Page 78 of On Circus Lane

“Well then.” I pause and then say abruptly, “Great. That’s g-great.”

Ivy nudges me. “Has he broken you?” she whispers, and I give her a repressive look.

Tom uncurls from the sofa and crouches beside us. I try hard to ignore the muscles bunching in his thighs and the scent of hiscologne. This close, I can see how bright his eyes are, the grey almost molten.

“So, the three of us, eh? That sounds wonderful,” he says, grinning at Ivy, who smiles helplessly back. He’s so charming he ought to be illegal. “Where are we going?”

Ivy and I look at each other and then back at him. “We’re not sure yet,” I admit. “We want somewhere pretty that sums up Edinburgh.”

He considers that while I consider the full contours of his lips and remember how soft they’d felt against mine. I become aware that he’s talking when Ivy nudges me.

“Ouch,” I say crossly. I flush when they both look at me. “Sorry. What did you say?”

His eyes are full of amusement now. “I said I might know a place. Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” I say without thinking. Ivy goes still next to me.

Tom seems unaware of the undercurrents. He grins at us. “Great. Let’s meet back here in ten minutes. Wrap up warm.”

We both watch him vanish into his bedroom.

“Doyou trust him?” Ivy asks me in a low voice. “Instant answer, please.”

“Yes,” I say, slumping as though someone just let the air out of me.

Her expression becomes stern. “If you stuff this up, Bee Bannister, I am going to be exceptionally cross with you.”

“There’s nothing to stuff up,” I say automatically.

“Exceptionallycross.”

“Oh, goodie,” I say faintly.

“So, where are we going?” I ask, my breath turning into a white cloud in the air.

We’re walking along Queen Street, and the Christmas lights are neon bright against the gloomy sky. It’s lunchtime, but it feels later.

It's freezing, and I’m very glad Tom helped me buy the coat, jumper, and boots I’m wearing. Everyone we pass is bundled up, and the Christmas music that drifts out of the shops lends the whole scene a festive air that makes my spirits feel light.

Tom grins at me. We’re walking three abreast, and Ivy is holding on to his arm and dimpling up at him. They’ve been talking and laughing for the last ten minutes, and it makes my heart full to see her happy.

“You wanted to see something representative of Edinburgh?” he says.

I palm the camera hanging around my neck and nod. “Yes, I need something for my Insta.”

“Well, we’re going to Stockbridge,” he says. He turns left at Queen’s Street West and starts down a wide cobbled street. It’s lined on either side with tall Georgian houses of yellow-grey brick. They’re five-storey and so beautiful—elegant and graceful with long windows that suggest drawing rooms full of people making polite conversation.

The street is also very steep, and I make note of the fact that the return journey is going to be exceedingly painful for my thighs.

“Stockbridge?” I search my brain. “Ah, yes. The Scottish namestock brigwas derived from the Old Englishstoccbrycgmeaning a log bridge. However, the current bridge is actually made of stone.”

His steps slow and then he smiles and rallies. “That’s the one. It’s a great place. Very pretty, and the place I’m taking you to see is a famous sight, but it’s not immediately obvious.”

“I’m intrigued.”

“You certainly are,” Ivy observes.

Tom’s mouth twitches, but I ignore her with the ease of a great deal of practice. “That will be great.”

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