Page 14 of Two Hit Wonder

Maybe Maeve was right. Maybe she should let the past go.

But how was she supposed to tell Cam? How was she supposed to face Ellie, who'd been so quietly hopeful?

And then there was the other thing. The thing she couldn't quite name.

The way her chest had felt when Maeve opened that door. The heat that had bloomed somewhere beneath her ribs when their eyes met. The ridiculous, inconvenient flutter that had no business existing after fifteen years of silence.

She wasn't Mo's age. She wasn't a teenager with a crush. She was a grown woman with a grown daughter and two ex-spouses and a pottery studio full of wobbly vases that nobody wanted.

This was all a crazy idea. Stupid. Doomed from the start.

She should have stayed in London with her pottery wheel and her complicated daughter and her small, safe life. She should have let Cam figure out her own financial disasters. She should have kept Maeve where she belonged, locked away in a box labeled "the past" and buried under fifteen years of moving on.

The train rattled on toward London. Outside, Scotland gave way to England, green hills to gray suburbs. A conductor announced the next stop in a bored monotone.

Iona pressed her forehead against the cold glass and tried very hard not to think about red hair and green eyes and the way Maeve had said her name like it hurt.

She failed.

Chapter Six

The door had barely closed before Maeve regretted what she’d said.

Not that she'd admit that to anyone. Not even to herself, really, beyond the vague, inconvenient ache that had settled somewhere in her chest the moment Iona Faith had walked back down the path. The same path she'd walked up, bleeding and determined. The same path that led to the village, to the train station, to London, to the life Maeve had spent fifteen years very deliberately not thinking about.

Eejit bleated from the garden, smug as anything.

"Don't you bloody start," Maeve muttered.

The sheep didn't dignify that with a response.

Maeve stood at the window for longer than was reasonable, watching the empty path. As if Iona might turn around. As if she might come back and argue harder, push through Maeve's defenses with that relentless sunshine energy she'd always had.

She didn't.

Of course she didn't. Maeve had told her not to. Maeve had been very clear. And Iona, for all her optimism, had always known when a door was truly closed. Which probably explained why this was the first time in fifteen years that they’d seen each other.

Maeve was good at building walls. Tall, towering, strong ones that were rude and obstinate. And occasionally, self-defeating.

The kettle clicked off in the kitchen. She’d put it on at some point. Tea. Obviously the situation called for tea. Didn’t every situation? Well, other than those that called for a strong drink and she wasn’t falling for that again. The voice inside her that told her just one was an arsehole and she had long practice ignoring it. She’d settle for tea. Less trouble all around.

The cottage felt smaller than usual. The walls pressing in. The silence that had always been a comfort now felt like something else entirely.

Like an accusation.

She was being ridiculous. This was her life. Her safe, quiet, carefully constructed life. Iona showing up didn't change that. Some conversations and an old wound being poked didn't change that. Nothing had to change. Nothing was going to change.

Maeve went to the kitchen to reboil the kettle, and the knock at the door nearly made her drop it.

"For the love of…" She set the kettle down with more force than necessary. If Iona had come back, if she was going to have to do this twice in one day… She was going to… what? Say no again? Say yes? Kiss her stupid mouth?

Now where had that come from?

But when she opened the door, it wasn't Iona.

Glinna stood on the doorstep, holding a casserole dish and wearing an expression that said she knew exactly what was going on and wasn't about to let Maeve hide from it.

"Saw your visitor," Glinna said cheerfully, pushing past Maeve into the cottage without waiting for an invitation. "Pretty thing. City clothes. Looked a bit lost. Also looked like she'd been crying on the walk down, but I might have imagined that."