Christmas at the Edge of the World

“But…”

“I don’t want your pity, Laurel. I don’t need some—some sort of compensation kiss.” His Scottish brogue had got thicker with the force of his emotion, making Laurel strain to understand him.

“Compensation…”

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” he practically growled. “For whatever reason. Because I’m a barmy, middle-aged farmer with a dad who doesn’t remember me and aught but sheep for company. I kissed you at the ceilidh because I meant it, but I don’t want to be kissed back like a favour.”

Laurel goggled at him for a few seconds as her mind raced to keep up with what he was saying. “You are a barmy, middle-aged farmer,” she finally managed, “but I wasn’t kissing you as a favour. I kissed you because I wanted to, Archie MacDougall, and I’ve been wanting to since you kissed me.”

“But you backed off—”

“I was stupid,” Laurel said fiercely. “Stupid and scared. I’ve regretted it ever since. I’ve been seriously out of sorts since that night. Ask Zac. He’ll tell you.”

Archie shook his head slowly. “Laurel…”

“I want to kiss you,” she said again, feeling both reckless and ridiculous in stating such a fact. “A lot. Do you want to kiss me?”

Archie stared at her for a moment, and then he gave her his answer. He cupped her face in his big, callused hands, running his thumb over her lower lip, making Laurel’s insides shiver, and then he kissed her. Properly.

A kiss that made her heart do somersaults and her stomach feel like a bowl of jelly, and her back knifed into the counter as Archie pressed into her and they kissed and kissed until the world felt like that snow globe, with glittering snow all around them, and nothing else mattered but this.

They broke apart when the doorbell rang, more of a wheeze than anything else, and Laurel blinked stupidly at Archie, her lips buzzing, her heart singing, while he blinked just as stupidly back.

“Who…” she began.

Archie took a step back, raking a hand through his hair, making it stick up even more than it usually did. “You’d better answer that.”

Laurel practically tottered to the door; her legs felt as wobbly as a newborn foal’s, and her lips were still buzzing. She pressed her fingers to them, laughing softly to herself, as she opened the door, half-expecting a caroller, or perhaps someone who needed directions, or a kindly neighbour she’d never met. But no, it wasn’t anyone like that.

“Hello, Laurel,” Abby said.

Chapter Thirteen

Laurel stared dumbly at her sister for a few seconds while her mind whirred emptily. Abby was wearing an expensive-looki

ng parka, with a cashmere cardigan underneath, and a pair of skinny jeans that were clearly haute couture. She looked elegant and sophisticated and also exhausted.

“Abby,” Laurel said faintly. “How did you…”

“It wasn’t easy. There aren’t any ferries running on Christmas Day. I had to hire someone to take me privately, and leave my car in Scrabster.”

“Come in,” Laurel said belatedly, and stepped aside so her sister could come into the cottage.

Abby walked in, glancing around in a way that reminded Laurel how shabby the place was. “I haven’t been here in forever,” Abby said in a distant voice. “Not since Mum…”

“I know. Me neither.” Laurel was still having trouble grasping the fact that her sister was actually here. “Did you drive all this way…”

“I flew to Inverness, and then rented a car.”

“You could have called—”

“I did, and left several voicemails. You didn’t respond, but from your surprise, I suppose you haven’t had any signal?”

Laurel shook her head. “Sorry.” She hadn’t even glanced at her phone in days, so she wouldn’t have seen if Abby had called, anyway. “I thought you were still in rehab…” she ventured uncertainly.

“I checked myself out.”

“You can do that?”