Golden Luckenbooth

Fifty-Three

Stopping at my parents to pick up Shortbread and Piper, I stay only long enough to give my mum a hug. Dad's gone out for a difficult lambing, and I'm anxious to get home and make sure everything and everyone survived during my absence. Not that I don't trust Arran. But I've been in control of my own destiny for too long to step aside and let someone else take over.

When I arrive at home, I am surprised to find no evidence of fans out front. Not even a hint of their presence actually. There's no rubbish or notes or gifts for Harry. It feels kind of eerie, like an American western movie in black and white where the wind sweeps those tumbleweeds across the town. The haunted feeling continues when I pull around back and find that Arran's truck is not in sight. I wonder where he is? It's late.

I mean, it's not my fault I left the estate late. It's not like I was spending too much time snogging Harry to notice the sun setting. It's nearly midnight when I arrive home, but that's because I...

Never mind. I have no excuse. I was enjoying the feel of Harry's lips on mine, pretending that the hair from his moustache and starter beard weren't scratchy. He had apologised, promising to have Sue find some sort of softener for his facial hair.

There is no doubt in my mind that he'll make it happen since his only other choice is shaving the damn thing off. I mean, I can't possibly allow him to rub that itchy, damaging hair on my baby's skin! On the flip side, why is it that facial hair on most men turns me off, but Harry starts growing it out, and my pants get wet?

Unfair!

As are so many things where Harry is concerned.

But at this moment, I push aside my thoughts of Harry and his facial hair (and the way it feels on my sensitive skin in certain regions of my body – if you know what I mean) in favour of thoughts of Arran.

No. Not his beard or how scratchy it might be. I've no desire to find out.

Perhaps he's out with a difficult lambing too, like my father? Sometimes twins, although common, can be a challenge for a ewe.

The house is dark when I enter, and I quickly turn on a light so I don't trip over anything my intern might have left out. Piper takes her sweet time using the grass outside for her business, but Shortbread runs in quickly, sniffing everything, seeking her buddy Arran. Who is decidedly not in the house. Once Piper has wandered inside, I close and lock the door, curious as to where my intern might be, but not especially worried.

"Come on, girls! Let's get some sleep in our own bed." The sound of their paws click-clacking on the stairs reminds me that I need to trim their nails soon. At the landing, my eyes wander towards Arran's room, and I ponder whether he was asleep before he got called out on whatever emergency has stolen his attention. Wandering in that direction while Piper and Shortbread clamber into my bed, I am surprised at the strong smell of paint when I get close to the room.

Not that I mind that he painted. He's been living in the room for months now with months more to go. I hope he didn't choose a really dark colour though. Those are so hard to paint over. It takes multiple coats of a pale colour to cover a darker one.

In the shadows from the overhead light in the hallway, I can't see much even when I squint.

Which is why I flip on the light and step all the way into his room.

My eyes don't know where to land. They flitter around the space, taking in everything. The walls have been painted beige, which I find to be soothing. The large stuffed giraffe is enormous – probably taller than me if I were to stand nearby. From the ceiling, there are white fluffy pieces of wool that's been fashioned into clouds, and they create a partly sunny day in the room. There are new floor-length curtains – also beige, but slightly darker than the walls, and they are drawn open to display the sheer curtains blocking some of the light through the window, but I can still see the outline of the streetlights, shining brightly in the night sky.