computer, and he leaned over to help me, and his breath suddenly quickened. Just little things like that. But never quite often enough to convince me I was right.

“There’s a guy over there I’m sure is watching you,” my friend Claire said to me one day months later. We were sitting in the canteen at break, trying to finish some maths homework we’d forgotten about. I glanced up and saw Ryan quickly look away, pushing his glasses up as he blushed.

Claire was right. He

had

been watching me.

“Oh, that’s just Ryan,” I said as casually as I could, although my heart beat faster in my chest. “He sits next to me in computing. Nice guy.” It was Tuesday, which wasn’t a computing day, so it was nice to catch a glimpse of him. Get my fix.

“He’s cute,” Claire nodded, and my possessive heart twirled in on itself. I didn’t want anyone else to want him. He was mine, even though he didn’t know that.

The problem was I had fallen for the original Ryan, Ryan 1.0, which meant I failed to notice that Ryan Thorne was going through somewhat of a glow-up. My crush was already fully set, so I didn’t notice the subtle changes in his appearance over the last few months of third year. His skin clearing up, the fact he shot up several inches seemingly overnight. His face leaning out.

Ryan 2.0

was about to bloom.

Over the summer between third and fourth year, our school moved to a new site. Everything was newer, bigger, brighter. I was a creature of habit so I didn’t like it. I missed the old buildings. And, most importantly, the seating format in the computer labs was very different, and I was no longer sitting next to Ryan. We ended up on opposite sides of the room.

It was different now, anyway. He’d returned to school after the holidays a new guy. Amazing the change a different haircut and contact lenses can make. Added to the other physical differences I’d barely noticed before, it seemed he was now on the radar of pretty much every girl in school.

Yep, he was gorgeous. But I missed the old him.

Ryan 1.0.

Don’t get me wrong, his personality didn’t change. Even though he wasn’t beside me in class anymore, he would still catch up with me when he could to ask how I was doing, or what I’d thought of the latest episode of “Friends”. He still had the same sweet smile, and I still very occasionally would catch him looking at me in class. And he would still blush when I caught him in the act.

But I’d constantly hear girls talking about how good-looking he was. Speculating about who he was going out with. When he passed me in the school yard and waved to me, my friends would be spitting with envy.

He wasn’t my secret anymore. He belonged to everyone now.

I knew he’d never

actually

been mine. But, for a brief period of time, it had felt like he could have been.

And so, for the first time – but not the last – I let my crush on Ryan Thorne go.

Chapter 4

2016

I still have nine days left of my current temping contract, covering for a receptionist in a law firm, so we agree that I won’t move up to the Highlands and start work until I’ve finished that.

Most of our arrangements are made via WhatsApp, and that suits me just fine. Virtual contact is easier. I’m still not quite sure what I’m going to be letting myself in for by being around Ryan for extended periods of time; am I just the world’s biggest masochist? Especially since I know my body is still betraying me and reacting to his very presence, even after years of him not being in my life.

Not for the first time, I find myself wondering why it’s been so difficult for me to get over him. I’ve been in relationships where I thought I was in love over the years, but the breakups have somehow hurt less than the act of Ryan simply not reciprocating my feelings. Maybe it just

feels

like it hurts more because I was so young at the time. Much like Ryan seems to be, I’m harder now. My shell is tougher.

Maybe I’m more used to the rejection now.

I’m not particularly enjoying my current temp job, but that’s probably actually a good thing. I’ve discovered in the past few months of temp work that it’s not great to get too attached to a temporary gig because it’s very rare that it will ever actually become permanent. You end up really liking a company and the people, but you can only be there a week or two.

Sometimes, I wonder, though, if maybe that’s why it seems like a better place to work. Because you’re only there long enough to see the good side. You don’t get to deep-dive into the minefield that can be office politics, merely skimming the top of the waves. You don’t get to see the sharks.

But there’s jobs like this current one that I know immediately that I could never work permanently in. The office culture isn’t a fit for me at all, just too stiff and formal. It makes me uncomfortable; I want to jump right out of my skin and fly away.

And that makes me really glad for this unexpected opportunity to escape. Despite how weird it might be. Because hospitality is something I’ve always been good at. It’s not for everyone, granted, and I’ve had my fair share of crying-in-the-loo moments, but I love the challenge of not knowing what problem I might need to try and fix each day.

Sometimes, I think I’d actually be quite good on “The Apprentice”. But I’d prefer not to be universally hated by TV fans. And not be forced to laugh at Alan Sugar’s terrible dad jokes.

I mostly spend my evenings trying to decide what to pack to take up north with me. I don’t want to take too much as I’m not sure how much storage space I’ll have, but I’m also not sure when I’ll next be down.

It’s still winter at the moment so the one thing I know I will need for sure is warm clothes. Glasgow can be chilly in the winter, but the Highlands are a whole different micro-climate.

I decide to treat myself to a new fluffy dressing gown and slippers, as well as cosy pyjamas and a couple of new jumpers. Nothing fancier than Primark, but I’ve barely bought myself anything in months, so I feel like Cher in “Clueless” going on a shopping spree as I leave the store with multiple bags. There’s a spring in my step for the first time in what feels like months as I walk along Argyle Street.

Of

course

, it starts to rain, which it always does when I shop in Primark due to the carrier bags being made of paper. It’s a special sub-branch of sod’s law, apparently. Even that doesn’t dampen my feeling of hope, though – pun not intended.

My friends have organised a good luck dinner for me on the Friday night I finish at the law firm and, being a social hermit as of late, I’m way too excited about it. My little black dress is getting another outing, and this time, I’ll eat what I want without judgement. I even insisted we returned to the same restaurant that was the venue for my disastrous date last week as I really want that mozzarella starter again.

“I don’t understand why you and John didn’t get on,” Lily says now as we wait for our wine.

“He was really weird about me eating anything with any fat content in it. In an Italian restaurant.” I roll my eyes. “And he’s clearly obsessed with you.”

She blushes, confirmation that she knew that all along. “I hoped I’d be able to get him to move on,” she confesses.

“Unless you have a secret twin hiding in the background somewhere, I think you’re screwed, mate,” I reply, sipping my water.

“Not as screwed as you though,” Claire chimes in, turning to me. “I honestly don’t understand your thought process behind this move. Working for Ryan? Do you think you can cope?”

At some point down the line, back in the throes of my second attempt at a crush on Ryan, I finally admitted it to my friends. I really wished now that I hadn’t, but it couldn’t really be avoided – at that point, I was spending so much time with him that they were already querying it. Of

course

they’re going to worry for me.

But I wave off their concerns. “It’s all water under the bridge. It was so long ago now.”

“Iona, you ran away for the entire summer after prom night so you wouldn’t have to see him again,” Lily points out. “You’ve basically never mentioned his name again like he’s some sort of curse . . . Until you told us about this job.”

“You make it sound so dramatic,” I scoff. “I didn’t run away; I just went to my gran’s and didn’t come back until uni was starting.”

“You deliberately avoided him because you felt like he broke your heart,” Claire corrects me gently. “You changed your whole plans that summer on the back of what happened at prom.”

A silence falls over the table as I have to acknowledge the truth of her words.

“I don’t think I ever told you this,” Lily says suddenly, breaking the tension. “But I ran into him that summer. He was asking about you. He just seemed so . . . Lost.”

“I saw him too,” Claire adds. “I didn’t speak to him, but he didn’t seem right either.” She nods towards Lily. “Lost is a good way to describe it, to be honest.”

Weird

.

But . . .

I force myself to shrug. I can’t change the past, and now I don’t even know if I’d

want

to. I have to focus on my future.

“It’ll be fine,” I say. Hoping to convince myself as much as my friends.

Later, I find myself pulling out the memory box I keep under my bed and pulling out the contents, scattering them over the bed as I sip at a mug of hot chocolate.

All my diaries are there, from the ages of 12 until 18. I was meticulous in detailing pretty much every detail of my life. I started a new one each school year without fail. I actually have three volumes for 1995/96. I’m the JRR Tolkien of teenage diaries. I doubt Peter Jackson would want to adapt my musings about my first crush into a film franchise, but there’s probably enough content there if he’s ever tempted.

I flip through some of the pages, annoyed to feel my eyes stinging at some of the memories. There was a particularly sweet moment, just before Christmas in 1995, when Ryan slipped a new pen in front of me. “You gave me a pen once, so I thought I should return the favour,” he had said bashfully.

It was a bright purple gel pen. And purple was my favourite colour. I had just stared down at it for ages, blinking in surprise. “Do you like it?” he’d asked eventually. Looking up at his face, it appeared he was possibly regretting giving it to me.

But there was a little bud of something warm inside me unfurling at the thought of this boy making the choice to go to the shop and pick this out for me. Of spending money on me. Of knowing that to give me a gift like this, even one that only cost a couple of quid, showed that he cared.

I’d met his eyes. “I love it,” I’d replied softly. And that irresistible smile had appeared on his face before he turned back to his computer.

My phone beeps with an incoming message, pulling me back to the present. A message from Ryan 3.0.

I’ll get someone to pick you up at the station tomorrow.

It’s quickly followed by a second message.

So this is your last chance to pull out.

I tut, tossing the phone on the bed in mild frustration. I have no intention of going back on my word. Especially since he seems me to want to. I’m determined to prove him wrong. I stare back at the diary entry I was reading where I’ve ended the pen anecdote with “I just like him sooooo much. He’s so kind and sweet!” before I slam the book closed and pick up my phone again.

I’ll be there.

I don’t get a response, and I don’t really expect one. I start stuffing my old memories back into the box, but I can’t help but leave the last diary – the 1998/1999 book – out. I find myself squeezing it into the top of the large holdall I’m taking along with my suitcase.

I feel I might need those last memories of Ryan 2.0 to keep myself strong over these next few months.

Chapter 5

2016

I have a few hours to kill on the train so I spend it wisely . . . Stalking Ryan Thorne on social media, of course.

Okay, maybe it’s not such a wise move, but I want to be prepared. So from a career point of view, I’m telling myself it makes sense. However, there’s not really any more information there for me to glean; over the years I’ve learned it all already.

So here’s what I can tell you about Ryan 3.0.

First up, he’s divorced.

He got married around 6 years ago. His ex-wife is the girl I saw him with that random Christmas, from what I can deduce from the one photo I could find of them. They eloped and got married in Vegas. The marriage lasted 3 years. I have no idea what the reason was for the break-up. Facebook doesn’t tend to go into details.

He

might

have a girlfriend now; I’m not entirely sure. There’s a girl who crops up in a lot of photos on his social media. She’s a pretty brunette; they always look happy together. I try not to be jealous but my inner green-eyed monster reacted more strongly to her than to the ex-wife.

Of course, none of these statements are related to my career. I know. But I have to admit I’m

fascinated

by Ryan 3.0. I want to know what makes him tick now. But it’s not like I can exactly ask when we’re borderline estranged at the moment. So social media is my best bet to do any sort of investigative work on his psyche.

Check me out, trying to make Facebook stalking sound far more highbrow than it really is!

Anyway . . . I’m off-track. Again. Sorry. Let’s talk about the hotel itself.

One thing I didn’t realise about Ryan straightaway when I first met him, all those years ago, was that his family was pretty damn well-off; his dad a wealthy businessman with his fingers in many pies. When Ryan was 17, his dad had a midlife crisis (possibly not unlike what I’m going through now, I can’t help but think), and decided to leave Lena, take up with a much younger woman, and move up north to buy and run a hotel, abandoning both his children in the process.

Classy, eh? *insert eyeroll here*

Anyway, I’m not sure of all the intricate details but approximately 3 years ago, Michael Thorne had a heart attack and decided he no longer had the motivation or energy to run a hotel. So he offered it to Ryan – maybe as an olive branch for his behaviour all those years ago. And then promptly decamped permanently to his holiday home overseas with his latest girlfriend. (Spoiler alert: not the same one he had left Lena for. There have been a few different girls in between. Some of them have even overlapped.)

I guess this must have been the same time that the divorce kicked in . . . Maybe Ryan was in a similar position to me at that point and needed a change of scenery himself. Before that he’d been working in marketing in England somewhere. I guess when his relationship imploded, getting as far out of dodge as possible would seem pretty hard to resist. And so he took over the hotel and moved to the Highlands.

Ironic, however, that Ryan ended up living my dream. Back when we were 17, before that night, we had many conversations about what we wanted to be when we grew up. He was adamant that he did not want to follow in his father’s footsteps, while I longed to chance my arm and ask if he’d let me do work experience up there. I know, how terribly inappropriate of me! But I already had my unconditional offer to study Business Management with Hospitality at uni and I wanted to get a headstart on my experience. I was a lot more ambitious back in those days.

I wonder if Ryan even enjoys what he’s doing. I think back to his exhausted face last week and find myself thinking “probably not”. Despite everything, I find myself making a quiet vow that I will do all I can to make his working life easier, to try not to cause him any deeper frownlines.

Thats my job, after all.

I put my phone down on the table and look around the train carriage. It’s fairly quiet for a Saturday – I guess people are still skint from Christmas and staying in rather than going on train trips. I suppose I’d be doing the same had these unusual circumstances not arisen.

I’m not officially starting my training until Monday but coming up today should give me time to settle in and get to know my surroundings a bit, hopefully. I’m keen to see the hotel for real, find out where I’ll be living for the next year. Cold fear of the unknown suddenly clutches at me again; this has been happening every so often since I made that impulsive decision to agree to this job.

What if I’m terrible at the job?

What if I let Ryan down, despite my pledge not to?

What if I start to fall for him all over again?

It’s the last thought that scares me the most.

The train is starting to slow now and I start to gather my belongings together, realising I don’t even know who I’m looking for when I get off the train. Maybe Ryan is playing some sort of evil joke on me. Leaving me stranded at the station. At least it’s not a deserted one, I suppose.

My heart starts to thump harder with anxiety, and I let everyone else alight from the train before I do so I’m not in the middle of a crowd. I trail behind, planning to stop as soon as I get through the barriers and message Ryan. It’s the last thing I want to do though. A sign of weakness. Like I’m already failing my first test.

I’m pulling my phone out of my handbag when a voice above me says my name. “Iona Stewart?”

I look up. Try to say “that’s me,” but the words stick in my throat and I can only nod. Because looming above me is an extraordinarily good looking man. The very image of that tall, dark, handsome hero I always dreamed I’d fall for back in the day. The type I didn’t really think existed in real life.

“Hey.” I think he might be Australian. “I’m Angus. Ryan sent me here to pick you up?”

I can’t help but smile.

This job has suddenly got about ten times more appealing.

Chapter 6

2016

It strikes me that the first thing I actually should be worrying about is whether Angus-the-possible-Aussie is actually who he says he is, or whether he’s here to kidnap me and whisk me away into slavery or the like. But as I briefly glance away from his sparkling hazel eyes and down at my phone again, a message appears from Ryan. It was sent an hour ago so it looks like my phone signal was just bad.

There’s a photo of Angus – nice, I might keep that for the spank bank – and a brief message.

This is who I’ve sent to pick you up. Just so you have a visual. Angus works in the bar.

Ryan hadn’t left me hanging after all. I silently apologise for doubting him at all. It seems only polite to reply back.

Got him. Cheers.

“Shall we?” Angus asks, raising his eyebrows and picking up both my suitcase and bulging holdall with ease as I slip my phone back in my bag. “I couldn’t get parked too close unfortunately so it’s a five minute walk to the car, I’m afraid.”

“That’s no problem . . . As long as you continue to carry my bags for me,” I say jokingly. Weirdly, despite his unreal good looks, I somehow feel instantly comfortable with Angus. There’s just something . . . uncomplicated about him.

Much like Ryan 1.0

, I find myself unwillingly thinking.

“Your wish is my command.” He leads me through throngs of people to a nearby car park. “Enjoy the crowds while you can . . . It’s about to get a whole lot quieter where we’re going,” he says with a grin as he opens the passenger door for me and slings my luggage in the boot of the car.

I’m already welcoming the idea of some peace and quiet. City life hasn’t really been cutting it for me lately.

“How long is the drive?” I ask, clicking my seat belt into place.

“45 minutes or so,” he replies. “We’ll be there in no time.”

It might take Angus 45 minutes but it’s probably meant to take the average driver more than an hour. He probably isn’t going that fast in the grand scheme of things, but with all of the twists and turns in the road I might as well be a passenger in Lewis Hamilton’s race car at the speed he is going. I’m fairly sure my knuckles are translucent by the end of the journey.

“I love these roads,” he chuckles as he hares around another bend and I wonder if I’m actually going to make it in one piece to my new job.

I try to distract myself by asking him questions. What brought him to Scotland, for example?

Unsurprisingly, given his first name, he’s of Scottish descent. . . In fact, his parents were born in Scotland but both emigrated with their own families as kids and he’s always wanted to come over here and visit.

“I think they both miss Scotland,” he says, almost wistfully. “They fully supported me travelling over here for a while. They still do a Burn’s night in January, tried to teach me and my brother Malcolm all the Robert Burns poems . . .” He grins ruefully. “Force-fed us whisky until we liked it. Joke,” he adds hastily. “It was obviously just in our blood to like it. No forcing required.”

“Hold on . . . Your brother’s called Malcolm and you’re Angus?” I ask slowly. “Like . . .”

“The Young brothers from AC/DC? Yeah, well spotted,” he confirms with a nod. “Fellow immigrants from Scotland, of course! My parents are both big fans.” He rolls his eyes. “It gets worse though.”

“Don’t tell me . . . Your surname is Young as well?”

He groans. “Got it in one.”

I can’t help but burst out laughing. “Sorry.”

Angus shrugs. “I’m mostly over it.” We’re on a single track road now and he pulls over into a passing place to let a car coming towards us in the opposite direction pass us. There’s another car a short distance behind it so he flashes his lights to allow it to go past as well. “So you and the boss are old friends, right?” He asks, throwing me a sidelong glance. It’s a casual enough question but it feels slightly loaded. And I feel very uncomfortable.

I jerk my head in a semblance of a nod. “I’ve known him since we were 14. We met in a computer studies class in high school and then a couple of years later we ended up becoming neighbours.”

“Wow, that’s a long friendship,” Angus observes, running a hand through his unruly hair as he pulls back out, the road ahead now clear. “You must be really close, I guess.”

God, it’s awkward. I really don’t know what to say, how much to tell. “Well, we’ve kinda drifted apart over the years, but we were once pretty tight.” My voice sounds weird, but that could just be my own paranoia.

He breezes past it though, whether he picks up on it or not. “I’ve only been working at the hotel since just before Christmas so I don’t know Ryan that well. Although to be honest he’s a bit. . . Hard to get to know. Between you and me, I think he needs to relax a bit. He just seems so tense and closed-off.”

The Ryan he describes is not the Ryan I once knew. However, it does tally up with the brief interactions and contact I’ve had with Ryan 3.0.

“Maybe having an old friend around will do him the world of good though,” Angus continues cheerfully as the road widens back into two lanes.

“Perhaps,” I say doubtfully.

Maybe if the old friend was anyone but me, I add silently.

“So this is the village here; it’s just half a mile from the hotel,” he says as we enter some form of civilisation again. “You’ve got the pub, the local shop and . . . Well, that’s pretty much it to be honest. If you need any proper supplies you probably would need to go to Inverness or Ullapool.”

I bite my lip, anxiety forming a ball in my stomach, and tightening as I realise just how close we are to our destination. I wonder if Ryan is there right now.

I wish I didn’t care so much.

We pull into a long drive leading to a gorgeous old fashioned building. This is, of course, it. The Thorne Inn. I’ve looked at so many photos of it that it feels like I’ve been here before. Despite myself, I exhale a sigh of delight.

Angus is pulling my bags out of the boot as he speaks. “Obviously, that’s the main building there, so the bar, restaurant, gym and main guest rooms are in there. Our accommodation is in the converted stable building around the side so I’ll take you round there first so you can drop off your stuff and make yourself comfortable.”

“Sounds good,” I say as I follow him down the prettily lit path and through some trees. The staff building looks nearly as grand as the main hotel itself, much to my surprise.

Angus lets us in, and we access a small corridor. “You’re in here,” he says, stopping outside a door with the key in the outside lock. He gestures down the hallway. “There’s a small kitchen and a utility room at the end where you can make meals and do laundry if you need to . . . I mostly just eat at the bar though.”

He pushes the door to my room open and I find myself smiling. This is so much better than I thought it would be.

I honestly expected cramped space and a single bed, and I was fine with it. But, no, this room has a decent sized double, a small seating area, an ensuite with a bath/shower and even a mini-fridge. The TV is small but I normally watch stuff on my laptop anyway, and while it’s not a massive room, it’s bigger than the one I was living in at home.

I walk over to the window and gaze outside. It’s already pretty dark, being winter and all, but . . . “Do I have a loch view?” I dare to ask.

Angus smiles. “You do,” he confirms.

Inwardly, I jump for joy and long for the morning so I can see my surroundings in proper daylight.

“I’ll leave you here to get unpacked,” he says, starting to back out the door. “When you’re done, come find me in the pub and we’ll get you a couple of drinks and a meal. You can meet some of the others too.”

“Thanks Angus.” I’m already eager to get my room sorted out. But my tummy is also starting to growl.

He winks at me. “Anytime,” he says with a wicked grin, and I’m fairly sure there’s more than a hint of flirtation there.

Do I want to go there? He’s probably about ten years younger than me, for a start.

I pull the key out of the outside lock and push the door closed, surveying my space briefly before getting to work. I hang up the few items of dressier clothes that I’ve brought and stick everything else in drawers. Slip my laptop and kindle into the bedside cabinet, and place a pair of cosy pyjamas under the pillows, ready for later. I’m already looking forward to a peaceful sleep.

After organising my toiletries to my liking in the bathroom, I survey my travelling outfit – jeans and a slouchy jumper – in the mirror and decide it will be acceptable attire to wear to the bar. I do try and scrunch a bit of life back into my curls first though, and throw on a bit of extra mascara. Not for Angus’ benefit, I tell myself.

A little voice inside of me responds cheekily with it’s probably for Ryan’s, actually but I squash that thought down and do my best to smother it. I don’t even know where he is right now, after all.

I lock my door and pull my grey faux fur coat tightly around me as I walk along the path to the hotel itself. The grand reception area is deserted – although there is a bell to ring – but I walk through it towards the gentle hum of conversation I assume is coming from the bar area.

The room gives the illusion of being snug and cosy although it’s actually deceptively large, and a log fire crackles invitingly in the corner. There’s only a few patrons there as I walk in, and I see no sign of Angus . . . Or any other staff for that matter.

But as I’m two feet away a head pops up from behind the bar. I jump and yelp in fright as does the girl on the other side of the bar.

“I’m so sorry,” she gasps in a strong accent, holding her heart momentarily. “I was just trying to put some glasses away, I didn’t mean to give you a scare.”

I realise I recognise the girl; she’s the brunette from social media who I thought must be Ryan’s girlfriend . . . Oh god, this has the potential to be uncomfortable.

She’s even prettier in real life, and her eyes narrow slightly as she looks at me. “Wait . . . Are you Iona?”

She recognises me?

Now I feel even more nervous . . .

Chapter 7

2016

“Yes,” I confirm nervously. “I am Iona.”

Before I can worry too much, the brunette breaks into a wide smile. “I thought so. You look exactly how he described you.”

Who’s he? I wonder. Angus . . . Or

Ryan

?

“So nice to meet you; I’m Alice!” She bustles around the side of the bar to greet me and that’s when I realise she’s heavily pregnant. “You’re my maternity cover.”

She throws her arms around me like I’m a long-lost friend, and I try not to stiffen. I’ve always struggled a bit with hugging. Especially virtual strangers. But the warmth practically emanating off her in waves is hard to resist.

As I briefly give in and return the hug, I realise that Alice is probably

not

Ryan’s girlfriend after all. If he was about to be a father, I would definitely have heard about that through our mums.

“Let me get you a drink.” She pops back behind the bar again. “What would you like?”

I glance at the bottles of white wine in the fridge, realising I haven’t a clue what the drinks cost. “Just whatever your cheapest white is,” I reply.

“Don’t be daft; it’s your first night here so it’s on the house,” she insists. “What kind of white?”

I laugh and give in. “Anything but chardonnay,” I concede. Chardonnay is the devil, in my opinion. Tastes shite and always gives me a terrible hangover on the rare occasion I end up drinking it.

Alice pours me a glass of pinot grigio –

much

better

. She sighs as she pushes it towards me. “I miss wine. I can’t wait to indulge again once this bloody thing squeezes itself out of me.” She glances down at her bump as she says this and, despite her words, her gaze and her tone are warm and affectionate. “It’s torture for me when I have to cover in here.”

“I can imagine,” I giggle. “Well, actually I can’t, I’ve never been pregnant. However, I did try to do Dry January once and I lasted about a week. I don’t generally even drink alcohol that much but the second I told myself I couldn’t have it, I immediately wanted it.”

“That’s exactly it,” she mutters, leaning on the bar. “I didn’t realise how many different things I couldn’t have when I was pregnant . . . And of course I’m craving every single one. Oh great, you’re back!”

Her eyes light up as she glances behind me, and I can feel my heartbeat ramping up, but it turns out it’s only Angus.

He takes over on the bar and Alice leads me over to two comfy chairs at the fire. She’s on the flavoured tonic water – “I can pretend it’s a gin that way,” she explains.

“So tell me all about yourself!” She says excitedly.

“Honestly, any time anyone says that to me I immediately forget everything about myself,” I groan, taking a big swig from my glass.

She chuckles, blue eyes lighting up. “Okay, let me see. I know your name, that you’re the same age as Ryan and you’re from Glasgow. I’m going to assume you’re single as you could drop pretty much everything at a moment’s notice to come up here.” She puts her hand over her mouth as soon as she says this. “God, sorry, that sounded terrible.”

“You’re not wrong though,” I shrug.

“This seems to be the type of baby brain i have,” she tuts, picking up her glass and sipping delicately from it. “Some folk forget stuff, I just end up sticking my foot in my mouth.”

“I’m not offended,” I assure her and she grins.

I can’t help but like Alice. She’s nice and straightforward and even if she had been Ryan’s girlfriend I know I’d never be able to hate her in a million years.

“Do you want something to eat?” She asks, picking up a menu from the table and passing it over to me. “There is a restaurant but the food in there’s a bit – well, wankier, if I’m going to be perfectly blunt. Nice but pretentious, if you know what I mean. I far prefer the pub menu.”

I glance over it. Definitely more pub grub on this menu and I’m absolutely here for that. Pretentious food rarely works for me. A shepherds pie, bangers and mash or lasagne is far more up my street. Or . . .

“

Scottish tapas

?” I read out loud, curiously.

Alice nods. “Oh, you

need

to try that dish!” She assures me. “It’s haggis croquettes with a whisky dipping sauce, a mini scotch pie, a mini macaroni pie, and a small portion of fish and chips.”

“Sounds like a heart attack on a plate.” I’m only half-joking.

“It’s a delight!” She corrects me. “Angus,” she hollers across the bar. “Can you put in an order for the Scottish tapas for Iona? And a lasagne for me. I’m off the clock now, and I haven’t eaten yet,” she adds as she looks back at me.

“That’s a load of bull,” Angus interrupts us as he places a small container of cutlery and napkins on the table between us. “You’ve barely stopped eating all day.”

“The baby wanted all that other food, not me” she replies slyly. “So it doesn’t count.”

“Yeah yeah,” he laughs as he walks back to the bar. “I’ll get your order in now.”

He also brings me another glass of wine which is gratefully accepted as Alice begins her questions once more. It doesn’t take long for the topic to come around to the man himself though.

“So you’re a big blast from Ryan’s past,” she states, eyeing me thoughtfully as we tuck into our meals. The haggis croquettes are insanely good. “The strange thing is, I’d never heard of you before last week.”

“Really?” I try to sound casual, but in reality I’m a bit disappointed. Although what the fuck did I expect? That my unrequited crush from my teenage years would be talking about me? Hardly likely.

“When did you last see each other?” She asks. “Before last week, I mean.”

“In passing, about eight years ago; we last spoke closer to 20 years ago though.” I figure the truth is easier than a lie.

“Intriguing.” She steeples her fingers together, her sharp gaze bright with interest. This girl missed her calling as a police interrogator. “What happened there?”

I shrug. “We just drifted apart.”

She briefly falls silent as she dunks garlic bread into the remains of her lasagne and I hope the subject is dropped. No such luck.

“You’ll tell me the truth eventually,” she says finally. “He won’t. But

you

will.”

“You seem pretty confident about that,” I challenge her. She just nods.

“I am.”

I probably would tell her right now to be honest. But I would hate the idea of it getting back to Ryan, and I’m not sure I can trust her yet. Especially as she’s clearly a very good friend of his.

She pushes her plate away. “You should have some cranachan for dessert,” she advises me. “The one we do in here is amazing. Oh, and you need to have a wee dram of whisky, of course. To celebrate your new job.”

Alice, I’m quickly finding out, is quite bossy. However, I love both cranachan – an oaty, creamy dessert with raspberries – and whisky so in this case I’m not going to complain.

I’m quite glad I’ll only be working with her for a couple of weeks though.

She’s not wrong though. Their cranachan is amazing – although I’ve never met one I didn’t like, to be fair. And as I’m sipping my glass of Talisker, to wash it down, sitting in my comfy chair in front of the fire, I briefly allow a feeling of contentment to wash over me. I close my eyes, savouring the pleasant sting of the whisky on my tongue.

The feeling is short-lived.

For, when I open my eyes, with what I imagine is probably a pretty soppy smile on my face, Ryan Thorne is standing in the doorway.

And my brain virtually implodes at the sight of him.

He’s wearing a dark grey suit with a pale lilac shirt underneath, a skinny purple tie loosened around his neck. In my eyes, he looks incredibly good, like he’s just modelled this outfit on the Milan catwalk, and I feel like a slovenly mess in comparison.

He’s watching me and I cannot read his expression at

all

. It’s impossible to tell if he’s happy or unhappy to see I’ve stuck to my word. He’s not just a closed book, he’s a book that I didn’t finish, returned to the library and later regretted.

When did he get so damn guarded?

Those blue eyes almost immediately slip away from me when I catch him looking. Alice has followed my gaze and clocks him too. “Ryan!” she shouts delightedly. “How was the dinner?” She turns to me as he starts striding across the bar towards us. “Ryan was at a hotel award dinner tonight,” she explains.

“It was dull,” he replies, loosening his tie even more. “I hate networking.” His gaze finds mine again. “You made it.”

Is that . . . I’m not quite sure, but I think there’s a hint of a smile trying to break through. It’s like he wants to be normal with me, like the last seventeen years never happened and we’re still friends.

But I don’t think he can quite forgive me for the fact I ghosted him.

Which is fine because I ghosted him for a reason that I still can’t forgive him for.

“I did.” It’s all I can say. I manage a smile. Truth be told, I would rather cry.

“You want to join us for a drink?” Alice asks him.

He shakes his head. “I would but I’m knackered. I’m gonna head straight to bed.”

I can’t help but feel he probably would stay were I not here. Although perhaps I’m just being paranoid.

As I watch him leave, I feel Alice’s eyes on me. “What?” I ask curiously.

She smiles and shakes her head. “Like I said, you’ll tell me the story sooner or later.”

I can only laugh.

I make my own excuses after that and head back to my room; I’m feeling tired too. But when I finally slip into bed, I find that falling asleep is virtually impossible. So, almost unwillingly, I pull the 1998/99 diary from where I left it in my holdall. As I open it, a photo slips out. My breath hitches; I’d forgotten about its existence.

It’s from the day of the barbecue; the day Ryan’s family moved in across the road. Someone – my mum or dad presumably – has taken the photo from across the garden. Me and Ryan are sitting on the grass, faces turned to one another, obviously involved in some sort of intense chat. He’s completely focused on me. Almost as if I’m the only other person in the world.

This, I remember bleakly, was also the day my crush returned with a vengeance.

Chapter 8

1998

Someone was moving into the Bakers’ old house.

It was the summer between my fifth and sixth year at school and that particular day had dawned warm and sunny. We weren’t – still aren’t – used to this in Scotland and had immediately went into panic mode: searching for shorts and suncream, blowing dust and cobwebs off the garden furniture which spent more time in the shed than on the patio. And my dad announced we’d have to have a barbecue, of course.

I mean, it’s basically the law, isn’t it? If there’s a nice sunny day, you

have

to eat al fresco.

As I was lazing on a towel in the back garden with one of my Sweet Dreams romance novels, I could hear him inviting our next door neighbours to come over later, presumably so he could show off his barbecuing prowess. My mum was promptly dispatched to buy supplies.

It was early afternoon when she returned. “Looks like we have new neighbours across the street,” she reported as I helped her unload the food in the kitchen. “A moving van was just turning into the driveway when I got here.”

I wasn’t too excited. I always hoped, on the rare occasion we got a new neighbour, that I might get a new friend or it might be an attractive guy I could crush on, but it never was. I wasn’t expecting anything different this time. I’d been burned before. I returned to my book and the sunshine. Ironically, my book was about a girl who fell in love with her new neighbour. You can’t make this shit up.

My mum interrupted me a while later. “I’m going to go over and invite the new folk to our barbecue,” she told me. “Will you come with me?”

I smiled. My mum was really shy, but she always wanted to make people feel welcome and included. It was a weird combination and she often needed me as back-up as a result. “Of course.” I jumped to my feet and followed her through the house and across the road.

At the van, a beautiful blonde woman in her early forties was instructing the removal men where to put things. She looked up as we approached, a smile lighting up her face. She had bright blue eyes and there was something ridiculously familiar about her, although I was sure we’d never crossed paths before.

“We thought we should come and say hi,” my mum said, extending a hand. “I’m Marie Stewart and this is my daughter Iona; we just live over the road.”

“Lena Thorne,” the woman replied warmly. “It’s lovely to meet you both.”

“We’re having a barbecue tonight if you want to join us?” My mum said in a rush. She looked very charmed by Lena, which I could understand. She was one of those rare people who seemed to instantly make you feel at ease, practically without needing to say anything. She just radiated nice vibes.

“That would be great, actually,” Lena grinned. “I’m not actually sure we have any food in, unless it’s packed away in a box somewhere. I’ve pretty much lost track of all my possessions though . . . And my sanity!”

A small boy, probably about a similar age to my brother, ran out of the house at that point. “This is James,” she added, hugging him into her. “I have another son who’s around your age, Iona. Here he is now, actually.”

I looked over at the figure framed in the front door, my eyes scanning up over the long denim clad legs and white t-shirt until I reached his eyes, and I’m pretty sure my mouth dropped open as it became clear why Lena had seemed so familiar. It was apparent who her older son had inherited his looks from. “Ryan?” I asked in surprise. Was I imagining things?

“You know each other?” Lena asked in delight.

“We’re old friends,” Ryan replied, walking over to join us, that sweet smile creeping across his handsome face. He was wearing his glasses, presumably to give his eyes a break from his contacts, and it genuinely felt like Ryan 1.0 had been returned to me. I inwardly sent a thank you up towards the heavens.

Of all the people who could have moved in across the road, fate had chosen Ryan Thorne. My brain couldn’t quite cope with this revelation.

My mum took Lena and James over to our house to introduce them to my dad and brother, and Ryan and I were left alone. He was still smiling as he regarded me, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It’s so cool that we’re neighbours now,” he said. He seemed genuinely happy about this and it warmed my soul. “I feel like we’ve hardly got to talk since we had computing class together.”

It was true. I’d barely saw him after we finished fourth year and no longer shared any classes. I hadn’t known him before we sat together in computing, and after we left that class, it was almost like he’d vanished into thin air again. If it wasn’t for the fact I’d still hear his name being bandied about by other girls, I’d probably have doubted he’d ever actually existed.

And this, I suddenly realised in a moment of dazzling clarity, was the only reason I’d been able to flip the “off” switch on my crush the way I had. It hadn’t been some amazing act of willpower on my part.

Because I was right back where I started in the space of just a few minutes of being back in his stratosphere again. Nervous and breathless. And, truth be told, a bit sweaty.

“Did I hear something about a barbecue?” he asked. I nodded, still trying to find my voice.

“Yeah, my mum invited your family over tonight. I’m sure you’ve probably got other plans though.” I eventually managed to say. I was pretty much holding my breath as I waited for his answer. Guys who looked like Ryan Thorne always had better things to do.

He shook his head. “I don’t. And I love barbecues.”

My breath released in a massive whoosh which I managed to pass off as a cough. “Cool! My dad made my mum buy the fancy barbecue range from the supermarket so we’re poshing it up today.”

What the fuck was I even saying? I wondered to myself in despair. It was as if all my brain cells had disintegrated and fallen out of my head. I’d definitely not been mentally prepared to deal with my former crush today. But he just laughed. “Sounds good to me.”

Suddenly I found myself wondering where his dad was. He hadn’t been mentioned at all, but I definitely remembered Ryan talking about his father back when we sat together in class. I’d always got the impression they were best friends more than parent and child. So it was odd there had been no sign of him so far. But I didn’t want to ask in case I put my foot in some sort of minefield.

“I’d better head back,” I said awkwardly, nodding in the direction of my house. “But I’ll see you later?”

He nodded, eyes sparkling behind his glasses. “Count on it,” he smiled again, turning to go inside.

And as I walked across the road, I was already frantically trying to think of what I could wear that evening. I knew Ryan’s family coming to a barbecue at my house wasn’t the same as a date with Ryan . . . But to my frazzled mind, it might as well have been.

And my nerves were already fizzing out of control.

Chapter 9

1998

The book I was reading, relevant though it may have been to my current situation, was abandoned in the garden as I ran directly upstairs to try and make myself presentable.

If Ryan hadn’t been coming, I would probably have just left on the black vest top and denim shorts I’d been wearing to sunbathe and possibly ran a comb through my hair. But that wasn’t a possibility now. I needed to straighten and tame my mane, apply some make-up in a way that looked like I wasn’t wearing any, and choose an effortlessly nice outfit.

Fuck me, it was tough being a girl sometimes!

I pulled out a stripy red and white t-shirt dress I’d never worn, thinking that might work. But when I put it on I realised I just needed the hat and glasses and I could be Where’s Wally. So that was a bust.

Flipping frantically through the contents of my wardrobe again, I found a white gypsy-style top and nodded. It would bring out my tan and, if I paired it with the shorts I was already wearing I wouldn’t look like I had tried too hard. It would have to do. I surveyed my reflection critically but reckoned I looked half-decent.

It’s not like he’s interested anyway, a nasty little voice inside me sniped. He’s Ryan Thorne, why would he want you?

I thoroughly agreed with the voice.

By the time I went back downstairs and out to the back garden, all of the guests were already there, including Ryan’s family. “Thought you must have fallen asleep up there,” my dad said to me as I strolled up to him with my plate and a roll, awaiting my burger. “You’ve been away for about three hours.”

I was sure I hadn’t taken that long to get ready. I made a face at him as I loaded potato salad onto my plate and grabbed a can of Coke.

Ryan had just sat down on the grass, slightly apart from everyone else. I approached him. “Can I join you?” I asked shyly.

He glanced at me, his face lighting up. “Of course!” he replied and my heart melted. “You look nice,” he added, easily, as I lowered myself to the ground and I felt myself blush.

“Thanks, you do too.” My face flamed further. I hadn’t meant to say that. He did though. He’d thrown a checked shirt on over his t-shirt, and he must have put his lenses in. Don’t get me wrong, I liked him with his glasses too, but without them his eyes were deadly. I genuinely don’t think I’d ever seen a pair of bluer eyes.

He didn’t comment on that, just smiled. “I was hoping you’d sit with me.” There was something so refreshing about Ryan, always had been. He would just say what was on his mind. He didn’t worry about whether it sounded uncool first, he was just honest. And his honesty was almost always as sweet as his smile. “We must have so much to catch up on.”

And, just like that, I was already smitten with him, just as I had been first time around. The idea that I’d barely saw him, hadn’t spoken to him for over a year, just seemed preposterous now. It seemed like I’d wasted that entire year. (Never mind the handful of As and Bs I had just been awarded in my Higher certificate in the post a few days before!)

It felt like we chatted for hours. I think it actually was hours. We caught up on school gossip and our exam results and, because we had gone so long without talking, it turned out we had a massive discussion outstanding about the last few seasons of “Friends” so then that also took up a massive chunk of time. (Turns out we were in complete agreement that while Ross and Rachel were on a break, Ross still shouldn’t have immediately slept with the copy girl.)

It started to cool down as the sun moved position in the garden and I shivered as a breeze hit me suddenly. It made me realise just how long we’d been sitting there.

“You’re cold,” Ryan observed, pulling off his shirt. “Here, take this.” I tried to protest but he wouldn’t have it, and gently helped me slip my arms into the sleeves. He ended up closer to me than he had been and I found myself fighting the urge to stick my face in the crook of his neck and just inhale him.

“Won’t you be cold?” His t-shirt looked thin.

He shook his head. “I don’t really feel the cold; I’ve got Scandinavian blood,” he boasted cheerfully.

“Have you actually?” I asked curiously.

“Yep. My mum’s half Swedish.”

His colouring made sense now, although I noticed his hair had darkened a little over the last couple of years. “That explains your eyes,” I said wistfully. “I’ve always wanted blue eyes.”

“At least your eyes work,” Ryan retorted. “I’d be happy with any colour as long as I wasn’t so short-sighted.”

“You wouldn’t be saying that if you woke up with, say, red devil eyes,” I laughed. He joined in.

“Trust me, I have woken up with red devil eyes before and I still couldn’t see. Haven’t you ever heard of conjunctivitis?” he joked. He looked up at me, those bright blue eyes clear, and suddenly the smile was fading from his face. His voice was soft when he spoke again. “Anyway, you’ve got really pretty eyes. I’ve always thought so.”

My neck suddenly started to prickle. It started to spread from there and down my body until it caused a knot to form somewhere between my heart and stomach. Those words, combined with the way he was holding my gaze was making me feel . . . It was just making me feel. I couldn’t really define it. I just knew I’d never felt that way before.

“Thanks,” I practically whispered. Surely he could hear my heart hammering in my chest? Surely everyone in the garden could?

Maybe he did like me too?

But Ryan’s eyes suddenly snagged on something behind me and his already serious expression pinched into a frown. I turned to see his mum walking past.

“You okay?” I asked him. Realising I needed to put aside whatever had just happened and check in on him.

He hesitated for a moment, eyes drifting back to me, then he sighed. “I’m just worried about my mum,” he said softly. “You might have noticed that my dad isn’t around.”

I nodded. “I did.”

“They separated at the start of the summer,” he explained. “My dad has decided he’s in love with his personal assistant.” He laughed but it was edged, understandably, with bitterness. “Of course, he took a year or two to come to that decision while he juggled both of them, and basically lived a secret life.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said softly. I barely even noticed I was stroking his arm. It was just an instinct.

“Cheating fuckwit,” he muttered under his breath. He seemed to then focus on my hand on his arm, just watching it as I swept my fingers back and forth against it lightly, before he spoke again. “Anyway, my mum is trying to put a brave face on it but I can tell she’s struggling. She just feels so . . . Betrayed, you know? And stupid. Like she had no idea what was going on. He’s made her feel like a fool.”

“And how about you? How are you coping?” I couldn’t help but ask. I could suddenly see that behind that happy mask, Ryan wasn’t really doing well either.

“I don’t know,” he said finally, a slight crack in his voice. “I guess I feel betrayed too. I trusted him. He wasn’t just my dad, he was my friend. But I can’t be friends with someone who can do this to his family. It feels like he only gives a shit about himself and no one else.”

He sighed. “I’m trying to count my blessings though. It could have been a lot worse. I’ve only had to move house, at least I’ve not had to move school for my final year. I’ve got my mum and my wee brother and know, ultimately, the three of us will be okay. And the new house has its advantages.” He glanced back up with a teasing grin and my hand paused, still on his arm, as I realised he meant me.

Ryan’s mum called to him then, and I realised the evening was wrapping up and the neighbours were all heading home. I didn’t want him to go; I felt like we were just getting started.

I did wonder if he maybe felt the same because he hung back slightly as everyone started walking to the patio doors. “Look, thanks for listening to me tonight,” he said quietly. “I’ve not really talked to anyone about my mum and dad, and I didn’t realise how much I needed that.”

“It’s okay,” I said gently. “Anytime. I mean it.”

“Thanks Iona.” He pulled me into the briefest of hugs, moving back out of it before I even could reciprocate. “I’m so glad we’ve reconnected. I really missed our friendship.” And, with that, he jogged over to join the mass exodus.

Ouch.

So . . . I guess he only saw me as a friend after all. I stood alone in the middle of the garden for a moment or two, letting that sad realisation sink in, swallowing down the urge to cry. Then I took a deep breath and started picking up discarded plates.

It was only when I was walking back up to my room that I realised I was still wearing his shirt.

Chapter 10

2016

I jolt into consciousness with a start, wondering where the hell I am, before I remember I’m in my new dwellings in the Highlands, clutching my teenage diary. I’d drifted off finally while I was reading my entry about the barbecue. The photo is still next to me and I slip it inside the book without looking at it again, before I turn off the lamp. My watch is telling me it’s only four in the morning so I can sleep for a few more hours yet.

When I wake again, the sun is rising and I bound excitedly to the window to see my surroundings in proper daylight. I think it’s the quickest I’ve got out of bed in years.

The sky is awash with pinky-orange clouds which are reflecting in the loch, and although it’s probably quite a subtle sunrise, not quite living up to its full potential, it still makes me gasp in delight. I feel the urge to go outside and investigate further so I tug on my boots, close my coat over my pyjamas and let myself out into the cool morning air.

Wandering down to the loch, I sit down on a large boulder on the small stretch of pebbly sand, and take a deep breath, surveying my surroundings. The loch is as still as glass; no wonder it is greedily reflecting everything it can. I’m surrounded by mountains, most of them snowcapped. And it’s hauntingly quiet, apart from the chirping of birds.

I feel like I’ve walked inside a postcard.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and snap a photo of my view. Then I pop it into my WhatsApp group chat with Lily and Claire and hit send.

Claire: Seriously, did you just wake me up at this godforsaken hour on a SUNDAY to show me a photo of a sunrise?

Me: It’s after 8am, C, it’s not exactly the middle of the night.

Claire: IT’S SUNDAY! IT’S A DAY OF REST!

Lily: Can you quit with the caps? I feel like you’re shouting at us. Iona, it looks gorgeous! When can we come visit?

Claire: I WAS shouting. And yes, WHEN???

I can’t help but laugh. Even on a random Sunday, alone in the middle of the Highlands, it feels for a moment like my pals are in the room with me.

Me: Can you actually let me get settled in first before you start trying to invite yourselves up here? I’ve not even been here 24 hours.

Claire: You make a fair point, I suppose.

Lily: So are you happy with your decision so far? Ran into Ryan again yet?

Me: Saw him last night. I think he ALMOST smiled at me.

Claire: Oh WOW. Try not to get pregnant, will you?

Me: Aye, very funny Claire. I consider it progress anyway.

We sign off as Claire wants to go back to sleep and Lily has some sort of torture yoga class to get to (I don’t think that’s the official name of it but it’s the way she describes it). I upload the same photo to my Instagram account and slip my phone back in my pocket, continuing to stare at the view as the sky changes colour in front of my eyes.

I did the right thing coming here, I decide.

I’m disturbed by the crunch of footsteps behind me. When I turn, Ryan is walking towards me. Well, technically, he’s headed towards the loch. I just happen to be in his way.

I swallow hard. I don’t want to stare but it’s difficult considering he’s wearing a black wetsuit and it feels like I can see . . .

Everything

. A pair of goggles dangle from his hand. “Hey,” I manage imaginatively, rising to my feet. Because I haven’t spoken today yet the greeting emerges as a husky rasp. I’m not even sure he understands what I said but I’m sure he’ll get the gist.

Of course, once again he’s found me at a disadvantage, with my bedhead hair piled on top of my head in a messy bun, no make-up . . . And don’t forget the fuzzy pyjamas I’m still wearing under my coat and boots. The pjs have small cats printed on them, and each cat is holding a different cocktail. I’m mortified, and hope that the light is still too dim for him to see this in any great detail.

Ryan grinds to a halt in front of me. “Morning.” He looks a bit caught-out, as if he wasn’t expecting to see someone else here, and isn’t particularly happy about it. Maybe he’s not a morning person. Or perhaps he just isn’t keen on me staring at the crotch of his tight wetsuit. There’s a chance that might be it, I think as I avert my eyes. “I was just going for a swim.”

I shiver at the very thought, glancing back to the loch. I don’t even want to imagine how cold it must be. “You’re hardcore. It looks fucking freezing.”

“I don’t really feel the cold,” he shrugs.

“Scandinavian blood,” I nod.

A glimmer of a grin seems to involuntarily curl his mouth as I say this, and I have no doubt he’s thinking back to the barbecue too. How different the vibe between us is now. I want to jump into his arms, tell him I’m still there for him anytime he wants to talk. That, of all the things I miss from my past, the absence of his friendship is the one that stings the most.

But the smile vanishes as quickly as it appeared and he shrugs. Whatever that brief connection we had was, it’s already flickered back out. “Right,” he confirms.

“So do you do this every morning?” I ask. It feels like I’ve forgotten how to make conversation, when talking about anything and everything used to be so easy for us. I miss those days. I miss him.

He’s not even looking at me now, just staring out at the loch. I’m wondering if he has even heard my question. “Some mornings, not all,” he replies eventually. “Usually just when I need to clear my head.”

That felt pointed. Or perhaps I’m just being a massive narcissist and making it about me when it’s patently not. I start to back away. “Well, I’ll let you get on with it.” It feels a bit like I’m invading his space now.

“See you later,” he says abruptly, walking towards the water’s edge. I pick my way back up the beach and, when I turn for one last look, he’s already halfway across the loch.

And I can feel my stomach churn as I realise, with absolute certainty, that I’m still not over this man.