It Started with a Kiss, page 1
It Started With A Kiss
Lisa Hobman
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Epilogue
More from Lisa Hobman
About the Author
About Boldwood Books
Prologue
Fin
You know that feeling you get when you know everything in your life is just about to go belly up? Yeah? Well, I had it in bucket loads. The really stupid thing was, if I had listened to my gut and backed out before it got to that particular point, I wouldn’t have been standing in the most embarrassing situation ever. A situation I didn’t even want to be in.
But no.
Like the spineless moron I’d become, I stood there at the altar, waiting for her.
When it got to forty-five minutes after the time she should’ve arrived and no one had been able to contact her—not even her own family—I got it.
I’d been jilted.
1
Fin
Until recently, in all my twenty-seven years, I’ve always done the right thing. At least I’ve tried to. Finlay Hunter—the blue-eyed boy—both literally and figuratively speaking. Never putting a foot out of line but somehow, when it comes to my father, still never good enough.
Having grown up in a very wealthy family, the younger of two sons, I’ve strived to be the perfect prodigy. My brother was an overachiever and had already made my parents proud by qualifying as a GP and becoming a partner in his own surgery. It wasn’t exactly what my parents wanted for him initially but as he saved people’s lives they forgave him for not going into law. So, it was down to me to follow in my father’s footsteps and continue the family business. Therefore, taking my degree in law had been part of the plan. Notice how I didn’t say my plan? My degree had afforded me a great education and good friends, but not a choice of career. I would’ve been working for the family business in some capacity regardless. A serious case of nepotism.
A St Andrews University degree was seen by my family as a status symbol. ‘The Royals study there, don’t you know? If it’s good enough for them...’ A famous phrase often repeated at me by my dad.
I worked my arse off for my qualifications, and it was no bloody picnic, but at the end of the day, to my father, it was simply a necessary piece of paper he could wave under the noses of his corporate cronies. Like I said, a status symbol.
My father, Campbell Hunter, is a senior partner in Hunter Drummond Law, based in the magnificent city of Edinburgh. A high-flyer, you might say, and since a very young age, I too was encouraged to do well, to prosper. My father doesn’t suffer fools and ours was never really a relationship based on what you could call out and out love. I know he loves me. Or at least I think he does. He just never shows it, not really. Never has. Dad is a great believer in keeping emotions in check. ‘No one likes a cry-baby, Finlay,’ was another of his favourite phrases, and so I learned to keep my thoughts, feelings, and emotions to myself. It explains a lot.
Dad wasn’t the kind of guy to play footy on a Sunday with my brother and me. We were both sent to boarding school, and when we were home for holidays, he was always working, so we spent our time with the housekeeper, Henrietta—or Hetty—as Callum and I called her. We didn’t mind at the time because she was great fun. She had awesome taste in music and would smuggle CDs in for me of bands she thought I’d like. I can categorically say that my fantasies of being a rock star stemmed from Hetty.
You may be wondering what of my mother? Where do I start? Isobel Hunter was like a WAG; a footballer’s wife of her day. In her teens, she’d been a fashion model with high society aspirations. She too was from a wealthy family, but it was her looks that propelled her forward. She’s beautiful. Tall, with blonde hair and blue eyes, like my brother and me.
Once she married Dad, she gave up her modelling career and spent her time hosting dinner parties and adding to her ridiculous shoe collection. In all honesty, she was never cut out to be a mother, and regardless of how I tried to get her attention, I usually ended up feeling like an inconvenience. It’s my guess that she would have remained childless if she had met anyone but my father. You see, he’s of the old ‘keep the family line going’ generation, and I’m pretty sure the fact that he had male children was a bonus for him. Shame he never showed it. So in stepped Hetty. And I, for one, will be eternally grateful for her compassion and care.
My older brother, Callum, was the opinionated one. From an early age he rebelled, insisting he would choose his own path in life. He said that law looked boring and he couldn’t imagine being a stuffed suit, shouting at other stuffed suits in a courtroom until the loudest suit won. Mind you, he’d argue black was white and up was down if he thought it would get a rise out of Dad, and there was always some feud going on between them. They were far too alike; two strong-willed alpha male characters vying for dominance over each other and neither willing to back down. It was due to this reason that I took it upon myself to be the better son. The compliant one. All I wanted was for Dad to be proud of me. But looking back, even when I graduated with a first, he didn’t tell me he was proud of me. Instead, he bought me a new sports car and told me I was expected at the firm the following week to begin work.
That was over four years ago.
I suppose I should tell you about my fiancée. Or should I say ex-fiancée.
Elise Drummond is the daughter of Eoin Drummond, my father’s partner at the law firm. She and I were kind of thrust together as teenagers. It was clear right at the start what our parents’ intent was. She was sweet and pretty. Long dark hair, almost black, in fact, and bright green eyes. But she was quite thin. Now, I don’t intend to ‘thin shame’ her by mentioning that. I just prefer women with curves in all the right places, if you get my meaning. Elise didn’t have curves to speak of. But she was… well… nice enough.
When we were twenty, we started dating—another contrived setup by our respective parents. You’d think in 21st century Britain there would be no such thing as arranged marriage, but in a roundabout way, that’s what we were being ‘guided’ into. We both silently acquiesced without protest, neither of us wanting to rock the proverbial boat. I grew fond of her if I’m honest, and for a long while, she was my best friend. I could talk to her about almost anything. I say almost because there were things I couldn’t say to her because they’d no doubt get back to my dad, via hers. Things like the fact that I felt trapped, that it appeared my life was mapped out for me and I had no say. Deep down, I was sure she felt the same way, but neither of us broached the subject, and so life went on.
She too worked for the family firm, which left us with little to talk about apart from our respective cases at the office. And that was it. Our tastes in just about everything were completely different. I loved rock music, but she couldn’t stand it. I loved art, but she preferred plain walls. She loved to travel, but I was a home body. They say opposites attract, but we were more ‘opposites thrown together for the greater good’.
Only it wasn’t our greater good.
We moved in together aged twenty-two, just after leaving uni. The vast apartment was in a stunning area of Edinburgh in an old Victorian building, and Elise chose all the furnishings. But, of course, between the four of them our parents paid for pretty much everything.
The only things I contributed to my new home were some photographs I’d bought from a little craft shop in the city. The photographer, simply known as S.A.M, had captured a totally different side of Edinburgh. He or she had made it look somehow ethereal with the light and the glow to the prints. I loved them. Elise wasn’t keen, but I put them up anyway. I think we had got to the point of living on the path of least resistance, never mind just venturing down it.
Our relationship had been chaste up to moving in together, and rather embarrassingly, we were both virgins until then. In my defence, my upbringing and schooling hadn’t allowed the allotted time for rebellion that most teens get. There were no wild, alcohol-fuelled parties, no one night stands, and no strip clubs. I guess I’d led a pretty sheltered life, but thankfully, so had Elise. Realistically spea king, we’d been promised to one another since before university. It had been a kind of unspoken agreement between our parents that just added to my feeling of being a puppet in someone else’s theatre.
2
Star
My dad’s parents were Spanish but my dad was born in the US. My mom was born in Scotland, like her own parents, but they moved to the US when my mom was tiny for Grandpa Gordon’s work. When my Grandma and Grandpa returned home to Scotland my newly married folks went to live there for six months, and I was born while they were there. My Grandpa called me his little Star and the name apparently stuck. I remember nothing at all of my brief time as a UK citizen as Mom and Dad moved back to the US soon after I came into the world. Why am I telling you this? Simply because it explains the origins of my fascination with all things Scottish.
I grew up in Fort Wayne, Indiana—Midwest USA—But after my grandpa Gordon passed away when I was eight we visited my grandma Agnes, aka Aggie, in Edinburgh to attend the funeral. Being there again, in the place I was born, did something to me. Something fundamental. And even back then at my tender age I decided I’d return again someday.
It wasn’t that I hated my hometown or anything like that. It was simply that Scotland, Edinburgh in particular, had a kind of pull for me. We had this mystical fairy-tale connection you read about in books, and once it took hold it wouldn’t let me go. I read every story I could find that was set in Scotland, from Walter Scott novels to the poems of Robert Burns. I learned all about the heartrending story of a little dog called Greyfriars’s Bobby and how he had a monument by the cemetery he was known to stay by and guard the grave of his owner.
Of all the stories that gripped me, it was Muriel Spark’s The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie that didn’t let me go. Set in Edinburgh and with a strong-willed female at the heart of it, the book sparked something inside of me, and that was it. I was hooked. Edinburgh became even more dear to my heart as it jumped from the pages of the book in the full technicolour of my imagination. I had begun saving when I was ten years old, but in my teens, Miss Brodie captured my soul and determined my ultimate destination.
I had a small selection of good friends at school, but I wasn’t what you could call one of the popular kids. I was the one who shopped at the thrift store by choice and liked to experiment with bizarre fashion. From a very young age, I decided I wanted to have my own identity. I didn’t want to be a carbon copy of anyone else. I added my own personality to whatever I wore, and some kids at school either ignored me or made fun of me for not being ‘normal’—but what’s normal, right? And why strive to be anything other than your true self?
Only, for some bizarre reason, I seemed to be drawn to guys who were the total opposite of me, and those relationships always ended badly. My first real heartbreak came during my final semester. Sully was a handsome, ball-playing, popular guy who needed extra credit towards his football scholarship. Someone in the higher echelons of the school decided that I would be the perfect person to help him achieve that goal.
Without going into all the gory details—I mean, we all know how Pretty in Pink and Some Kind of Wonderful go, right? Let’s just say I fell. Hard. And all the time I was tutoring Sully, he acted like he adored me too. But of course, once my usefulness had expired, I received a letter from him telling me we were from totally different worlds, and that while my quirkiness was sweet and endearing, it just didn’t fit him and his future. He hoped I would find someone better suited to my ‘style’ and that now he was going off to college it would be best if we remembered the good times with fondness. He didn’t even have the decency to speak to me face to face. Idiot. Suffice it to say, I was dropped from my place on Cloud Nine and hit the ground of reality with a huge resounding thud, my heart less than intact, and the ability to even consider trusting another guy was something I couldn’t begin to comprehend.
While I was at college my need to return to Edinburgh grew. I studied art and became obsessed with the paintings of Scottish greats like Samuel Peploe, Henry Raeburn and the works of Charles Rennie Mackintosh. I loved the vibrant colours, the emotion-filled expressions of the subjects and the delicate designs, but mostly I loved how differently each artist had approached their chosen medium. My chosen medium was photography but I used elements and ideas from each of my favourite artists to guide my creativity.
When my time at college was coming to an end, with the blessing of my parents, I set the wheels in motion for my relocation to the UK. I renewed my passport and confirmed that my dual nationality would allow me to live in Edinburgh with my Grandma Aggie and to work. Then, after my parents and I had attended my graduation ceremony my mom and dad handed me an envelope that contained a plane ticket to Edinburgh, UK. I think I screamed with glee for a half hour solid. I just couldn’t wait to get on that jet, head over the Atlantic and put Sully, heartbreak, and all that painful part of growing up way behind me.
I arrived in the UK around three years ago, aged twenty-two. It was my intention to take a year out before deciding what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, but when I discovered Edinburgh—I mean really discovered it—with its intricate stone architecture, peaceful cemeteries, and lofty castle, I decided I was home. I know that sounds crazy, but I just fell in love with the place, the people, the accents, and the atmosphere. You name it—I loved it. My grandma spoiled me rotten for the first year and a half I was here and I loved spending time with her. But as she got older I felt bad for being an extra burden. I managed to find work in a city centre coffee house and a room in a gorgeous apartment close to the town centre, and I moved out. But obviously I visited her every other day and spoke to her sometimes twice a day.
Back then, my camera accompanied me everywhere. You could say I was a little snap happy, but I’ve always been the same. And although I wasn’t exactly rolling in cash or living in Edinburgh Castle, I had a roof and a wage, and that was enough for this uncomplicated, Midwestern girl. My parents were great about the whole thing. They’re so supportive, know I can be trusted, and they always say that so long as I’m happy, and I stay in touch regularly, they don’t mind what I’m doing. I really do miss them but we video call all the time and they’ve visited since I moved here. And of course they know the place so they totally get why I love it here so much.
The apartment in which I rented a room was really sweet. My roommate/landlord told me it was Victorian; it had high ceilings and lots of original features. I loved the fireplace, even though it only had pillar candles in it. The guy who owned it, and the coffee shop, was Alec McVey. He was just great; gay, and the best person to shop with. We had tons of fun, and he’s still a great friend after all these years. The best. So, all in all, I landed on my feet and things were going really well for me.
The coffee house—very originally called McVey’s—is in the main shopping area of the city, just off Princes Street. Every day, on my way there, I walked past the Scott monument with Sir Walter sitting there on his stone precipice. I’d usually say good morning to him and give him a salute, which got me some bizarre looks from people, but I didn’t care. I got bizarre looks most days anyway. Let’s just say I’m a... um... colourful character. I still love my brightly coloured boho chic clothing, and absolutely adore a thrift store, or rather charity shop. Add to this that my blonde hair spends very little time in its natural state and you’ll get why some people balk at my appearance. But I’m an artist and I love to express myself through my appearance. I love to experiment with colour and have been known to have blue, red, and pink hair. Not all at once, though. Don’t get me wrong, I’m colourful, not insane.
