Edward
"Fourteenth: do you-"
The back door banged open and cold air swept through the kitchen with it.
"Right, that's enough, Isla," a voice said, warm and amused and slightly out of breath. "You'll terrify the lad before he's had his second cup."
Hamish McKenzie.
Silver hair, still thick, pushed back from a weathered face. Brown suede jacket over a green shirt, dark jeans, boots dusty from the fields. He had a motorcycle helmet tucked under one arm and work gloves in the other hand. The same sharp eyes as Connor. The same smile.
Isla opened her mouth to protest. Hamish leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to her temple. "Morning, love. Stop bombarding him."
She huffed but she was smiling. "I was only on question fourteen."
"Exactly," Hamish said, and turned to me. He set the helmet and gloves down on the counter, then crossed the kitchen in three strides and held out his hand. His palm was rough, calloused. A farmer's hand.
