Page 99 of One for the Road
It was too much.
Me and Alistair pretending. This beautiful family I would never be a part of including me in their future like any of this was real.
It was fake – nothing but a show. Just like Alistair’s casual touch.
I couldn’t think.
Couldn’t breathe.
“I can’t wait to teach the twins how to drink,” Juniper said.
Alistair’s thumb swiped again, and I sprang to my feet.
Everyone looked at me.
“Bathroom,” I croaked.
Alistair rose too, setting his untouched beer on the coffee table. “I’ll show you where it is.”
“Oh . . . sure.” I forced a smile, pretending this wasn’t the opposite of what I wanted.
I desperately needed a moment to get my head on straight, not to spend more time with him.
Shoving down my nerves, I followed him down the hallway at the back of the kitchen. His steps were soft and slow over the red shag carpet that seemed to be a staple in every house on the island with a resident over sixty.
“Here you are. Careful with the lock, it jams,” he said swinging one of the doors open.
“Thank you, I mean—” I broke off.
“I know what you mean, Isla.” His voice rumbled. He nodded to the room and turned to leave. “Go on.”
I took two steps into the incredibly seventies bathroom, complete with lace curtains. I hadn’t even shut the door when he spoke again.
“Wait.”
I had my back to him as he caught my elbow, stilling me. My breath stalled as he slid my hair to the side. Dragged his fingers along the collar of my T-shirt.
My body erupted with goosebumps.
“You have a loose thread,” he said, tugging on it. It was over in a blink. I felt the heat of his body as his chest brushed my back. “Don’t you dare thank me,” he said, his breath warm on my neck. Then he pulled the door shut behind me.
I took my time, washing my hands until my pulse steadied, dabbing cool water on my face. Mentally calculating how long I could hide out until everyone assumed I was in number-two territory.
I barely contained my shriek when I opened the door minutes later, and found Alistair waiting in the hallway. Leaning against a door, an old wedding photo on the wall beside his shoulder. His mum and, I assumed, his dad. Iris and Jim.
“I could have found my way back.”
But of course he waited.
My brain filled in the blanks, knowing it likely had something to do with the undisguised hope in his family’s eyes all afternoon. The questions he’d fielded over lunch about his plans for the surgery.
It was none of my business. I lifted my chin, gesturing to the photo. “You look like your dad.”
His shoulders inched up. “You think so?”
I nodded, stepping beside him for a closer look, tracing a finger over the glass. From the few things he’d told me about his dad, I didn’t know if it was a compliment, but it was true.
He resembled his dad more than his brothers or Heather did. “Same nose and chin,” I declared. But it went deeper than that. Even in the still image, I could tell Jim Macabe held himself with the same rigidness that Alistair did, shoulders rolled back. An aloofness in his eyes that indicated he had a million other things on his mind even on his wedding day.
