“Aye, well,” he huffed, his tone gruff, “I’ve got other funds.” He fiddled with the stem of his glass, not quite meeting her eyes.
“Sorry, that was rude. It’s none of my business.” Cassie searched his face, holding back from saying more. Something had triggered his melancholy mood, but rather than pry it out of him like she was dying to do, instinct told her to leave him be, and let whatever was troubling him come to the surface on its own.
An awkward silence crept between them. She swallowed the last of her champagne, studying him over the rim. After the attendant came around and took their glasses, Logan shifted toward her. Even in the roomier first-class seats, his broad shoulders and long legs looked cramped. Maybe her instincts were wrong. Maybe he was crabby from the O’Hare ordeal too, or maybe he just didn’t like flying.
“Everything okay?” she asked. That was a safe enough question. General. Open-ended.
His response was a noncommittal shrug. Or, at least she thought it was a shrug. With the way he was bottled up in the seat, it was hard to tell.
“Logan?” Was he regretting this trip? Wishing he’d never asked her to go? They still hadn’t talked about that moment in bed the other night, when they’d said …
“The show does pay well,” he mumbled, interrupting Cassie’s thoughts.
“What? Oh, we don’t have to talk about that, I never should have asked—” Cassie began, embarrassed she’d ever mentioned the subject.
“But there was a settlement too, you ken,” he cut her off, his voice muted, almost strained as he added, “from Da’s death.” He shifted again, turning away from her to stare out the small window.
“Oh.” Cassie’s breath caught in her chest. She reached out her hand, and his muscles tensed beneath her touch. She recalled that night in the restaurant on their one-month anniversary when she’d asked about his family. Just like now, he’d closed up, his body stiff, voice clipped. She ached to say something, do something to ease the pain etched in every taut line of his body. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago, aye?”
“How old were you?”
“Seventeen.”
Cassie thought about herself at that age, tried to remember what’s she’d been like at seventeen, tried to imagine what it would have been like to lose her father then—God, what it would be like to lose her father now. Her dad had never been the coddling type, devoted to his own passions and interests and often lost in his own little world, but she’d never doubted that he loved her, never doubted that he would be there for her whenever she needed him.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, at a loss for anything else.
“It was an accident,” he said, his voice low as he continued to gaze out at the endless expanse of sky.
She stroked his back, not saying anything, hoping he would open up to her.
After a few moments he let out a breath and faced her. “Da had gone out for his usual gloaming bike ride. He always took a turn on his bike after work.” A twisted half smile cracked the frozen façade of Logan’s face. “For his health, he’d say. Da always joked, he didn’t … he didn’t…”
Logan stopped, his breathing shallow. Cassie sat absolutely still, eyes and throat burning as she watched him struggle to get the words out.
“He didn’t want Mam to outlive him.” A broken, bitter laugh escaped him, the sound unlike anything Cassie had heard before. “The doctors said Da had been lucky, that he’d died instantly. ‘Luck,’ what an interesting word.” Another bitter laugh. “I wonder, did Da feel lucky when he saw death coming around the bend at three hundred plus kilometers per hour?” He rubbed a hand over his face, body shuddering.
Cassie pulled her big Scot toward her, pushed his head down to lay against her, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He leaned into her, burying his face in her breasts as she kissed the tip of one ear, the top of his head, offering the comfort of human touch, the giving and receiving of solace. She glanced around the quiet cabin. While there was nothing inappropriate in their movements, still, there was an intimacy to the moment she didn’t feel like sharing.
On the attendant’s next pass down the aisle, Cassie made a request, and a few minutes later, a soft travel blanket was draped over them both. She rested her chin on Logan’s tousled mane, inhaling the woodsy scent of his aftershave. He snuggled against her under the blanket, nuzzling a wordless thank you in the hollow of her throat.
Emotionally wrung out, lulled by the steady hum of the plane and the subtle thrum of alcohol in her veins, with the quiet weight of Logan’s cheek pressed against her heart, Cassie was asleep before they even reached the Atlantic.
* * *
After landing in Inverness, they rented a car for the two-hour drive to Lochalsh. Cassie stared out the window, entranced by the view. She’d only had a chance to visit Edinburgh on her trip this summer, and while they’d explored a bit of the Irish countryside, this was different. Unlike the rolling green hills outside Dublin, the Highlands rose in craggy brown and gray peaks, tall Scotch pines peppering the landscape.
For most of the ride, Logan was a silent lump slumped behind the wheel, eyes on the narrow road ahead. Occasionally he would respond to Cassie’s oohs and ahs, supplying names of the many lochs they passed. They rolled off his tongue like magic spells, conjuring mist and refracted moonlight: Loch Garve, Loch Luichart, Loch a’Chuilinn, Loch Dùghaill, Loch Carron, and at last, Loch Alsh.
It was approaching ten o’clock at night when he finally turned off the main road and headed up a gravel path. From out of the darkness a house appeared, whitewashed walls shining in the glow of an almost full moon, the many windows framed by shutters painted a blue so deep to be almost purple.
“It’s lovely,” Cassie breathed.
“It’s home,” was all Logan said as he unloaded their bags.
But Cassie heard the note of pride in his voice, and something else too. She swept a glance over the warm and welcoming house and wondered if coming home was hard for him. Of course, it probably was. He hadn’t spoken about his father again, but as they drove, she could sense the tension building in Logan the closer they’d got to his home.
Come to think if it, Cassie was feeling a bit tense herself. She’d never done the whole “meet the parents” routine before. She’d never been serious enough with a guy for things to get this far.
The front of the house lit up in a blaze of light as a woman stepped outside, waving while they approached. Cassie waved back. What am I supposed to say? She wondered, nervous energy flooding her veins. Hi, I’m Cassie, the girl who’s been banging your son silly for the past three months. Oh, and I think I’m in love with him?
As it turned out, Cassie didn’t have to say much of anything. Logan’s mother did plenty of talking for everyone, chattering nonstop, starting with the moment she introduced herself at the door. “Fiona Reid, my dear, and you must be Cassie. Welcome, welcome.”
Before Cassie could reply, she was wrapped in a fierce hug.
“I can see where your red hair comes from,” Cassie said to Logan, glancing up at him over his mother’s head. Fiona’s wild mane of bright red hair was sprinkled liberally with white, but the top of her head barely brushed Cassie’s chin. Considering Logan was six feet and then some, Cassie was taken by surprise. The height must be from his father. She kept that observation to herself.
A grunt was Logan’s only response as he heaved their luggage through the door.
“Let me help you with that.” She hurried to follow Logan inside.
“Don’t fash yerself, sweeting.” Fiona patted Cassie’s hand before opening her arms to her son. “It’s good to see you, laddie. Now, come here and hug your dear old mam.”
Logan grabbed his mother around the waist and lifted her. “Good to see you, Mam,” he said, wrapping her in a hug while the woman’s feet swung several inches above the floor.
“Mind you don’t drop me,” she said. “My bones are getting as brittle as Hilda Heyworth’s sho
rtbread.”
Logan set his mother down and bent to kiss her cheek.
“That’s better,” she said. “Are you peckish at all?”
“Starving,” he growled, his r’s rolling thicker than ever. “I think I’d even eat some of old maid Hildy’s shortbread right about now.”
“Not in my house,” his mother scolded. “Off to the kitchen with you. I’ll put the kettle on the hob, and there’s a batch of dumplings, made fresh this morning.” Fiona strode down the hall, motioning for them to follow.
Logan grabbed Cassie’s hand and pulled her down the hall after his mother. “You’re in for a treat.”
She squeezed his hand back, relieved to see the familiar twinkle in his eye.
As Fiona set out bowls and spoons on a table made from wide planks of a glossy, honey-colored wood, she pelted them with questions. Not waiting for an answer before asking more questions, she bustled about the kitchen, making tea and asking how the drive down from Inverness was.
Finally, after she’d served each of them a heaping portion of dumpling and set out a fresh pot of sweet-smelling cream, Logan’s mother settled herself on the bench across the table. “Well, don’t be shy, hen. Eat up, eat up.”
Cassie examined the contents of her bowl, staring down at what resembled a spongy fruitcake. She copied what Logan was doing and poured a generous helping of custard cream over the top of her dumpling before digging in.
Biting into the dumpling while Fiona stared intently at her should have been unnerving, but Cassie was used to people watching her eat. She’d often featured hot new dining spots on her ChiChat segment, covering everything from Michelin-starred restaurants on the Magnificent Mile to trendy food trucks on the South Side. Being filmed taking giant bites out of a candied bacon burger or slurping noodles at a new ramen joint had been a regular part of her job.
The dumpling’s texture was surprisingly soft, the taste spicy—a cross between bread pudding and gingerbread. “This is delicious,” Cassie said, spooning up another bite, glad she meant it.
“Thank you, dear. It’s my gran’s recipe, you ken. I’ve messed with it a bit, to be sure. I prefer to make lots of wee dumplings rather than one portly ol’ pudding. But the ingredients haven’t changed much in more than fifty years.” As Fiona set another dumpling in Cassie’s bowl, she continued to chatter, and by the time Cassie finally set her spoon down, tummy full to bursting, she had gotten a comprehensive education on the history of the clootie dumpling. She almost wished she’d taken notes to share with Ana, who probably would have loved to try her hand at the Scottish treat.
Cassie glanced over at Logan, who was seated next to her on a bench cut from the same honey-colored wood as the table. He gave her a lazy smile and scooped up the last bite from Cassie’s bowl, popping it in his mouth. When Fiona stood and began to gather up the dishes, Cassie rose to help her, but Logan’s mother waved a hand, insisting Cassie sit and rest after the long journey. Logan eyed the remaining dumplings piled on a tray in the center of the table. He reached for one, and his mother slapped his wrist.
“Don’t make yourself sick, loon.” Fiona grabbed the plate and brought it to a sideboard. Over her shoulder she said, “You can have the rest of these in the morning, I’ll fry ’em for brekkie, aye?”
“Fine,” Logan grumbled.
He was such a picture of thwarted petulant boy Cassie laughed.
Fiona grinned, her lips curving with the same promise of mischief that so often crossed her son’s face. “Clooties are his favorite, you ken.”
“Is that what you were cooking in my kitchen that day?” Cassie asked.
“You tried to cook?” Fiona chortled in disbelief.
Logan shrugged. “Try is the key word,” he said, cheeks growing pink.
Fiona turned to Cassie. “Well,” she said, and her Gaelic lilt drew the word out, giving it weight. “You must be something special indeed, if my son was willing to risk the danger of such a domestic endeavor.”
This time, when Fiona stared at her, Cassie was unnerved by the weight of the woman’s shrewd gaze taking her measure. It was her turn to blush.
Logan came to her rescue, rising from the bench. “Speaking of domestic endeavors”—he took the now clean dishes from his mother and stacked them in the cupboard—“I told Cassie you’d insist on preparing a grand feast when you heard she was missing out on Thanksgiving back home to be here with me.”
“Of course I would.” Fiona laid the dish cloth over the sink and crossed her arms. Her brows wrinkled as she glanced at Cassie. “About that. I know the holiday is on Thursday, but I was hoping we could wait to celebrate on Friday, as Nettie won’t be here ’til then.”
“That’s fine, really. You don’t have to do anything special—”
Logan’s mother cut Cassie off with a click of her tongue. “No more of that, now. It’s my pleasure.”
“Aye, and now that I know how much trouble it all is, it will be my pleasure to help you with the cooking,” Logan said, bending down to kiss his mother’s cheek.
“Is this one of your jests?” she asked, staring up at him. Fiona turned to Cassie. “Stay on your guard with this one, you never know when he has something funny planned.”
“Oh, I’m aware,” Cassie said, smiling as she met Logan’s eyes over his mother’s head.
Fiona shook her head. “Like his da, that man always had some shavie up his sleeve.”
This was Fiona’s first mention of her husband, and Cassie hesitated, unsure how to proceed. “Shavie?” she asked.
“A joke, you ken—a prank. Full of mischief, my Cameron was.” Fiona tilted her chin, looking heavenward, eyes shining. “He’s probably running a shavie on some poor angel even as we speak, the good Lord bless him.” Fiona crossed herself and offered Cassie a watery smile. “But there was never any malice in his pranks.” Logan’s mother retrieved the dish towel and wiped her eyes. “The man had a tender heart.”
“Well, he sounds like a wonderful man,” Cassie said, careful to keep her voice gentle. And a lot like his son. She risked a glance at Logan. He was staring at the floor, and in the gleam of firelight from the hearth she caught the twitch of a muscle in his jaw.
“He was. He was indeed.” Fiona set the towel aside again and took a deep breath. “Now then, it’s late and I’m sure you’re both tired. Let’s find you some beds then, shall we?”
* * *
When Logan’s mother had said “beds,” she’d indeed meant beds, as in plural, separate bedrooms. Fiona had escorted Cassie to a guest room on the first floor, a lovely suite with an attached private bath and a breathtaking view of the loch. Not long after, Logan dropped off her bags and kissed her good night, but he’d been different. Not cold exactly, but stiff … distant. Before Cassie could talk to him and try to chip away at the wall rising between them right before her eyes, he’d excused himself, taking his things upstairs to what Cassie presumed was his boyhood room.
She wished he would talk to her some more, share what he was feeling, let her comfort him as she had on the plane. Even though the long day of travel had worn her out, with the way things had been left between them, she thought she’d be up tossing and turning all night. But the fluffy feather pillows and thick down coverlet made her feel like she was going to bed on a cloud. The next thing she knew, it was morning and the decadent smell of fried dough was nudging her awake.
Stretching, Cassie inhaled deeply and realized she was starving. Considering the amount of clooties she’d downed last night, she couldn’t believe the way her stomach growled as she dressed and brushed her teeth. When she entered the kitchen, she said as much to Fiona, who was standing at the stove flipping dumplings, her hair tucked in a braid that made her look years younger.
Logan’s mother laughed. “Och, that’s the Highland air for you. Works up a serious appetite.” She pointed her spatula at the sideboard. “There’s juice and tea, if you like.”
“Cassie prefers to kickstart her day with a jolt of somethi
ng stronger,” Logan said, his deep, raspy morning voice making both women jump.
“Whisky is in the cupboard to your left, aye?” Fiona winked.
“No.” Cassie laughed. “Just coffee, please … that is, if it’s not too much trouble? I don’t want to impose.”
“Did that parcel I sent you arrive?” Logan asked his mother. She nodded and waved a hand toward the pantry. He ducked under the low doorway and disappeared.
Cassie couldn’t help feeling a flash of disappointment. No good-morning kiss? Heck, she’d not even got a “good morning” from the man, period. A moment later he reappeared, and Cassie watched curiously as Logan began to tear packing tape off a large box. “What’s that?”
“You’ll see.” He raised a brow at her and went back to unpacking the box.
“Is that…” She trailed off, not wanting to sound too hopeful.
“It is,” he said as he set the French press on the counter. “I know how you like your coffee dark and strong, lass.”
Cassie clapped her hands in delight when Logan reached back into the box and pulled out a bag of her favorite brand of coffee beans.
Fiona abandoned her post at the stove and watched with a bemused expression as her son went about setting up the coffee maker. She opened the bag and peeked inside, then turned and eyed the press curiously. “Do you brew the beans whole, then?”
“Christ,” Logan swore.
His mother sniffed. “While I agree this smells strong enough to bring the good Lord back from the dead in one day instead of three, curb yer tongue in my kitchen, if you please, laddie.”
“Sorry.” Logan frowned and took the bag of beans from his mother. He looked up at Cassie. “Sorry,” he said again. “I forgot to order a grinder.”
“Oh well,” Cassie said, “it’s the thought that counts, right?” And it was true. He’d thought about what she liked. Taken the time to do something to make her happy. She smiled at him. An answering grin lit his face, green-gold eyes twinkling, making her heart do funny little cartwheels inside her chest. “I love it,” she whispered, going up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. I love you, she wanted to add. But didn’t.
Getting Hot with the Scot--A Sometimes in Love Novel Page 24
