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“No.” She shakes her head. “Nothing recent. It was something I did a few days after she arrived.”
I rack my mind, thinking of how my sister could have meddled. “What?”
“I tore up that silly forged marriage contract.”
“You did?”
“Yes. She was so sweet, so…nice. And ack—that red hair, those freckles, just adorable. I couldn’t go through with it.” She giggles. “God, that was a dumb idea. A faked marriage? Let’s take that little secret to our graves, shall we?”
The contract. When I was foolish and bullheaded enough to believe I could take what I wanted.
“Burn it.”
“Callum.” Her eyes lock on mine. “The only way she’s really yours is if she wants to be.”
It’s a hard truth I realized the moment Fiona walked out that door.
“‘Tis why I didn’t chase her down when she left. Why I told her she was free to go.” My voice breaks. “I wanted her to choose me.”
She grabs my arm. “Would you give up on me? Let me walk out of here?”
There’s no question in my mind. “Never.”
“Then don’t give up on her,” Freya pleads. “You never should have told her to leave, but the moment you did, you never should have let her walk out that door.”
I toss the towel in the laundry basket in the corner of the room. “Aye, but I did, and here we are.” Crossing my arms over my bare chest, I turn to face her.
She gives an exasperated sigh. “This could have all been avoided if you’d just apologized.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so, Freya. You should have seen how angry she was.”
“A real, heartfelt apology, and she’d have melted.” Freya attempts to raise a brow at me, but it’s plastered to her face in the now cemented mask. “Is she the one scared of you, or are you scared of her?”
“I’m not scared of anything.” Thinking of the anger in Fiona’s face as she went to leave, I admit, “I may have been a wee bit scared of her, in that moment. I saw what they all talk about: gingers having tempers and such. If looks could kill?—”
“Well, you’ve no need to be scared of the wee lass. She weighs no more than eight stone soaking wet and Rose dragged her down to Church of Scotland every Sunday. She’s a forgiving girl.” Pressing her palms against the counter, she pops back down. “I’ll leave you to it but give her the one thing she really wants. Then, for the love of all that is holy in this world, bring her back here. I really miss her.”
Freya turns to leave.
I grab her arm to stop her. “What does she need? Tell me. I’ll give it to her.”
“Think, Callum,” she says. “She not only needs to hear you apologize, she needs you to be sorry. Knowing what you did, no matter your intentions, was terrible. And wrong. And selfish. And?—
I drop her arm. “Alright! You can go.”
She turns again to leave.
“Wait.” I grab her arm to stop her. Again. “Freya, what if she doesn’t want me? How are you so sure she will forgive me?”
“Och, you big lug! Does the girl not melt when you walk into a room? Does she not glow when you take her hand? Does she not laugh at all your tedious jokes?—”
“Enough. I get it.”
She leaves me, walking away.
I murmur to myself. “I’ll figure out what I need to do.”
“Which is?” Her curious face snaps over her shoulder.
