“Nay. Ye’ll not be rid of me that easily.” He opened the door to Duncan's Den and stood back, letting her go in first.
“And Whussendale? Are you going with us?” The thought of Rory hanging around had the strangest effect on her. Anticipation coated her insides like syrup over pancakes—sweet, delectable. But just like syrup and pancakes, especially in excess, Rory wasn’t good for her.
“Aye. I’ll be tagging along.”
She slipped out of her jacket and kicked off her boots without looking him in the eye. She didn’t want him to see her relief and excitement that he would be coming to Whussendale with them. “I need to change,” she said, turning down the hall. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
She heard Rory’s footsteps following close behind.
“I’m good with zippers,” he said.
“I bet you are,” she said under her breath.
“Let me know if ye need my help. With anything.” His deep baritone was so ridiculously sexy. She knew he was only teasing, but…
Don’t tempt me, was on the tip of her tongue. Feeling suddenly brave, she turned, and like a linebacker, she threw up a hand to halt him. “You. Stay.” Don’t come any farther, or I might not be able to resist. Just thinking of how they’d made out on the couch last night had her warming up quickly.
Rory laughed, as if he could read every sensual thought racing through her mind. “I’ll wait right here.”
She slipped into her bedroom and closed the door, grateful for the barrier between them. She leaned back against the hardwood door.
Unfortunately, oak wasn’t soundproof. “About last night…” Rory started.
There was a long pause. So long that Diana was beginning to wonder if he’d forgotten what he wanted to say. Or maybe he was trying to find the words to tell her that he regretted their couch-capade last night. Her heart sank. She searched for something to say so she wouldn’t have to listen to the remorse in his voice. Maybe she could muster up: Don’t worry. Last night, when I kissed you, it didn’t mean a thing. But that wasn’t true. So, she remained silent. Silence, she’d learned in the business world, forced the other person to speak. Especially since Rory had been the one to start the whole thing about last night…
He cleared his throat. It sounded like he was thumping the front of his boot against the door. “I’ll wait to talk until you come out.”
She pushed away from the door. “No. Go ahead. Say what you were going to say.” Did she sound too eager? Whatever he wanted to say, it would be better if she was behind the door and he couldn’t see her face. “It will take me time to change.”
As her luck would have it, her damned zipper got stuck halfway down. Really caught. Wouldn’t budge a millimeter. She yanked and pulled, hoping she wouldn’t have to take him up on his offer.
She heard him lay his hand against the door.
“Last night…was nice,” he said.
They were both struggling—she, with her zipper, and he, with his words. Finally, thank God, the zipper gave way and she was able to slip out of the damp dress. She shivered, whether from the chilly room or his warming words, she couldn’t say.
“Yes,” she answered, though he hadn’t actually asked a question. It had been nice. And exciting. And, and…beyond anything she’d ever known. She switched out of her wet bra into a dry one, still trying to process what he might have meant by nice. Had he measured the word, or had he been a typical man and said the first word that popped into his head? Had he actually tried and discarded numerous possibilities? God knew, he’d taken his time saying anything. She decided that nice was good. Was everything. Well, that’s what she chose to believe. So as Diana pulled on Cait’s stylish gray and black fringed sweater, she felt instantly better—warm and hugged by the soft wool. And warmed and hugged by his words.
There was a shuffle on the other side of the door. Had he just leaned against it?
“I thought, since last night went so well, maybe we should do it again.” He paused. “Go on a proper date.”
She sucked in a breath, not prepared for her heart to pound faster. Hurriedly, she slipped on her socks and black jeans, trying to piece together a response. But she was at war with herself.
She wanted him. But she couldn’t have him!
Irritation gripped her. He shouldn’t have asked for a date, proper or otherwise. Hadn’t she been clear with him? She’d told him she could never date a cop.
She slung open the door, making him nearly tumble backward into the room. She reached out and steadied him, hating how she held him close for a moment too long before letting go.
“What’s wrong with you?” she growled, feeling her don’t-mess-with-a-New-Yorker attitude bubbling to the surface.
“What’s the matter?” he said, straightening up. “I’m the one whose arse almost hit the floor.”
“I’ll tell you what’s the matter.” Why was her voice so shrill? She stopped to take a steadying breath, but it did no good, so she let him have it. “I told you. I. Don’t. Date. Cops!”
He tilted his head at her and said calmly, “Aye. Ye did say that.”
She opened her mouth, but he raised a hand, as if to halt her next tirade.
He gave her the most patient look. “But then ye kissed me, lass.” His probing gaze was doing double duty. He was willing her to remember what they’d done last night, and it was clear that he was summoning an image of their make-out session, too. “The evidence suggests ye might’ve changed yere mind.”
True. She looked away, clearly losing this game of chicken. A thrilling and dangerous game, which had turned her into a complete wreck. She took a moment to gather her wits. “Yes, I kissed you. But that was before I knew you weren’t leaving Gandiegow.”
He looked stumped. “Then ye were only kissing me because ye assumed I was on my way back to Glasgow and out of yere life for good?”
“Yes,” she lied, staring down at her feet. Maybe she should’ve told him the truth. For when he’d woken her up on the couch, she hadn’t cared about her long-standing convictions. Now, in this charged moment, a crazy idea whirled through her brain. I bet I could keep him, if he’d be willing to change his line of work. A safe job: Like an accountant. A dietician. Or perhaps a paperboy. She allowed herself to look at him then.
Any job would do, as long as it is one where bullets have no chance of hitting that gorgeous head of yours or piercing your strong chest.
But she knew he’d never give up being a cop.
Rory moved closer and brushed her hair from her face. “I don’t believe ye, lass. I know when people are telling the truth and when they’re not.”
Apparently, he was still thinking about how good they’d been together, while she had been plunged into sadness. She leaned her head against his gentle hand, taking comfort, though he hadn’t a clue as to what she was going through. “Rory, there’s no way that you and I are going to happen. It would hurt too much.” To lose you.
He pulled her in and held her close. “I do understand. Ye’re thinking about yere da and the pain is as real as if someone has taken a dagger to yere heart.”
She didn’t want to feel this way. She just wanted to breathe with Rory—in and out, forever, quietly—and know peace.
He leaned his head against hers and spoke softly, as if telling her a secret no one had been privy to before. “Our parents died in a car accident, when we were wee lads. I told ye about my gran and what happened to her. I miss her every day. And then there’s my partner on the force.” He inhaled deeply, as if that would propel the rest of the words out. “Denny was killed in a grocery store robbery. There was nothing I could do about it, as I was running after one of the suspects.” He kissed the top of Diana’s head. “So ye see, I feel what you feel. But lass, ye can’t stop living because of the terrible things that have happened. Ye have to have a little faith.”
“Faith?” She pressed both hands against his chest. She wanted to tell him he had no idea…but he did know.
S
he pushed away from him as a frustrated sob escaped her. Something had broken loose. It was like Pandora’s box had been opened, the lid yanked violently off. Frustration with him, the situation, even the past, escaped before she could rein in her emotions. “He was my dad! He was supposed to see me graduate college, to walk me down the aisle. He was supposed to bounce my own children on his knee, as he had done for me. He was supposed to protect me. When he died I lost my faith in God. And ever since I’ve felt alone and—and damaged.”
The untamed words were running free, letting her true desires slip through the cracks of her stoicism. No one was supposed to see what she truly wanted. Not even her! She sucked in a breath and tried to step away from Rory, but he held on tight, as if the wind battering the windows had come inside, trying to carry her away. She knew, in her heart of hearts, that Rory would never let her get swept away, no matter what.
“It’s okay, lass,” he said, soothingly.
She felt exposed. He’d seen the real Diana, and she wished she could take it all back. She could think of only one way to erase the last few moments, but it was reckless. She did it anyway.
She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him. Wildly. Frantically. In the process, she bumped her nose against his, clanked their teeth together, all in an effort to make him forget. The kisses last night had been perfect. Her efforts now were pathetic.
He grabbed her arms. “Hold on there.” He bent low to look her in the eyes. “Now isn’t the time. Deydie and the others are expecting us back at Quilting Central, right?”
Ashamed, she nodded. She never should’ve allowed her grief out. Her grief was ugly and raging. Demanding and controlling. She liked her grief safely tucked away, where no one could see her anguish. But now Rory had exposed her: she wasn’t the strong woman she pretended, the one who had her act together. Diana was a fraud. And no sweater in the world was heavy enough, impenetrable enough, to hide the dreadful truth.
As they walked back to Quilting Central, Diana had to accept how things would never be the same. Not just with Rory. But within herself. She was terrified by how her grief had suddenly changed her. How desperate it made her feel. When she was seventeen, there’d been no time for grief. There’d been school to finish and bills to pay. She’d been strong, a badass.
But now full-on grief had turned her into a limp noodle. Exhausted from keeping up the front for so long. Spent.
“Are ye okay?”
No! “Yes.” She’d turned into quite the liar and was disgusted with herself. That emotion sparked a fresh batch of anger. It swelled up inside as if it was a wave picking up energy, ready to take out anything in its path.
Anger at the perp who’d shot her father and gotten away. Anger at her mother’s inability to be strong for her children. And even anger at her sister, Liz, who’d successfully gotten on with her life—married to a dentist, living in the burbs with her three amazing children and doing good works on endless volunteer committees.
Diana had her job. Nothing else. No hope of a future filled with children and volunteering. No hope of a happily-ever-after. Just a big fat void.
The injustice of it all was enough to make her sick. Truly sick of her life.
* * *
Rory was worried about Diana as they walked back to Quilting Central. She had gone silent, like the wind had shifted suddenly and she’d crashed her ship against the rocky shore. He should’ve told her what grief had done to him. How, after his parents died, he and Kin were completely out of control. There weren’t enough years left in his life to make up for the trouble he’d caused his grandmother, his teachers, and his neighborhood.
Rory and Kin had vandalized the school and the flower shop. They’d stolen bait from Dali’s Fishery. They’d sprayed graffiti, shoplifted, cut classes, drank. And they’d mouthed off to Gran at every turn.
Gran would be proud of them now. Instead of ending up in jail—as she’d feared—the two of them had turned their lives around and ended up on the right side of the law. The irony didn’t slip past Rory. Being a police officer helped atone for his sins, and at the same time, it was the one thing Diana couldn’t accept about him. Life was screwed up that way.
Diana seemed to be in deep concentration as well. Or maybe the storm beating down on them kept her from talking. As she reached for the doorknob of Quilting Central, he stopped her.
“I didn’t tell ye how nice ye looked when you came out of the bedroom,” he said.
She gave him an expressionless nod. “The sweater is Cait’s. She lent it to me.” She turned the knob and walked in.
Bethia was speaking from the stage.
“Let’s line up at the door. I just got a text from the coach driver. Yere bus is ready in the parking lot.”
In the back of Rory’s mind, he was trying to figure out a way he could sit with Diana on the bus, so they could continue their conversation. But the truth was he was on duty. His duty was to keep Marta safe and to gather more intel about the crime wave surrounding the author.
Deydie waddled hurriedly to the door, holding up her hand. “Be careful out there, lassies. The walkway is especially slippery during storms. We don’t want any of yees to get washed away, now.”
An ancient retreat goer tugged on Deydie’s arm, her face lit with excitement. “Will Graham Buchanan be coming with us?” She acted as if she might call dibs to be his seatmate.
“Nay,” Deydie said. “He’s off to London.”
The woman’s face fell and with it, her wrinkles, making her look like a disappointed shar pei.
The plaid twins, Ailsa and Aileen, took up their post on either side of the woman and guided her out the door.
“Not to worry. There’ll be a couple of nice-looking lads in Whussendale,” Ailsa said.
“We promise,” Aileen added.
Then Ailsa pointed to Rory. “And, of course, Deydie says DCI Crannach will be riding with us on the coach.”
Rory wasn’t sure how Deydie knew that. Had Deydie somehow been lurking in the shadows at Duncan's Den when he’d told Diana? But then he remembered the text he’d sent to McCartney about his plans.
Rory caught up to Marta. “Ye’ll be sitting with me on the coach.”
“Not that I don’t want a handsome man for my seatmate, but I was going to stretch out and have some me time.” Marta eyed him as if she was reconsidering her plans.
“Sit with me,” Rory said. “I have yere witness statement for ye to go over and sign. It has to be done today.”
“Very well.”
“Take the back seat,” Rory clarified. That way he could keep his eye on her and the rest of the quilters while they made their way to Whussendale.
“Sit in front of me in case I need something.” Marta didn’t even look at Tilly when she spoke, but Tilly nodded in response.
Marta climbed into the coach and took the rearmost window seat, with Rory in the aisle seat beside her. Surprisingly, Diana joined Tilly in the row in front of them.
Once everyone was on the bus, Bethia stood up, facing the group, and said, “We’ll put on a wee bit of music for ye to listen to. How about some nice Scottish ballads?”
“Aye,” the women on the coach chorused.
As the bus got underway Tilly and Diana put their heads together, and Rory wondered what they were talking about.
He pulled out the paperwork for Marta. “If ye can take a look at this and sign?”
She skimmed it, signed, and handed it back to him, then she stood, crouching because of the luggage compartment above her head. “Tilly, what are you typing?”
He heard Tilly close her laptop.
“Nothing,” Tilly said.
“That didn’t look like nothing,” Marta said. “Diana, switch seats with me. Now.”
Tilly looked up at Marta. “You should stay in your seat. The bus is moving.”
“Do it,” Marta commanded.
Diana sighed and vacated her seat. She waited in the aisle—not making eye contact with Rory—while Mart
a slid past and took the seat in front of him.
Now he stood up out of the way so Diana could climb into the window seat. He needed access to the aisle in case there was an emergency.
Suddenly Marta grabbed Tilly’s laptop. Tilly lunged for it, but Marta held it out of reach and flipped open the lid. From where he stood, he could see it was a page of text. Marta scanned it quickly and then turned an angry red before spinning on Tilly.
“Why are you still working on the manuscript?” Marta’s hissed words didn’t sound like a question but an accusation. “It will never get published.”
“Maybe it will,” Tilly said bravely, as she snatched back the computer. “You never know.”
“I do know,” Marta said, her voice dropping to a whisper. She yanked Tilly’s hair.
“Ouch!”
“That’s what you get,” Marta jeered. “You need to accept the truth, big sister. The Buttermilk Guild is over. Marta Dixon’s books are all about True Crime now, not some namby-pamby quilters.”
Rory sat down next to Diana and said quietly, “What’s that about? Should I break it up before it turns ugly?”
Diana stared at the backs of the two sisters. “I think the row has calmed down. I’ll tell you later what it’s about.”
True. Marta seemed to have won that round because Tilly’s head was leaned against the window as she stared out at the rain.
Rory glanced over at Diana and instantly his insides turned into a blazing inferno. What was it about this lass that had him turned upside down? He’d always thought Gran was foolish for believing in fate, but since meeting Diana, he’d become a convert. He felt like the Almighty was giving him the thumbs up to pursue Diana, regardless of her refusal to ever date a cop.
Rory considered their circumstances and rationalized: This isn’t a date. This was business. And because they were in the back seat, where nary a soul could see what he meant to do, he took Diana’s hand and squeezed it. He looked at her with one eyebrow raised, daring her to complain. She frowned and stared back at him, her gaze full of steel. This was not a lass to back down, so he held on to her hand for dear life.
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