by Melissa Blue
He scoffed in disgust at himself. “I'm an ungrateful git.”
Surprise flicked over Ian's face. “What?”
All week he'd allowed himself to wallow in misery. When he was in a giving mood, he'd shared it, with everyone who crossed his path. His cousins and uncle had tolerated it after he'd told them about the headstone. And still it wasn't enough for him. “I'm just a whiny shite. Do you know the last words we said to each other?”
Ian's brow was up and he had the look of someone talking to a crazy person. “Are you okay?”
Callan ignored the question. “I was hurrying out the door to get to work. She dragged me back over the threshold, kissed me proper and told me she loved me. I said it back.” His voice turned hoarse. “Do you know how fucking lucky that makes me? Our last words weren't inane. It wasn't a fight. It's the one thing everyone wishes were their last words to a loved one.” He glanced back at the headstone. “I love you. We said it and meant it.”
Ian's other brow rose. “So?”
He hadn't thought any other woman could make his chest ache from missing them, but it had happened. It's why he'd been a miserable shite all week. “What the fuck is my problem? Why can't I say goodbye?”
His cousin stuffed his hands in his pocket and looked at the gravestone. “I didn't understand it before. Not really, but if something were to happen to Jocelyn, I don't think I'd be all right. For a long, long while. A day wouldn't go by where I didn't ache for her. That's normal.”
Callan waited and when his cousin didn't go on, he pushed. “But?”
Ian sighed. “What would Diana tell you about the way you've been living your life?”
In her memory, to preserve as much as he could, Callan had hurt someone else. “She'd kick my arse.”
Ian shrugged. “I'd happily do it if it means we can stop having this heart-to-heart.”
Callan then did something he had never done at Diana's grave—he laughed. “Fucker.”
Ian just smiled and continued to take in the headstone. It was as tall as them both and decked in black marble. Beneath her name and her birthdate and date of death it said, “She loved as wildly and deeply as she lived.” Those words never felt more important.
He squatted down and placed the flowers at her grave. It was then he realized that even if his cousin wasn't behind him, there was nothing left for Callan to say. For two years whenever he visited he'd poured it all out until there was nothing left in him. He never felt her presence, never felt better after talking to her grave, because they'd never have those babies they dreamed about having once they both had stable incomes. Never get a big house and fill it with those children and a shared life. It was never going to happen so he'd made the choice to stop living.
She was no longer in his future, but he still had one. A sad smile tugged at his mouth because she'd belt him for wasting it. For the first time neither anger nor grief welled up inside him at the truth—he wanted a future that didn't have her in it. What more did he need?
Victoria.
The past week he hadn't let his mind drift to her or what she had said...too much. He'd let her vent because in order to argue one had to have an opposing view. And she'd been right. So scared he'd replace Diana with someone else, he'd treated Victoria as though she were the one who was replaceable. He'd shattered her heart. Twice. His actions, no matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise, weren’t noble. His actions had shored back up every wall she took down to be with him.
Callan rose as that new ache clawed at his heart. His actions had forced Victoria to cut him out of her life. Without her he wouldn't be standing here, his final promise to Diana fulfilled. He owed her for that. The least he could do was learn how to live again. Coming here had been the first step. For himself.
For Victoria.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, because he'd lost her. Had made sure of it. Making amends wouldn't be easy and he didn't know how or where to start. He only knew he had to before she left.
Until then he had his rat bastard cousins to annoy. “Let's get smashed at Baird's. Maybe have a drink in Diana's honor.”
Ian's brows went up again. “Interesting.”
He stilled. “What?”
“You...” His cousin shifted uncomfortably. “You didn't call her your wife. You always do.”
Callan hadn't even noticed. “Aye,” he said on a sigh. “Get moving or I'll feel another heartfelt moment coming on.”
That's all he had to say. Ian beat him to the car. Callan laughed as he followed behind. He almost, for a second, felt like his old self again.
*****
For the next two days Callan split his time between Glasgow and his workshop. Three or four hours of sleep was all his mind allowed. Bone tired, he climbed the steps to Douglass' flat.
Lana, a girl barely legal, answered the door. Her smile was bright, her hair dark and she was efficient. Yet she scuttled around in fear whenever he so much as looked at her. She didn't cuss, tell him he was a grouchy jackass or make him laugh. Nothing about her made him want to flirt, much less made his cock twitch. He didn't like her and that came as no surprise. She wasn't Victoria. He walked past the ordinary girl with barely a nod of acknowledgment.
“Auch,” Callan said to his uncle who was straightening up the kitchen. “What are you doing up and about?”
Douglass had puttered around for a week but now he truly seemed on the mend. “My heart went to shite, not my legs. Between you, Tristan and Ian, I feel like a fragile old woman.”
Douglass banged around the kitchen until he found his teakettle. Callan did his best not to help or fret.
He settled into a chair. “The way you've bitched, I can't tell the difference.”
His uncle glared at him. “I can't ask about the love of my life, and no one is willing to talk about her. Victoria was a pain in my arse, but I miss her dearly.”
Sly bastard. The man had brought her up when finally, just for two seconds, Callan could forget about her. The ache that was always there when he let himself think about her again strummed, hard. Auch. He pressed a fist to his chest and rubbed. “She hasn't come by?”
“She's called.” Douglass peeked down the hall where Lana had disappeared and shuddered. Callan bit down on his tongue. He wanted to know everything they'd talked about. How did she sound? And like a teenager he wanted to know if she'd asked about him.
“Probably working,” Callan said with care.
He hadn't seen her so he could only assume. Wasn't for a lack of trying. Whenever he woke up, her car would already be gone. She had also made sure to delegate any task that involved him. He'd finished a piece and had a decent excuse to go up to MacDougal's castle and, somehow, another item arrived at his door. She wanted nothing to do with him. If he even knew how to make amends, she'd probably cram it down his throat. He couldn't blame her.
Shoving his hands through his hair, he finally relented. “I screwed up big time and I don't know how to fix it. If I should fix it. She's made it clear I should piss off.”
Douglass snorted and poured two cups. “What did you do?”
He shook his head. He'd done nothing and that somehow made it worse. He had given his cousins a slight warning and an explanation that she'd be at Douglass' bedside and then stepped back. He balled his hands in his hair and tugged. “Diana—”
“Don't do that.” The recrimination was clear.
“What?”
“Compare. When you met Diana you were both young. You were still trying to get your business up and going. You were wet behind the ears and you were both stumbling to find your way in life. Can you honestly say you're the same man after Diana died? Why do you think you'd love someone the same way? Or believe it would happen in a logical, predictable manner?” Douglass had added nothing to his tea. When he took a sip, he let out a long sigh of satisfaction. “The point is, you're comparing apples to oranges and expecting the same conclusion.”
“They're both fruit.”
“They are
both women, but they aren't the same woman. You made me promise to not tell Ian about what she'd been doing for me. I kept that promise even after having a heart attack. What's your excuse?”
He dropped his hands to his lap at that hit. “You could see what was going on between us a mile away. Do you really think Tristan wouldn't have noticed?”
“Bollocks.”
Callan leaned back in the chair. He'd called his cousins and then watched her sleep. He'd liked the way it felt to know she was there with him, for him. He loved the thought that he’d be there when she woke up. His need had been selfish though. She had every right to break it off with him. “I was a dobber. I am one.”
“Much better and honest.” Douglass waved his hand. “The bottom line is you're a manky bastard. You know it or else you wouldn't have had that expression every time I've seen you.”
Blanking his face, Callan took a deep drink from his tea. “I don't have an expression.”
“You do.” Douglass shrugged. “Lovesick. Guilt. Take your pick. If you do try to speak to her there are only two responses: I'm sorry and I love you.”
Callan pinched the bridge of his nose because just the thought of saying those last three words made his throat close. “Why didn't you ever re-marry? I know Da didn't because mum was the end all to be all for him.”
“Bollocks. Your Da is a whore and likes it that way. Eventually he would have cheated. You see he abandoned you the moment I took you in. My brother is a shite.”
Callan snorted, because Douglass had a point. “And you?”
“I'm pretty much the same. I'm only angry at the boys' mum because she left them. I wanted it to work, aye. Who gets married with the intention to divorce? But I'm a shite and I like it that way.”
He laughed at his uncle's honesty but shook his head. “While I'm here is there anything you need me to do?”
Douglass glared at him again, his face flushing with anger. “You came to me for the truth so here it is: You love her. I've said it more than once during this conversation and you haven't denied it. You fix this by groveling, begging her to be yours. Most people are blessed to find real love once. You got it twice. If you piss it away I will never forgive you.” Douglass swiped his cup and scoffed at him. “Now you've offered to help. You can go downstairs, prep and figure out how you're going to beg her to be yours. Don't darken my door until she is.”
Callan sat there, shocked at the swift turn of his uncle's opinion. “Where did this come from?”
“She's leaving in two weeks. If for one moment you can't imagine not having her in your life and if it hurts to even think it, then give her a reason to stay.”
And those words hit him and finally sunk into his thick skull. He hadn't seen her for a little over a week and he'd been going stir crazy even though he knew she was still in Scotland. Still close enough that he could just catch sight of her coming out of her cottage if he timed it just right. Which he hadn’t, yet. He was close enough that maybe she'd forgive him. When she left, what then?
He ran a hand through his hair. Sweet Mary, he wanted to love her. Since Diana's death he'd slept around but none of those women made him wish he could love them with all that he had left.
“Grovel, you say?” He considered his options and came up blank.
“Aye.”
Callan frowned. He'd been married, so groveling wasn't a new concept. He was at a loss for the best way to show he was sorry. He had to do something that proved he meant every action. “I'm going to need more than words.”
“Think fast, laddie. She'll be gone in a blink if you keep dragging your arse.”
The ache, the new one, throbbed harder. “Aye.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Callan beat his 4:30 a.m. alarm and began what he figured would be his ritual for the next two weeks. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, threw on some clothes and started a pot of coffee. He stared blankly out the kitchen's window as the Coffee-mate dripped. Likely, he'd need the entire fucking pot just to tack together a full sentence, but it had to be done.
Last night Tristan and Ian had showed up to check on Papa Baird and to help in the pub. One of those daft bastards had pulled out Baird's whiskey. He shook his aching head and chuckled.
Sometime around his third Robert Burns' sorrowful poem, maybe fifth, Callan shut up long enough to think about how to make amends and not just think he should. Victoria had been hurt and angry, rightfully so, but she had believed he couldn't admit that he cared for her. She'd been right. He couldn't undo his decision to push her away. All he could do now was show her what he'd been too scared to feel, because she did matter. So much.
If his grief had taught him nothing else it was that the little things mattered the most. They were the things you missed the hardest, and at the moment he missed the scent of vanilla on his sheets, making dinner while she tapped away on her laptop and kissing her until it felt like there was no darkness left in him. He missed how she made the cold inside him go away just by throwing her dimple in his direction.
Enough mental wanking. Callan groaned and opened the cabinet to pull down a cup and some headache pills. When his glass was full, he stepped outside to wait for Victoria. Last night hadn't only been about drinking and Robert Burns. He'd found out her schedule. She'd changed her running time to five in the fucking morning. Seven was her previous time and he had problems getting up for that.
But he was determined.
Finally, he saw her silhouette. His breath caught. Aye, he'd missed her. Minutes later, she was at the end of his yard. Her jumper hugged her bouncing breasts and there was a beautiful flush to her cheeks. She was beautiful. His body reacted like it always did—his heart pounded, his mouth dried and he turned rock hard.
Her steady stride faltered and then she glared at him in a way that made him shift in discomfort. As she started to pass him, that pissed-off stare intensified. If he were a lesser man, his prick would have shriveled to a nub.
“Good morning, lass,” he said.
She stopped but the glare didn't. Now it had curse words and probably just curses on all his dangling and favorite bits.
“What did you just say to me?”
The sharp whisper cut him. “Good morning, lass,” he repeated himself.
She replied with something so foul his brows went up. Sweet Mary. “I deserve that. Good morning, nonetheless.”
She scoffed and continued on her run. He pushed out a breath. “That went better than I hoped.”
And so went his new morning ritual. On the third day she walked up to him, snatched his cup from his hand, poured out the contents onto his shoes while giving him another glare filled with curses and then she threw the mug toward the dip in the moor. The actions needed no translation: Fuck you and your morning coffee.
When she turned back to him, she smiled and her dimple deepened. “Good morning, laddie.”
Since that felt like progress, on the fourth day he made her breakfast. He'd fried up sausages, tatties, but scrambled her eggs and included a cheddar and onion scone. That stopped her, but in a good way.
She walked up to him, glanced at the plate and then took it. He went into the house to get his own plate and they stood their and ate breakfast together. Callan didn't bother to talk. He'd pushed them far enough already, and the only reason that probably happened is because she must have wanted to see him too. She could have changed the time of her morning run. Or, run in the opposite direction. But she hadn't. So he would leave the rest up to her.
Fuck. How sad was it that he just wanted to see her? Let the wind pick up her scent and breathe her in again? Pretty fucking pathetic, but his heart didn't feel so cold as they stood there in silence.
When she finished, Victoria handed him the plate. “I thought you hated mornings.”
“Oh, I despise them. If it were possible to piss on them, I'd drink three pots of coffee and then chase it with a gallon of water.”
Her lips didn't even twitch in a laugh. “Sounds about right
.” She sighed, but there was no give in her gaze. “Two words.”
“What?”
“There are two words in the English language that you have yet to use. So you can stand out here every morning until I leave and I still won't even consider forgiving you until you say them.” She turned back toward her cottage but threw over her shoulder. “Thank you for breakfast.”
“Burke,” he said, gripping their plates in his hands. He waited until she faced him so he wouldn't say this to her back. He wanted to make sure when Victoria looked him in the eye she would know Callan meant it. “I'm sorry.”
The hardness in her expression didn't lessen. “I'd hoped it would take you another week to figure that one out.”
Victoria nodded and turned back toward her cottage. His heart sank right into his stomach. Why hadn't he appreciated what had been given to him freely? Grief had frozen him in time and then the fear of ever experiencing it again had done the same. He had no defense, because Victoria had finally proved him wrong. He was daft enough to want to love again. He wanted to risk it all. No. A broken heart didn't compare to losing a spouse, but that didn't mean it felt like tickles and rainbows. And he was capable and willing to experience it again for her.
He let his gaze follow her until he couldn't see her anymore and then went into his workshop to finish out today's job.
The next morning she stopped at the spread on the plaid blanket and then just shook her head. “You can't even grovel right.” She sounded irritated. “You're supposed to look and act depressed and miserable. At some point I believe you are truly sorry for being a dickhead and all is forgiven.”
She placed her hands on her hips. Her tights elongated her legs. The jumper hugged her full breasts. And for him, she'd never stop looking gorgeous even when she glared at him.
He frowned at her words. “What am I doing wrong?”
“You're cooking. You're not supposed to have an appetite. You're not supposed to even have the right mind to plan out morning breakfast. You're clean shaven, matching and your hair always looks tousled so that's not anything new.” She swallowed. “And it doesn't change the fact this is still about your ego. You just don't want me to leave Scotland angry with you.”