Page 68 of One for the Road
“I know but . . . surely we should get to know each other a bit if we’re going to keep doing this?” She spoke quickly, looking everywhere but my face.
She was nervous. Bracing herself for rejection.
I hated that she was unsure of herself.
And just like that, every reason for ending this agreement got carried away on the wind. “Okay, text me when Teddy’s asleep.”
17
Isla
Cameron: I’m sorry about today. I still think we should discuss this.
Isla: The money for the school trip?
Cameron: Alistair Macabe.
Knocking on the adjoining door later that night felt illegal.
Thanks to the stress of the day, it had taken longer than usual to get Teddy down, and I stifled a yawn as I waited for her to brush her teeth, between repeated interruptions to sing along to theLion Kingsoundtrack. And even though we were blasting “I Just Can’t Wait to Be King” at full volume, Alistair hadn’t thumped on the wall once. He must be taking pity on me.
As soon as Teddy had fallen asleep, I’d grabbed the old baby monitor, changed into my thickest pyjamas and crept into the living room.
My knock felt like a lightning strike. “Alistair.”
The door peeling back was almost instantaneous. No lock-click. Had the door been unlocked all day?
He blinked at me, looking tired, and I whispered, “Hey.”
“Hey.” I watched him hesitate, fingers wrapped around the door handle, before finally pulling it wide. “You want to come in?”
“I was actually thinking we could go outside.” I waved the baby monitor to show I’d come prepared.
His brows flattened, taking me in from my baggy cardigan to my socked feet. “You’ll be cold.”
His wording threw me off. Not we’ll be cold, butyou’llbe cold. I hooked a hand on my hip, aiming to give the impression of a lightness I didn’t feel. “I’ll have you know, I’ve lived in Scotland for almost ten years now. I’m not some soft southerner.”
That earned me the smallest smile, and he held up his hands, backing toward the kitchen. “Whatever you say, Lang. Drink?”
“Anything is fine.” I followed him, watching as the light from the fridge softened the sharp edges of his face.
“I think we can do better than fine. Let’s see . . . Oat milk, sparkling water—”
“Prison time for that.”
“Non-alcoholic beer, leftover smoothie. I have some whisky too . . .” His fridge was frighteningly organised, prepped meals in Tupperware, the days of the week printed on them. The shelves stacked with veg and leafy greens. Organic, no doubt.
“I see you’re putting the label maker to good use,” I said, grabbing the smoothie he’d pointed out. Unscrewing the lid, I brought it to my nose . . . and flinched. “It smells like swamp water.” I coughed, thrusting it back. “Are you trying to poison me?”
“A sure way to get the villagers onside,” he deadpanned, taking a swig before he set it back in the fridge.
“Whisky it is,” I decided, not really caring at all. All night there’d been a storm raging in my chest and I just . . . I wanted to not think about it for a few minutes.
He pulled the bottle down from an overhead cupboard and held it up, a tiny amount of amber liquid rolling in the bottom. “There’s only enough for a single dram. We’ll have to share it.”
“Now you’re spoiling me.”
He scoffed. “If I recall,lass, you invited me over. Now, let me pour you some of Kinleith’s finest.”
