Page 137 of Carry Me Home

‘That,’ I say, ‘was not like kissing my brother.’

Tom laughs. Really laughs – surprised, delighted, wrecked – the sound cracking open doors that have been locked too long. And I want to hear that sound every day. For the rest of my life. I want to be the reason for it.

‘Good to know,’ he says. His thumbs trace my cheekbones. His eyes are bright. ‘To be fair, it’s put me off my game.’

I pull back, ‘I was seventeen. And stupid. And scared.’

‘And now?’

‘Now I’m twenty-eight. Still stupid. Still scared.’ I turn my head, press my lips to his palm. ‘But I’m done running. I’m done pretending. And I’m done letting you stand in the dark.’

He pulls me against him. I press my face into his chest, feel his arms come around me, feel the solid warmth of Tom Darcy holding me like I’m the only thing in the world worth holding. His heartbeat under my ear – steady, fast, certain.

‘I have to go back,’ he says into my hair. ‘To Scotland. Tomorrow. I can’t just disappear – there are patients, the practice, Cara⁠—’

‘I know.’

‘But I’m coming home. As soon as I can. I need to sort things properly – give Cara time, find a replacement⁠—’

‘I know, Tom.’

‘A few weeks. Maybe a month. But I’m coming home.’

I pull back enough to look at him. ‘I’ve waited all this time without knowing what I was waiting for. I can wait a few more weeks.’

He kisses me again. Softer this time. A promise made with his mouth against mine.

‘I’m coming home,’ he says again. Like he needs to hear himself say it. Like he needs to make it real.

‘I know you are.’

Behind us, the pub door opens. A slice of golden light, a burst of noise. Then Jude’s voice, carrying across the evening air:

‘Finally. Finally. Kit, you owe me twenty quid.’

‘Shut up, Jude.’ That’s Brynn.

‘I’m just saying, I called it. Years ago. I said⁠—’

‘Jude. Shut. Up.’

The door closes. The harbour settles back into quiet.

Tom looks at me. I look at him. And we start laughing – helpless, ridiculous laughter, the kind that comes when you’ve been holding on too tight for too long and you can finally, safely, let go.

The harbour. The boats. The last of the evening light on the water. The village behind us, celebrating a baby named Peter.

And Tom’s hand in mine, warm and steady and here.

Finally here.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

TOM

We don’t go back to the party.

I should feel guilty about that. It’s Kit and Isla’s day. There’s cake we haven’t eaten, champagne we haven’t drunk, a baby we’re supposed to be celebrating. But Nina’s hand is in mine and she’s pulling me along the harbour wall and guilt is very far down my list of priorities right now.