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“Did you fret?” Niall poured a mug of tea and passed it to her. “Help yourself to milk. I have a theory people are born punctual or not. If you’re a punctual child, but the adults in your life aren’t, it can make you a bit edgy.” As a family, the Quinns were very punctual.

“I felt conspicuous.”

“Ah.” He took the food container from her, flipped the lid and wound back the foil packaging. “You don’t like to be the centre of attention.” He held the container under her nose. “Sniff.”

“I beg your”—she closed her eyes and sighed—“fruit and rum.”

“Kate may have overdone the rum. Although Mum subscribes to the view you can’t have too much rum in Christmas cakes.”

“It’s a bit early for Christmas.” She accepted a generous slice on a paper serviette, her rare smile rivalling the sun for warmth. “Who’s Kate?”

“My brother Liam’s wife. She’s pregnant. Thinks she might be too pregnant later in the year to make cakes, so is starting early. This is a test. She wants feedback.” Placing his slice between them, he poured his cup of tea and set the carry bag on the ground. “Moaning and hmming doesn’t count as feedback.”

“It’s delicious.”

He took a bite, savouring the rich flavour. “It’s pretty good, but I might encourage her to keep practising.”

“More than one slice and you probably shouldn’t drive.” She eyed the remaining crumbs. “It’s a shame to waste any.”

“I won’t tell a soul you used your napkin as a funnel.” He enjoyed her dilemma about the crumbs, like the smear of pickle and the sesame seeds on her plate. She wasted nothing. Most people he knew who shared her attitude had gone without at some stage in their lives.

“You’re encouraging bad habits.” But she followed his lead.

“You’re allowed to lick your fingers at picnics.”

She rolled her eyes and licked sticky fingers.

Lust hit with the suddenness of whiplash. “How old were you when you moved in with your grandparents?”

“Ten.”

He swallowed, taking the empty cup from her. “Both parents dead?”

“I’ve never met my father.” Her eyes held the bravado of a child who’d been mocked in the playground.

“You were christened McTavish?”

“Mum wouldn’t have entered a church if you’d paid her.” She outed her mother as the heathen daughter of Scottish Presbyterians.

“How did your mum die?” Niall tucked the items back in his bag, letting the ordinariness of his actions drain the question of any insult.

She crossed her arms over her chest, defensive but not hiding. “What makes you ask?”

“Cam never talked about how she died. He was very protective of you and your mum.” Niall had put it down to being an old-style gentleman. Given Cam’s silence on Niall’s real work, he wasn’t so sure anymore. Lucy had a feminised version of Cam’s wide, intelligent brow and determined chin, although her upturned nose was her own. Her skin was lovely, not flawless, but a warm cream. Niall’s fingers itched to explore whether it would feel as silky smooth as it looked. At the funeral, she’d looked fragile enough to break. Having a purpose was giving her new energy. He leaned forward, more vanilla and rose teased his senses.

Will I taste rum if I kiss her?

His brain told him kissing his landlord would be a mistake, though it wouldn’t be the first time in his life he’d made a mistake. “There was a kid at my primary school. His mum died young.”

“How did his mum die?” She stared straight ahead.

“An accidental drug overdose.” Niall sensed her tremble and understood Lucy’s mother hadn’t intended to die the night she did. “A stronger batch than she was used to.”

She turned and met Niall’s gaze, resignation in the set of her jaw. “Finish your story.”

“Billy was watchful, like you. When he thought no one was looking, he licked the plate. Like you’d like to.” He paused. “He was part of our after-school gang.”

“I know the rest of this story.” She left the words “like mine” unspoken, but the bitterness was as sharp as burnt coffee. “You don’t know where he is now, because you just lost track of him, or he lost track of you.”