#ldyglfr62

“You should go on vacation,” Prim says when I phone to tell her the news. “That way, you can skip the wedding without looking like a jerk.” Trust Prim to cut right to it. Because she’s right; even though Gale is my oldest friend, I’d rather rip out my intestines with a fork than watch him marry the woman of his dreams while all of our mutual friends look at me with pity.

“I can’t go sit on a beach somewhere by myself,” I groan. “That’s even more loser-ish than going to my ex’s wedding stag.” But the wheels are turning. I do need to get away, and not just from the wedding. I could use a break from my entire pathetic life. “Maybe I could go see Effie?” I mumble. My late mother grew up in Ireland, she moved to America before I was born to marry my father. Her sister still lives near Dublin, and is always asking me to come see her. It’s been a long time since my last visit.

A fabulous deal on the flight seals it. Since I’m a freelancer, there’s no one to arrange vacation time with. I can work from anywhere that there’s an internet connection. My neighbour agrees to check my mailbox periodically, and my friends all understand.

o-o-o

I arrange to stay six weeks with Effie. The first week passes in a haze of jetlag, lumpy pillows, and daily afternoon tea on her garden-gnome-and-flower-strewn patio. It’s calm, quiet.

Since I’ll be gone over my birthday, Prim insists on paying for a week-long bus tour of the Scottish Highlands for me, both as a birthday gift, and as a break from my aunt. “Better not be one of those singles tours,” I grumble as she details everything over Skype while I sit in Effie’s formal living room, surrounded by creepy porcelain dolls, a pair of lace doilies protecting her mahogany table from my computer. Prim’s in med school in Seattle, I haven’t seen her since Christmas, and I think she feels guilty about not having been there for me - in person - when Gale and I broke up, no matter how many times I tell her that I’m fine about it. But since Effie is already driving me crazy, I don’t put up much of a fight.

“Do those exist?” she asks, and on my shitty laptop screen she looks pensive. I can tell she’s wishing she’d thought of looking for one. “Wild and Sexy Tours. Huh. I wonder if I can change it…” She starts clicking away on her keyboard and I balk.

“No, geez Prim, this is fine, great really.” The website she’s linked me to shows small tour buses, catering mostly to elderly vacationers. Just my speed.

“Have you met anyone over there yet?”

“Sure, Effie’s friend with the strange beard came by for cocktails yesterday.” Prim’s face screws up.

“That’s not what I mean, Katniss. Have you been out to the pubs at all? Or gone to a rugby match?” At my shrug, she groans. “Dammit, you’re too young to be spending your time holed up with Effie’s antiques. You need to get out there, meet people, date.”

“I’m not really ready for that,” I tell her, and I can see by the way her expression changes to pity that she thinks I’m still hung up on Gale. I don’t bother correcting her. Gale and I should never have been more than friends, we both knew it, but being together was easy, like a comfortable pair of jeans. I’m not in love with him, I really never was. But I’m not anxious to put myself out there just yet. Or maybe ever. Because Gale’s the only guy I’ve ever been with. At not-quite twenty-seven, I have no experience dating at all.

“Just promise me you’ll talk to some of your tour mates at least,” she says sadly. And I promise, because I can never tell my sweet sister no.

o-o-o

Edinburgh is a confusing mess of streets and hills and hilly streets and more freaking hills, and by the time I find my way to Waterloo Place, where I’m supposed to catch the bus tour, I’m late and in a panic. When I see the little red bus still at the stop, I’m almost weak-kneed with relief.

“‘Bout time you showed up, Sweetheart,” the driver grumbles, grabbing my backpack and tossing it unceremoniously into the back. I climb on board, and my heart sinks. I’m too late to have gotten one of the single seats, and am now going to be stuck sharing. There are only two empty seats, one on the bench in the very back, between a young woman with spiky hair and a serious case of bitch face and a man who might be a professional football player; the other right behind the driver, next to a startlingly handsome man, who glances up at me through a mop of ashy blond waves, and smiles shyly.

I hope Blondie isn’t a talker.

o-o-o

Blondie is a talker.

His name is Peeta Mellark, and he fills the first hour of our drive north with mostly one-sided conversation. But I find I don’t mind all that much. He’s Irish, from a village on the Irish sea, and his gently lilting accent is much nicer to listen to than the rough Scottish burr that our driver barks as he points out one thing or another along the route.

“You know a lot about Scotland,” I finally say.

Peeta smiles wistfully. “My da used to bring me here, when I was small. We’d walk the hills and sleep in the heather.”

“How long has he been gone?” Peeta lifts an eyebrow, but I know I’m right. I recognize the look in his eyes. It’s the same expression I wear when I think about my own father, whose death when I was just a kid marked the beginning of the end of my idyllic childhood.

“I was seventeen when he passed,” he says quietly.

“You miss him.” It’s not a question, I can see in Peeta’s eyes. He nods. But any further discussion is cut off by our first stop on the tour.

Though it’s a bus tour, it turns out to be a fairly active one. We make multiple stops all along the route to the Highlands, exploring an ancient cathedral, touring a distillery, even visiting a heritage village. And as what appears to be the only two people travelling alone on the tour, Peeta and I end up spending most of the day together.

It’s… nice. He’s sweet and interesting, and it’s refreshing to talk with someone my own age.

When we arrive at Inverness, our stop for the night, I realize that Peeta and I have been assigned to the same bed and breakfast, along with the linebacker, whose name is Thresh,  his girlfriend Rue, and our driver, Haymitch. That’s going to make keeping to myself that much more difficult, I realize. Then Haymitch arranges for the whole group to eat together at a pub on the river. I want to say no, that I’m too tired or some other excuse, but somehow I get sucked along anyway.

I hate being forced into group situations, but Peeta, seeming to sense my unease, sits beside me and acts as a bit of a buffer between me and the throng, not speaking for me, but deflecting attention when I get overwhelmed.

And it’s compelling to watch him interact with the others. He’s so friendly and well-spoken, so intelligent and insightful, easily moving between discussing the differences between American football and Gaelic rugby with Thresh, and the impact of Brexit on tourism in the Republic with the South African lawyer seated at the next table.

And though I promised myself that I wouldn’t think about Gale, it’s impossible not to compare him with Peeta. Gale has always been sort of closed minded; conversation with Gale is only possible on the narrow range of topics he cares about, and generally involves either a recitation of his opinions with no room for dissent, or a re-living of his glory days. But Peeta is so thoughtful, I watch him absorb and consider everyone’s viewpoints, watch his reflect back intelligent discourse in a way that feels engaging and exciting, not like a firestorm. I can’t help thinking that maybe Prim is right. Maybe I do need to spend time with people my own age instead of feeling like I’m still stuck in highschool with Gale.

o-o-o

The sun rises ridiculously early in Inverness, and the curtains in my room are barely translucent. By five-thirty, I’ve given up on sleep entirely, and decide to sneak down to the common lounge, where the wifi signal is better.

I’m surprised to find I’m not alone. Peeta is already there, dressed for the day and facing the large plate glass window, beyond which the sky is streaked in pink and amber. He doesn’t hear me at first, and I can see in the reflection that his usual easy expression has been replaced by something more intense and removed that suggests an entire world locked away inside him. I decide to steal away, to leave him to his musings, but he catches the motion and turns, the faraway expression resolving into a smile that seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me. “Good morning, Katniss,” he says.

“What are you doing up so early?” I ask. There’s an empty teacup on the windowsill, he’s clearly been here awhile.

“I’m a baker,” he laughs. “I’m used to the pre-dawn wake-ups.” I grin, I heard him mentioning his business over dinner, and I’m curious about it.

He makes me a cup of tea, and another for himself, and as we sit together in the early morning hush he tells me about the bakery he owns in the tiny coastal village where his family has lived for generations. The picture he paints of his bucolic life there makes me ache, my own empty, tetherless existence in sharp contrast to his certainty. It makes me realize how stunted my growth has been, having wasted all of that time with Gale. Playing things safe instead of living.

I’m ready to live.

o-o-o

Our tour guide, Haymitch, is gruff and grouchy, but he seems to know all of the hidden gems of Scotland. As we head to the Isle of Skye, he makes frequent stops to walk nature trails with stunning waterfalls, to show us multiple off-the-beaten-path lookout points, and we even spend a glorious hour searching for shells on a Carribean-blue beach. But in the mid afternoon, the bus starts to make a strange noise. And as we pull into our next stop on the itinerary - the enchanted-sounding Fairy Glen - it comes to a shuddering halt.

“Ah shit,” Haymitch grumbles.

“Well,” Peeta murmurs in my ear. “There are worse places to get stuck.”

He’s right, this place is utter magic. As a group, we explore the strange rolling hills and mini lochs of the glen, walking the concentric rings and pressing coins into cracks in cave walls. Peeta is half mountain goat, I swear, practically jogging up the steep hills, gently teasing me as I lag behind. My laughter, unfamiliar but free, echoes all around.  

And eventually, Peeta and I end up in a little meadow-like depression at the bottom of one of the hills. I haven’t felt so free since I was a kid. I’d love nothing more than to lie in the grass and watch the clouds float by; when I say so, Peeta pulls off his sweater and spreads it on the ground, tugging me down to lie beside him, my head pillowed on his arm.

I must drift off because the next thing I know, the patchy blue sky has clouded over completely, and Peeta is sitting beside me.

“Peeta, you should have woken me,” I say, rubbing the sleep crud out of my eyes.

“For what? Nothing’s going on here,” he says. “Besides, I like watching you sleep. You don’t scowl. Improves your looks a lot.” This, of course, brings on a scowl that makes him grin. “I’m kidding,” he laughs. “You’re beautiful, scowling or not.”

Something flutters in my chest, but I push it away. I don’t have room for that in my life. Instead, I nod towards the notepad in his hands. “What’s that?”

He tilts the paper towards me. It’s not writing, like I’d assumed, but a drawing. A sketch of a sleeping girl. My breath catches at the image on the paper. It’s me, clearly, and the talent in the pencil lines is mind-blowing. But it’s more than that. The girl in the picture looks softer, calmer, like all of her worries have been cast away. Peaceful. No, not peaceful… content. I haven’t been that girl in a long time. “This is incredible, Peeta,” I whisper.

“I have an eye for beauty,” he says, and it should sound cocky, like a come-on line. But from him, with those earnest blue eyes smiling, it just doesn’t.

Haymitch comes stomping into the clearing, greasy handprints marring his kilt. “Bus is fixed, git your arses on it,” he grunts.

Peeta gathers his sweater and notepad, and we trudge back to the bus. The tour continues in near silence, but it’s a good quiet. A comfortable quiet. Peeta wraps his arm around my shoulder and I find myself leaning into him as he strokes my hair. It’s uncomplicated and intimate. And though I’ve never been a cuddly person, I love it.

Our last stop is a trail that winds around a glassy Loch. The whole group is subdued, introspective maybe. Or maybe just hungry. Peeta and I lag behind though, enjoying the calm.

We emerge from the cover of the trees into a patch of yellow flowers, glowing in the sunlight. “Gorse,” Peeta answers my unasked question. “It’s everywhere at home too.”

“They smell fantastic,” I sigh. “Coconutty. Like the beach.” He chuckles, but when I reach for the golden flowers, he grabs my hand. I scowl.

“Thorns,” he says, delicately moving the blooms aside to show me that what I thought were flat leaves or needles are actually sharp spines. “Beautiful on the outside, but nasty underneath.”

“Just like me,” I say absently, but his brow wrinkles.

“No, Katniss,” he says. “You’re not like the gorse. You’re a bluebell.” I roll my eyes, but he continues, so earnestly. “Bluebells are shy, unassuming. Most people hardly notice them.” He leads me with a gentle hand on my lower back to the shady part of the hill. Only when he points them out do I realize the bluebells are in full bloom here. “But they’re strong and resilient, stubborn even. And once you see them, you can’t tear your eyes away from their beauty.” I turn to face him, but his hand doesn’t fall away, shifting instead to trace circles on my hipbone.

I want to scoff, to dismiss his words as the polished pick up lines of a player. But I can’t. As I stare at him, utterly speechless, he reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I lean into his touch, and he smiles, just the barest lift of his lips. Sweet and hopeful. Before I can even consider what a terrible idea it is, I lift up on my toes and kiss him.

It’s a gentle kiss, but the desire that flares in my gut from that brief touch is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I haven’t kissed a lot of guys in my life, a handful back in highschool, only Gale after that. But no kiss has ever before felt so electric. I need more.

It’s clear he agrees, because almost as soon as I press my lips to his again, he takes control, one huge hand cupping my cheek, tilting my head to deepen the kiss. Exploring me thoroughly. I can’t hold back the little noises that escape me, and he groans softly in response.

I lose all sense of time and place, gripping his shirt, kissing him with a passion I wasn’t certain I was even capable of. It’s only when I hear the rest of the group heading down the path towards us that I pull away, reluctantly.

Peeta’s eyes flutter open, heavy-lidded, pupils fat. “I have wanted to do that since the first moment I saw you,” he whispers.

We don’t talk about the kiss, but for the rest of the day Peeta holds my hand. Even through dinner at a quiet little restaurant right on the harbour, he plays with my fingers, looking at me with something like adoration.

When we get back to our B&B I’m not ready for the evening to end. But there are other guests in the common lounge, playing a raucous game of cards. “Would you like to come to my room?” I ask, then immediately feel heat climbing up my cheeks. “Just, uh, just to talk a while longer.” I can’t meet his eyes. I’m incapable of flirting, or of communicating at all, really. Yet he follows me unquestioningly.

We sit side by side on my bed, talking. But there’s a tension between us that wasn’t there before, a crackling awareness. I don’t even know who makes the first move, but one minute we’re talking, the next I’m sucking on his tongue and his arms are pressing me tightly to him.

Kissing Peeta here in my quiet room is even better than on the nature trail. Free from distractions, I can let my hands wander, trace the firm musculature of his shoulders and arms, feel the pull and flex of his back. He unravels my braid and runs his fingers through the locks. “Beautiful,” he whispers against my lips.

We kiss and caress, hands becoming more bold. It’s when he lays me back on my bed, the hard length of his body cradled by my own, that I begin to panic. “Peeta,” I start. “I really like you.”

He pulls back just enough to look at my face. Then he smiles fondly. “But you’re not ready,” he says, and I’m shocked that he anticipated my words. “I know,” he says, and there’s no anger, he doesn’t even look disappointed. “We won’t do anything that you don’t want to,” he promises.

“Could we keep kissing?” I sound all of thirteen, pathetic and immature. But he doesn’t laugh at me.

“I’d like that,” he says.

We kiss and touch, chastely, fingers on napes and cheeks, tangled in hair. Making out like teenagers. Like the teenager I never really was. And eventually we fall asleep wrapped around each other.

o-o-o

I expect the morning to be awkward, but it isn’t. It isn’t at all. When I wake up, he’s still there, lying beside me, awake and smiling contentedly. He kisses me, just lightly, before retreating to his own room to get ready for the day.

We tour two different castle ruins, climb down (and back up) a gorge, and check out dinosaur fossils. He’s gently affectionate through it all, holding my hand, kissing my cheek, but never demanding anything else.

But I tug him into my room and my bed again that evening. And again he kisses me to sleep.

o-o-o

Gale’s wedding day falls on the fourth day of the tour. I’m cranky, and Peeta notices. He asks me what’s wrong but I brush him off. But even in the face of my moodiness, my pique and my - as Haymitch says - ‘slug-like charm’, Peeta is patient with me. Willing to take whatever little bits of myself I offer. And it’s that acceptance that prompts me to open up to him. In fits and starts over the course of the day as we walk and tour and explore, I tell Peeta about Gale, about the wasted years, about the holding pattern I’ve been in since we split.

He listens attentively, neither judging nor offering platitudes. But his quiet support means the world to me. “Do you still love him?” he asks as we sit on the dock in a quiet harbour town, watching the seabirds circle and dive.

“I never did,” I confess. “But after so long, I don’t know how to move on.”

When we return to the B&B, I again tug Peeta into my room. But this time I know something has shifted between us. Our sweet, chaste kisses rapidly escalate. And though Peeta tries to slow us down, tries to be a gentleman, I want more. And after a few attempts, he gives up on the idea of reining us in, surrendering to my demands and my searching fingers.

Our clothes fall away, until I’m down to my bra and underwear, and he’s only in shorts. He stares at me in awe, as if I’m something exotic instead of plain Katniss Everdeen, far too bony and wearing threadbare panties. And though I’ve only ever been naked in front of one man before now, I don’t hesitate to reach behind me to unhook my bra. But Peeta stills my hands. “Are you sure?” he asks. “We don’t have to…”

“I want to,” I tell him.

When the cotton falls away, he shudders. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, licking his lips. “You have no idea, the effect you have.”

“Show me,” I whisper. And he does. In his arms, I get what might be my first taste of real, raw passion. Sex with Gale was fine, good sometimes. But never like this. As I shatter, and shatter, and shatter again, everything I think I know about myself is turned inside out, and I am changed forever.

It’s fucking terrifying.

o-o-o

The last day of our tour is quiet, too quiet. The weather is unsettled, the group members tired. Even Haymitch has lost his sarcastic edge. Leaves me too much time to think about Peeta, sitting next to me. Playing with my fingers and humming in contentment. Too much time to panic.

How can I say goodbye to this man? This man who has opened my eyes and my heart, who has shown me the barest hint of a life I never even knew I was missing out on.

What choice do I have?

It’s pouring rain when we pull into the stop at Waterloo Place, and in the soggy pandemonium of luggage unloading, it’s easy for me to grab my small backpack and slip away unnoticed. I get into the first available cab and am whizzing up the Royal Mile within moments.

I don’t look back.

o-o-o

I love Effie, I do, but sometimes I just need to get away. There’s a coffee shop near the rail station that’s a perfect escape, it’s outside of the touristy area and the patio is a great place to people watch.

A swarm of men in sharp black suits rounds the corner, heading straight towards me en route to the train. Slim-fit wool trousers cling appealingly to athletic bodies before spilling downward in perfectly pressed lines to where polished black shoes click on the cobbles. It takes a moment to realize that, no, the swarm of outrageously attractive men sauntering in the spring sunshine are not, in fact, men at all, but boys. Irish schoolboys - fifth and sixth years by the looks of them -  splendid in their crisp white shirts, perfectly tied windsor knots and shiny shoes. I shake my head at myself. Leering at a bunch of teenagers? I’m too old for that. In my defense, they’re much better dressed than any of the men I know. I mean, I assume Gale wore a suit to his wedding, but it would have been the first time. Even when he dragged me to his senior prom, he wore a dress shirt open at the collar and a leather jacket.

I bet Peeta wears crisp suits like these, though.

And just like that, my mood falls again. I miss him. I miss him so much. I’ve spent the past five days lying to myself, trying to make myself believe that the week we spent together was no big deal, a little fun, a lot of great sex, nothing more. But my heart, the frail, foolish thing, is singing another song. I miss him. I feel his loss acutely, despite only having known him a few days. I know I made the right choice, leaving him on that rainy Edinburgh street. His life is here, and mine, what’s left of it, is in Philadelphia, I guess. There’s no chance of a future for us. And no sense mooning over impossibilities. But it doesn’t mean I haven’t fantasized about hiring a car and driving to the coast, just to see him one last time.

It’s the melancholy that’s making me see things. In the middle of the group, a golden head stands out. For a split second, I’m sure the broad shoulders and narrow waist attached to them belong to Peeta. But it’s impossible, these are school children, Peeta is back in his hometown, living his life. But the crowd shifts, and I can see his face clearly, blue eyes shaded by lush golden lashes, the smattering of faint freckles that kiss his sunburned cheeks.

And I drop my teacup.

The clatter catches his attention, his head swivels until he meets my eyes. I’m helpless to look away from the myriad of emotions that play across his handsome face. Surprise, relief, joy and anger. But I’m sure my own face reflects only a single sentiment.

Horror.

He says something I don’t catch to the people he’s with, then changes course to walk purposely to where I sit, frozen and mute, heart pounding so hard that I feel light-headed. He covers the few yards in long strides. The sun catches his hair, crowns him in gold as he stands above me, a wide smile curling those sensual lips. “Katniss,” he says, in that molten sex voice that I hear in my head every time I touch myself. The soundtrack to my every recent fantasy. The lament of my regrets. “I didn’t know you were in Dublin! I thought you’d gone back to America! I’m so bloody happy to see you! You were gone so fast after the tour, I didn’t get your number, and you’re not on Facebook.” He’s reaching for me, and my body instinctively reacts, warmth pooling low in my gut. Which is what snaps me out of my stupor. I jump from my chair, angling myself so that the narrow café table is between us.

“Katniss?” His brows furrow in confusion, his hands dropping to slide into his pockets. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re in school?” It’s barely a whisper.

“For another week, yes,” he says, still looking puzzled. As if it isn’t a big deal. A big fucking deal. He’s a child!

“You didn’t tell me you were so young.” I’m not certain I say it out loud until Peeta’s face twists, like he’s tasted something unpleasant.

“I’m eighteen,” he says. “I’ll be nineteen next month.” Eighteen! As if seeing him in that school uniform wasn’t bad enough, the confirmation that he’s a just a kid, that he’s almost nine fucking years younger than me makes my stomach lurch. “Is that a problem? For the record, you never asked.”

“You’re a child!” I say, much more loudly this time, and his frown deepens. “I’m… shit, I’m a pedophile!” Peeta’s jaw tightens, and an angry flush streaks up his neck. He grabs my arm, not hard but not leaving me much recourse, and walks the two of us away from the patio and around the corner of the building, into a quiet alley.

“Knock it off,” he hisses, and for a moment I feel like a naughty child being chastised. Which just serves to piss me off, I’m the grown-up here! I wrench my arm away from him, and back up, crossing my arms in front of me. But the alleyway is narrow and I’ve only moved a step before my back hits the wall. He steps forward, close enough to feel the heat of his body, to feel the tension that radiates from him in waves. “I’m an adult, Katniss,” he says lowly, his words skating across my lips as he leans in. “Old enough to drink, to vote.” His next words brush against the shell of my ear. “Old enough to fuck you senseless.”

A full-body shudder rips through me, equal parts arousal and revulsion. He’s a child! I took advantage of a child! I push against his chest and he takes a single step back, still in my personal space, but giving me enough room to clear my head a little. “I’m, fuck!” I gasp. “I’m twenty-seven. I’m nine fucking years older than you are!”

“Eight,” he says, “and so what? Doesn’t change how I feel about you, or what we have together.”

“It’s wrong-” I start, but he’s having none of it.

“Bullshit! We’re both adults.”

“You lied to me!”

“I did no such thing,” he snaps, but I’m pissed now.

“You told me you owned a bakery on the coast!”

“I do!”

“You’re a child!” His jaw tightens again, I can see the anger in his stormy eyes. Anger and hurt.

His hand reaches for me and instinctively I draw back, but he simply slips my phone out of my pocket. “What the fuck?” I sputter, but he’s already unlocked it and apparently messaged himself.

“Where are you staying, Katniss?” he asks, handing my phone back. I want to tell him it’s none of his business, but I just can’t. The pain in his eyes compels me to tell him.

“My aunt has a house in Clontarf,” I grumble. Peeta nods.

“Come with me tomorrow,” he says.

“What? No, that’s not a good idea Peeta.”

“Please, just do this one thing for me. Then I’ll leave you in peace.” The pain in his eyes is shocking. Guilt eats away at me. It was cruel, I know, sneaking away like a thief in the night. I can see how much I’ve hurt him. He takes my silence as acceptance. “Meet me here tomorrow morning,” he says. “Half eight. Wear a jacket.” Then he spins on his heel and strides out of the alley.

o-o-o

I fight with myself half the night and all morning. I’m not going to show up. He’s not going to show up. I owe him a chance to explain. He’s a fucking child! By the time I make it to the café, I’m an absolute mess.

But an absolute mess wearing mascara and a cute top. I’m a hypocrite, on top of everything else.

Removed from the cold horror of discovering I’d been cavorting with a schoolboy, I have to admit to myself that seeing him again ripped down the walls I tried so hard to construct around my feelings for him. Damn him! Damn him for being gorgeous and sweet and Irish and a toddler!

He pulls up only moments after I arrive, riding a smallish motorcycle, blond curls sticking out from under a black helmet. In jeans and a leather jacket, golden stubble glinting in the thin morning light, he’s even more impossibly handsome. But it’s clear he hasn’t slept well, his wary gaze is ringed with faint purple. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” he says softly, pulling off his helmet. I don’t bother to tell him that until I got off the bus, I wasn’t sure either. I simply shrug. He dismounts; I pretend I’m not checking out his ass in those snug-fit jeans. But he merely pulls a second helmet from his saddlebag, handing it to me without quite meeting my eyes.

“What’s going on?” I ask, but he shakes his head.

“Put on the helmet, Katniss, then get on the bike.”

“Don’t you have a car?” I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle before, and Irish streets with their too-narrow lanes, cobbles, and the whole driving-on-the-wrong-side issue are scary enough in a vehicle with four wheels. His lips twist.

“No. Let’s go, we have a long ride ahead of us.”

It’s madness, but I do as he asks.

I sit stiffly behind him, trying to put some distance between us, but as soon as the bike is in motion, I have no choice but to wrap my arms around him and hold on tight. And having him again cradled between my thighs provokes the most confusing rush of emotions. This is such a bad idea. Such a fucking bad idea.

We don’t talk as he pilots us out of the city, we simply can’t. The rush of wind makes that impossible. But from time to time as we pass through the suburbs, then out into the countryside, he’ll squeeze my knee to catch my attention, pointing out an old tower or a ruin, or just the way the sun catches the gorse on the mountainside, making the world glow in sunny yellow. In spite of what I’ve learned, he seems like Peeta, like the man I met in Scotland. He feels like comfort, and like home. When he points of a patch of bluebells clinging to the side of a hill, my heart hurts. I stop fighting with myself and lean into him, my helmet-encased head resting against his broad back, his warmth soothing me. He squeezes my hand where it wraps around his ribs. Acceptance.

About forty-five minutes later, we drive into one of those quintessential Irish postcard villages, narrow medieval buildings crowded along the street - though here they’re painted in lush pastels - colourful bunting zig-zagging across the road and cars parked haphazardly everywhere. He circles a statue of what appears to be a young fisherman, then heads down an impossibly narrow alleyway, parking the bike in a tiny courtyard.

When he offers me his hand to help me off the bike, I take it gratefully. My legs are like jelly, and not just from the ride. He holds my fingers just a little too long, smiling wistfully. Then we rid ourselves of the helmets, and he leads me out of the alley, to stand in front of a building. It’s tall and narrow, like most of the buildings here are, but unlike most, it has an enormous plate glass window facing the street. The building itself is painted turquoise, and Mellark’s is spelled across the front in swoopy gold letters. “Welcome to my bakery,” he says softly, and with a hand on my back he ushers me inside.

The interior is even more charming than the exterior, and for a moment I can only gawk. Polished wood floors, pristine glass cases displaying a decadent array of goodies, and paintings on every wall that feel familiar. But none of that really means anything, does it? He’s in school, it’s clear that this isn’t really his bakery. It probably belongs to his family, and he works here on school breaks.

I turn my attention to the people working behind the counter, three of them. They smile warmly at me, but right away their expressions change as they catch sight of Peeta. They seem to stand a little taller, attempt to look a little busier. “Peeta,” one of them calls out. “We weren’t expecting you.” Well of course they weren’t, it’s Thursday, he’s supposed to be in school.

In school. Ugh. What am I even doing here?

“Just popping in for a bit,” he says with an easy smile. “Have a little business I need to attend to.” He heads towards a swinging door that separates front shop from back, but pauses with his hand on the frame. “Coming, Katniss?” Three heads snap to me in surprise, and I can feel my cheeks burning as I follow Peeta into a small, but modern industrial kitchen.

Here too, the workers stop and straighten, as if they’re trying to impress Peeta. It’s subtle, but I notice it. He greets each warmly by name. And I quickly realise that it’s not fear that makes them all snap to attention. It’s respect. Inexplicably, all of these people seem to respect him.

But it’s not really that inexplicable, is it? He carries himself with a confidence that goes beyond boyish ego. I can’t reconcile the businessman in front of me with the eighteen year old schoolboy I saw yesterday.

Peeta leads me to a small, windowless office at the rear of the building, and gestures for me to sit. Before I’ve even gotten comfortable, one of the women from the front shop has appeared with a pot of tea and a pair of cups. “Thanks, Dell,” Peeta says genuinely. The woman beams at him, then backs out of the office. I open my mouth to speak, but he shakes his head. “Hang on,” he says. “She’ll be back again.”

He’s right, she reappears a few moments later with a plate of food. I haven’t been able to eat since I saw Peeta yesterday in Dublin, and my stomach clenches painfully at the yeasty, cheesy scent wafting from the treats. “You call me if you want anything else,” she says, and Peeta promises he will. With one last wink in my direction, she leaves and this time Peeta closes the door behind her.

“What was that all about?” I ask, trying not to be obvious in my coveting of the buns. He notices anyway, and pushes the plate in front of me.

“Irish hospitality,” he says absently as he pulls the bags out of the teapot. He knows, even without me ever having said anything, that I prefer my tea weak.

I know all about Irish hospitality, know that Delly would continue bringing us more food and more tea and just generally fussing if Peeta hasn’t shut the office door. But this is different. “Not that. The weird way she was looking at me. She… she winked!” He glances up, and a flicker of amusement crosses his face before the sadness creeps back.

“I’ve never brought a woman here before,” he says. I wrinkle my nose at the implication of that, I can’t decide whether it’s because I’m somehow special or because, as a freaking child himself, I’m the first ‘woman’ he’s been with.

“Why have you now?”

“Because I want you to see me. To see that I am exactly who I said I am. Now eat your bun,” he says, nudging the plate again, “while I tell you about my father.”

My heart breaks again and again as Peeta paints a picture of his life. The only child of a single father, he had a typical childhood right up until his father got sick. Terminal cancer. The man spent all of his remaining time preparing his young son to take over the bakery that had been in the Mellark family for generations. At only fifteen, Peeta traded rugby for accounting, friends for responsibility. He even spent his transition year working full time at the bakery, learning the ordering system, studying food safety compliance.

By the time his father died not quite two years ago, Peeta was running the bakery himself.

He has an uncle who deals with the day to day while Peeta finishes school, something he’s doing because he promised his dad he would. But Peeta is the owner, and the one in charge.

It goes a long way to explain his maturity. He hasn’t been a child in a long time. On the face of it, the story sounds unbelievable. But I know what my eyes are telling me. What my heart is telling me. He may be younger, chronologically. But he’s the one with his life together. While I haven’t really grown since high school, his life has leapt light years ahead.

I sit in silence, picking at the cheese bun - which is incredible but which I can’t really enjoy - feeling like a pile of shit. The office door opens. An older man strides in, clapping Peeta hard on the shoulder. “Peet,” he says. “Wasn’t expecting you today! Glad you’re here though, I have those contracts for you to sign.”

“That’s great, Dalton,” he says, taking the proffered papers, his lips moving as he skims the words. But then he frowns. “The wage is wrong,” he says, pointing.

“They’re students,” Dalton says dismissively, and Peeta’s jaw tightens. It’s fascinating to watch, even if I don’t fully understand.

“That’s not how we do things here. I pay everyone a living wage.” Peeta stands, moving around the desk to take my hand, pulling me out of my chair. “When you’ve redone the contracts, leave them on my desk. I’ll pop in later to sign them before I head back to Dublin.” And with that, we walk out, leaving the older man behind.

We walk down the narrow cobbled street towards the waterfront, weaving among the tourists, past the harbour before finally stopping at an overlook right at the edge of the village. Peeta sits heavily on one of the empty benches, and drops his head in his hands. I lower myself beside him.

“You’re a good boss,” I say softly, breaking the silence that hangs between us. He doesn’t look at me.

“The bakery is more than just a job,” he says. “It’s my father’s legacy and my future. I have eight employees who directly depend on me, not to mention the suppliers and lorry drivers and pubs who benefit from my business too.” He lifts his head to look out over the water, and the weariness I see in his face speaks to a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Yet he’s uncomplaining.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him.

“I’ve never lied to you, Katniss. I might be younger than you thought, but I am exactly the man I said I was, exactly what you saw in Scotland.” Wary blue eyes meet my own. “Can you say the same?” My breath catches. It’s a valid question.

Katniss Everdeen is quiet and closed-off, reserved to the point of unfriendly. Difficult to get to know. Resistant to change. That’s not the woman who spent a week adventuring through the Scottish highlands. That woman smiled more, laughed more. That woman tried new things. That woman opened her heart, if only just a little. I shake my head, and his drops again to stare at his lap. The real Katniss Everdeen is the one who left this kind, gentle man standing on an Edinburgh street in the rain, without a backward glance.

Right now, I don’t like the real Katniss Everdeen very much.

He sighs. “My age isn’t really a problem, is it Katniss? It’s just a convenient excuse. You took off before you knew.” He’s right. When I really search my heart I know that the age gap between us is just a number. In many ways, in most ways really, Peeta is the more mature of us. The one with his priorities straight, with his shit together. Our ages don’t matter at all.

After what feels like an interminable silence, he asks, “Why? Why did you leave without a word? I thought there was something between us. Something real.”

“There is,” I whisper, startling myself with my honesty. He glances up at me, confusion in his expression, but also a heartbreaking flicker of hope. “You’re right,” I tell him. “I was a different person in Scotland. And… and I think I like that person better.” I swallow hard. “I like who I am when I’m with you.

“Then what’s the problem, Katniss?” The hint of frustration in his voice threatens to put me on the defensive.

“Your life is here, Peeta! And I live three thousand miles away!”

“You’re here now,” he says.

“For four more weeks,” I say, and sadness creeps in as I realize that I don’t want to leave him again, that even pissed off and hurt and, yeah, young as he is, just his presence makes me feel alive. “And then what?”

“Why do we have to figure that out now,” he asks. “Why can’t we just take it day by day, see where things go. Live without a plan, without a safety net.” He reaches for me, cradling my face in his hands, and my eyes slip closed. “Live, Katniss. Be the woman you want to be.”

What’s left of my defenses melt away as he kisses me so softly it’s like a dream. My hands wrap around his wrists, holding him in place. Keeping him with me, at least for the moment.

I know the only thing really standing between us is my fear.

“Okay,” I whisper, the words hanging, fragile and afraid, in the space between our lips.

“Yeah?” he smiles. And at my nod, he kisses me again.

I’ve wasted so much time living in complacency, afraid of change. But this feels like a second chance. An opportunity to grow and mature, instead of staying safely stuck in the past. And the part of me that is not so brave as I could wish is glad that it’s Peeta beside me as I step into the unknown.