There are two kinds of people who show up at a small bed and breakfast in a tiny off-the-beaten-track village the week before Christmas.
The first? Cheerful, adoring couples in matching wool sweaters who want mulled wine, fairy lights, and someone else to make their porridge in the morning.
The second? Those pretending to be cheerful, whose Christmas sweaters are nowhere in sight, who cringe at rooms filled with fairy lights, and who wouldn’t be awake before breakfast has been served to know there was porridge on the menu. In other words, those who were running away from something.
The man at my check-in desk was definitely the second kind.
The fact that he kept his head ducked and his hat was pulled low over his face pinged my radar before I even walked behind the small desk to greet him.
I grimaced at the sight of a guitar case at his feet, memories of long ago washing over me, and I kept my head down as I paged through my reservations book.
“Reservation for John Smith,” he said, voice low, leaning forward over the desk. Something in his voice sent a shiver down my back, but I brushed it away, putting my customer service smile on.
“John Smith,” I murmured, flipping to his reservation page. I’d been excited to get a last-minute booking. The winter months were my slowest, and I’d been more than happy to accommodate a month-long reservation.
His eyes lifted, just enough for me to get a good look. And that’s when the ground fell out from under me.
What. The. Hell.
Of course the universe would deliver my ex-boyfriend—the one who wrote a number-one single about breaking my heart—directly to my inn during the loneliest time of the year.
Noah Byrne.
Ex-boyfriend.
Arsehole.
Because clearly, the universe had a sense of humor and it was cruel.
I gripped the edge of the desk to stop my hands from shaking. “No.”
He blinked, an eyebrow winging up slightly. “No?”
“No, as in, no, Noah, you can’t stay here. I don’t care if you book under John Smith, Santa Claus, or King of Bloody England. Pick your guitar up and get out.”
He gave me a slow once-over, and it felt exactly like it had fifteen years ago when we were rehearsing in a freezing garage. He’d looked at me like I was both his favorite song and the mistake he was about to make. My skin prickled with awareness and irritation.
“Hello to you too, Skye,” he said finally. His voice hadn’t changed. Still that husky, broken-in leather kind of sound that could make women scream or sob, depending on the chorus.
I hated that my knees went soft. I hated it more that I noticed he looked better now—taller somehow, broader, jaw shadowed with stubble. A few grays threaded his hair at his temples and somehow that made him even sexier.
But his eyes looked world weary, and oh so tired.
And I hated most of all that part of me wanted to ask if he was okay.
“Out,” I repeated, keeping my voice flat.
“Booked for a month,” he countered. Did he think we were haggling over the price of a pint?
How had I missed his name on the credit card I’d taken for this booking? Sliding a look at the reservation, I saw a different name—Matt—whose name was on the credit card for the booking. At the time, I’d assumed it was likely John Smith’s partner.
“Who’s Matt?”
“My agent.”
“You can’t stay here,” I said, frustrated.
“I thought the booking was non-refundable? Can you afford to turn away guests?”
His question stung, mostly because it was true that the inn couldn’t afford to hemorrhage cancellations. I’d inherited this place after my gran had passed and keeping it alive had become equal parts pride and punishment.
Still, I wasn’t about to roll out the red carpet for Noah Byrne.
“You tricked me,” I said.
“You wouldn’t have let me book otherwise.”
“Aye, you’ve got the right of that,” I snapped.
I glared at him across the counter. Christmas music played softly from my Spotify playlist, an inane song about a snowman looking for his nose, and outside, an icy blast of wind rattled the windows. The small village of Kingsbarns carried on as if the world hadn’t just tilted off its axis. Why him? Why now? Why here? He could go anywhere in the world.
Despite the warning bells going off in my head, I looked closer. Fatigue radiated in tension lines crossing his forehead and shadows smudged his eyes. This was a different category of tired. Not rock-star-on-tour tired. Not hungover tired. Soul tired.
And damn it, that’s what made me hesitate.
One look. That was all it took. His eyes, heavy with things I didn’t want to name, broke through my armor in the same way his songs had all those years ago.
Except for one song.
The song that cracked my heart open and spilled my vulnerabilities for the world to see.
He’d even had the gall to name it after me.
Skye.
The song the entire bloody world had sung along to while I’d tried to buy milk at the co-op without crying.
I’d hated him for writing it … and hated myself for knowing he hadn’t been wrong.
I dragged in a breath. “One week,” I said.
His mouth quirked. “The reservation’s for a month.”
“Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it.” He looked down briefly and toed the guitar case, shrugging in that nonchalant way he had.
Seemed like disaster had just checked in.
By the time I’d handed him his key, his silence matching my own, my nerves were stretched as tight as a guitar string ready to be plucked. A thousand thoughts crowded my head, but I hated that the one that rose to the top was the one I’d tried to bury the deepest.
I’ve missed you.
“You’re in room three. First floor, end of the hallway,” I said. “Tea’s on from four to half six.”
Noah grunted in response and then left without another word, having to carry his guitar in front of him to trudge up the narrow stairwell. I listened to his footsteps down the hallway, each step dropping like intro beats to a song, and tried to breathe normally.
Noah Byrne.
My first love. And my biggest heartbreak.
Which was saying something, given I’d been married and divorced since I’d last seen Noah.
Plopping my chin in my fist, I gazed out the wide front window that overlooked the wee village. Kingsbarns in December was small, cold, and nosy. It’s the place where everyone knew when you changed your curtains, much less when your rock star ex-boyfriend slunk back into town.
By the time Noah carried his guitar upstairs, my phone had already buzzed with three text messages. Esther, the leader of a slightly terrifying group of busybody readers who called themselves the Book Bitches, lived across the road and had a front-row view of the ongoings at the inn. The Book Bitches would demand details. There was no escaping those matchmaking terrorists. When they weren’t discussing the week’s smutty book club read, they fancied themselves champions of lonely hearts. And by tomorrow, the whole village would be whispering that Skye Kerrigan had taken Noah Byrne back into her bed.
Which, by the way, would absolutely not happen.
I’d started my life over several times since I’d walked away from Noah Byrne with a broken heart and the wobbling conviction of a twenty-two-year-old, uncertain if she’d thrown away the best thing that ever happened to her. I’d gone home and started to work at my gran’s inn. I met a “nice” man that I thought I could have a “nice” quiet life with until the silence had grown too loud to bear. We’d divorced, and I’d started over once more. Gran, my North Star, passed and while in the depths of grief, my life trajectory changed again. I was fully responsible for this inn’s success now.
Life was simply that, though. A series of new beginnings, new directions, and new priorities. Sometimes they hurt. Sometimes they were the best thing that happened to you. But with Noah being here now? At thirty-seven, I was older than the wide-eyed girl I’d been when we’d first dated. I was too tired, and too busy keeping the inn from falling apart to play his redemption arc.
I snorted at my thoughts.
That was quite a leap for me to assume he was coming back to town to reconnect with me.
Why was he really here?
The inn smelled faintly of cinnamon and pine from the wreaths I’d hung earlier, but the electrics needed updating, the kitchen pipes rattled every time I turned on the hot tap, and the accounts I’d stayed up late with last night still made my stomach hurt. Which meant, I had no time for daydreaming about memories best kept to the past. I had a room to turn over, guest inquiries to answer, and laundry to change out. Pushing thoughts of Noah Byrne aside, I bent my head to my tasks.
Four o’clock brought tea in the lounge and I held my breath as I carried in a tray of shortbread and mince pies, setting it down on a low table beneath the window. Pretending not to notice the shadow leaning against the mantel, I looked around the room I’d once been so proud of and tried to see it through a rich person’s eyes.
Faded floral wallpaper peeled at the corners, and two rose-colored loveseats were pulled close to the fireplace, where a cheerful fire crackled. Four bistro tables with two chairs each were tucked on the other side of the room under the windows that overlooked the main street, and each table had a decorative teacup with a few buds of fresh flowers as a centerpiece. Music played quietly in the background, the requisite Christmas melodies, and several squat candles flickered over the mantel.
It was worn, but well-loved, and I lifted my chin higher.
Noah was watching the fire, sleeves pushed up, hair falling into his eyes. He looked almost normal—like any other man who’d wandered in from the cold. Except normal men didn’t leave heartbreak songs in their wake … and didn’t still make my chest ache with longing.
“You should cut your hair,” I said, because silence was worse.
“You used to like it long.”
“I used to like a lot of things about you.”
He glanced at me then, quick and sharp. For a moment, something like regret flickered, but before he could reply, the front door banged open.
“Skye, love!” Esther’s voice echoed through the hall. “You’ll never believe who I thought I saw today—”
As she entered the lounge, eyes landing square on Noah, she froze. Smiled. And then grinned like the cat who’d got into the cream.
“Och,” she said, looking between me and Noah. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
And just like that, I knew the Book Bitches had a brand-new project.
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