Was he always on time? No. Did he still like to have, on occasion, one more pint than his body’s self-imposed limit? Of course. He wasn’t going to apologize for that, except on the rare occasion when he woke up on the Haudagain Roundabout back home in Aberdeen, but that hadn’t happened in two years. And then it was only two other times before that. Christ, he liked to have fun, but he knew how to be a responsible adult when the time called for it. But did Elaina have that faith in him?
“I think you wanted to get angry with me today. And fucking hell—I gave you good reason.” Duncan paced now. He was so ready to beg for her forgiveness that he hadn’t realized he was bloody angry, too. “You want to know why I didn’t call you, Elaina? Why I chose Griffin over you?”
Elaina flinched at his words, and something twisted in his gut, but it was like he was a runaway train—full-steam ahead, no matter what came out of his mouth.
“Because I knew he wouldn’t judge me. He lives on another continent. I haven’t seen him in more than a year. But I knew if I called him, he’d show up—no questions asked. And hell, Elaina. That’s what he did. What if it was you on the other end of that call? What if I had called you?”
Even in the fading light, he could see her skin pricked with goose bumps. He ached to press his palms to her shoulders and rub her flesh warm. But it was like the beach was made of quicksand, rooting them in their anger and stubbornness.
At first she said nothing, so he waited. What was the rush? It wasn’t as if there was a restaurant full of people waiting for them.
Finally, Elaina let out a long sigh, which to Duncan was admission enough. But still, he waited.
“I do not know,” she admitted.
But he did. Duncan knew he loved this woman, but he also knew she would have chosen anger over understanding. He knew from her narrowed eyes as soon as he saw her that she had already judged him.
“I don’ know where tha’ leaves us,” he said. Then he opened his bag, the one he risked missing his own wedding to save, and pulled out the tartan scarf. She didn’t flinch when he took a step toward her, close enough for him to drape the fabric over the pebbled skin of her shoulders.
“This is why I was late,” he said, letting his hands linger on top of the scarf—on her. “It’s why I look the way I do. I let the bag out of my sight for one bloody second, and it was stolen. I chased the arsehole. I did. But I guess you can see that didn’t turn out like I’d planned.” He patted the messenger bag slung across his body. When he stepped back, she grabbed the tartan edges tight. Elaina’s eyes shone with not-yet-fallen tears, and something caught in Duncan’s throat. It wasn’t a sob, because if there was one thing Duncan McAllister did not do, it was cry. On a beach. In what felt like some sort of tragic scene in a romantic movie.
He swallowed hard, unsure what this moment was or what it meant for them. All he knew was that this didn’t feel much like a celebration.
“I look like shite,” he said. “You’re right about that. But I feel like shite, too. I’m going in there and saying hello to my mum and dad—to yours, too. I’m going to have some food, maybe a pint or two, and then I’m going to the hotel. I think we need to decide what’s happening tomorrow, Elaina. I think we need to—”
“Duncan,” she said, her voice cracking on the first syllable. But he shook his head.
“I don’t want you to have to pretend with me,” he said. “I don’t want you to expect me to mess up and then judge me when I do. And I definitely don’t want you to wish I was anyone other than who I am. Because I never wished that about you.”
He held out his hand, and she looked down at it, then back up at him.
“Let’s walk in together, aye? No matter what happens now, I love you. And I know it’s not been an easy day. So we’ll eat—and drink—and when you’re ready, we’ll talk.”
Elaina laced her fingers through his, her skin cold against his warmth.
Duncan waited for some other response. What? He didn’t know.
Elaina Tripoli collected herself. She didn’t cry. She no longer seemed like she wanted to yell. And she followed him inside.
Chapter Eighteen
Griffin
Griffin sat at an empty two-top in a far corner of the unused restaurant. Maggie didn’t follow his lead.
“Please sit?” he said, but it came out like a question.
Freaking Duncan. Maybe they should have skipped the champagne on the short flight. Maybe when a guy was having one of the shittiest days of his life, it wasn’t the time to unload personal secrets on him. Maybe he never should have kept a secret from Maggie in the first place. But here they were, him sitting, pleading—and her barely able to look at him.
“Pippi. Please.”
She sat, and she even let her eyes meet his, but those emerald eyes that always grounded him, that let him know how much he was loved, were distant. Unrecognizable.
“I’m sitting,” she said. “But you don’t get to call me that, Griffin. Not now.”
He nodded. “Fair enough.” He had a captive audience, and at least that was a start. “Can I ask…what did Duncan tell you?”
Maggie scoffed out a bitter laugh, something so unlike her, and it felt like a needle pricking his skin. He’d brought this out in her, and he hated himself for it.
“Do you need to check to make sure your story matches up with his?” she asked.
He shook his head. He was going about this all wrong. But didn’t she know him enough to understand that when it came to her, his intentions were always good? Everything came from a place of loving her, a place he didn’t know was capable of existing inside him until she entered his life.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “Maggie…I didn’t lie to you. I didn’t mean to, anyway.”
She just sat there, a statue, eyes on him, yet some sort of invisible barrier kept her from seeing him.
He reached into the pocket of his jeans. God, look at her in that dress. He was travel weary, and he knew he needed a shower. He felt out of place in her clean elegance. Her undeniable beauty—and her never-wavering honesty.
“Here,” he said, sliding the folded piece of paper across the table. “I was just waiting for the right time to tell you.”
She unfolded the congratulatory letter, her movements slow and deliberate. And then she read.
Upon reading the first line, Maggie gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. She couldn’t hold back the involuntary smile, but she shuttered the expression as quickly as it came. Even when she was angry at him, when she felt the sting of betrayal, she was happy for him. But delaying the truth had robbed her of sharing in his joy.
When she finished reading, she refolded the letter and slid it back across the table to him. It took her a few moments to look up, and when she did, she wore a smile—one that didn’t reach her eyes and didn’t make that spot on top of her nose crinkle the way he loved.
“I’m proud of you,” she said. “I was afraid when Duncan said Washington that you’d gone back to your father. But this? This is really good. I’m sure you’ll be really happy in D.C.”
Her fingers were still on the paper, and she fidgeted with it in the silence.
He laid a hand on hers to stop her nervous motion.
“I didn’t accept it, Maggie. Not yet. I wouldn’t—not without you.”
Her smile morphed into one he knew was real, but it was also sad.
She bit her lip. “But you applied for it without me.”
He had, and at the time it didn’t seem like a big deal.
“I didn’t think I’d get it,” he said. “It was just a what if? It wasn’t anything we needed to talk about because it wasn’t going to happen.”