“If it’s a big enough deal, I don’t have much of a choice.”
“You always have a choice.”
Andrea turned her head so he couldn’t see her face. Maybe she did have a choice, but it had become increasingly difficult to spend time with her sister’s happy family. They loved her, of course, welcomed her, but she didn’t belong there. Small-town girl or not, she didn’t fit into Becky’s cozy life any better than she melded with the domestic scene at the house in Isleornsay.
“So what about marketing?” James asked.
Andrea turned back toward him and abandoned her melancholy thoughts, grateful for the change of subject. If only he didn’t read her so easily. She quickly outlined her thoughts on marketing for the hotel, which she would convey to the London team once she had a signed contract in hand.
Armed only with the knowledge that Fort William was the Highlands’ biggest town, Andrea was unprepared for the charming village that spread from the edge of Loch Linnhe. A jumble of buildings lined the street, some of which looked like they dated back to the eighteenth century, while others were built in Tudor or Georgian styles. Ahead on the motorway, a brown welcome sign proclaimed in Gaelic, Fàilte do’n Ghearasdan, with its English translation—“Welcome to Fort William”—below it. James slowed as they entered the town, then turned onto a small intersecting street where he found a parking spot along the curb.
The morning’s weather had transitioned from threatening to just plain dreary, and a damp wind blew off the loch, throwing Andrea’s hair into her eyes as she stepped onto the street. She buttoned up her wool coat and thrust her hands into her pockets to keep them warm. “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in Scotland,” she muttered.
“I always thought it was San Francisco.”
“Mark Twain must never have come to the Highlands.”
James laughed. “Come, clever girl. And mind your step in those shoes.”
Fort William’s High Street was narrow and bordered by slender, crowded buildings on either side, following the original layout of the road from the town’s days as a military installation. Stone pavers lined the sidewalks, and cobblestones set in a fan pattern undulated down the center of the street. She wobbled precariously on the uneven surface until James guided her to the sidewalk with his hand on the small of her back. She peered into store windows with interest as they passed: one sold woolen goods of all types, from tartan blankets to brightly woven kilts; another a vast assortment of Highland whiskeys.
“I’d be more than happy to stay here while you shop,” James said.
“Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy this, clotheshorse.” She grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him away from the window. “You know what you’re planning for the week. You need to help me.”
He moved away from the display with pretend reluctance, but as she went to release his arm, he put his hand over hers and squeezed it to his body. After a moment of hesitation, she left it there. It had been ages since she’d walked arm in arm with a man. It felt nice.
No, it felt more than nice. The warmth seeping from his body through his coat made her stomach flutter with a delicious nervousness she hadn’t felt in years.
James paused before the door of a small boutique with an attractively dressed window. “This might suit, don’t you think?”
Grateful for the escape from her thoughts, she let go of his arm and ducked into the store. It sported displays of simple, outdoorsy clothing, and she soon had her arms heaped with garments on the way to the changing room. A few quick changes to assure her of her size, and she was back at the counter paying for three pairs of jeans, several simply cut blouses, a quilted gray coat, and a pair of sporty leather shoes that would suit walking or hiking. She retreated to the dressing room to change into several pieces of her new wardrobe.
When she emerged again, James smiled warmly. “Perfect.”
He took one of the paper shopping bags from her hand and held the boutique’s door open for her. Once they stepped back onto the sidewalk, Andrea realized how tall he actually was. In the heels, she had almost been able to look him in the eye, but now she had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze. The feeling of vulnerability took her off guard.
James kept up a constant stream of talk, pointing out landmarks and drawing her attention to shop displays or restaurants he frequented. He could be a comfortable companion when he turned off his ego long enough to be serious.
But that wasn’t quite right either. He was comfortable with his fame and his money, but if Muriel was to be believed, the teasing, playful nature seemed to have grown out of his childhood love of pranks. Maybe Andrea really had done him a disservice with her snap judgment. He would probably act much the same if he were living paycheck to paycheck, working as a short-order cook.
“I’m getting hungry,” she said suddenly. “How is that even possible after your breakfast?”
“Fresh air and exercise. I know just the place. Let’s cross.”
His choice for lunch was a wood-clad pub, wedged between a brick Georgian and a building with a pseudo-Tudor facade. Gold letters on the bright-red sign above the window proclaimed The Blooming Fuchsia.
She opened the door before he could reach it and stepped into the warm, crowded interior.
Polished wooden booths with padded backrests lined the inside walls, and smaller tables with cane-backed chairs clustered in the center of the room. A gleaming mahogany bar with brass accents stretched the length of the opposite wall. The hearty aroma of pub food mingled with the earthy, hoppy fragrance of beer. It was well past lunchtime, but patrons still packed almost every available seat, and voices hummed together beneath the low ceiling.
“Some of the best food in the Highlands,” James said in her ear, his hand resting briefly on her back. “Let’s snag that table in the corner before someone beats us to it.”
They slid into a small booth and took menus from the rack on the wall. Andrea scanned hers quickly, and then snapped it closed. “I’ll trust your judgment.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. It’s your tour of the Highlands. I’ll leave myself in your capable hands.”
He grinned a little too broadly, and she suppressed the childish urge to kick him beneath the table. The waitress approached just in time to save him a knot on his shin.
“A flight of the local ales on tap,” James said immediately. “Steak pie for the lady, bangers and mash for me.”
“I’ve had steak and Guinness pie.” She’d expected something less ordinary, given James’s enthusiasm about the place.
“Not like this you haven’t. It’s the love child of bœuf bourguignon and a Cornish pasty. You’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven.”
She settled back in the seat and looked around the pub. It was more traditional than James’s, now that she had something to compare it to: more clubby, less sophisticated. Maybe she hadn’t given the Hart and the Hound a fair shake after all. He’d managed to achieve the feel of the traditional corner pub while making it upscale enough for the trendy Notting Hill location.
“You never stop, do you?” James said.
“Stop what?”
“Working. Don’t try to deny it. You get this look on your face when you’re analyzing your surroundings. Like you’re trying to sum it all up in a neat paragraph.”
It was exactly what she had been doing. He really did read her too easily. “I was just thinking I owed you an apology for calling your pub middle of the road.”
“I’m not easily insulted,” he said. “I’m just wondering how I might get you to relax for an hour.”
“I know how to relax. This is still a business trip, remember?”
“Even you are allowed a lunch break now and then. Look, here comes your ale.”
Andrea stared doubtfully at the tray the waitress set before them, six small glasses in a little wooden rack. “I’m not going to drink all those.”
“Of course not. It’s just meant to let you sampl
e the different ones from the region.” He removed the lightest-colored ale first and held it up. “It’s a bit like tasting wine. This one is what’s known as a Light 60. First consider what it smells like. Some have notes of chocolate, others citrus or coffee. And then taste.” He slid the glass across the table to her.
Doubtfully, she sniffed the ale. “I smell . . . honey?” He nodded encouragingly. She took a sip, then made a face. “Burnt honey. This one is all yours.”
He smiled, took the glass back, and then passed her another. “Next.”
She sampled the rest of the glasses as James prompted her with questions. His eyes sparkled as he watched her, his arms folded on the tabletop.
“You take this all very seriously, don’t you?”
“Ale is to British food as wine is to French,” he said. “The concept of ale pairing is just as sophisticated. The flavor of one enhances the other.”
Andrea leaned back in the booth, warmed by his enthusiasm. No wonder he was so successful on camera. He loved sharing his knowledge and his skills. People could spot a phony, but she was beginning to believe James MacDonald was the real deal. What a shock to discover it wasn’t just marketing after all. Had she become so jaded she could no longer take someone at face value?
“That’s a grave look. What are you thinking?”
She realized she had been staring at him. She struggled for something plausible to say—anything but the truth—then exhaled in relief when the server approached. “Look, here’s our food.”
“Now who’s changing the subject?” he teased, but he didn’t press as the woman set their plates before them.
Andrea’s first bite of the steak pie was everything he had promised. “This is absolutely phenomenal. Even better than your pasta, if such a thing were possible.”
“Try this.” He pushed his plate toward her. “The bangers are made fresh on site. This is venison, I believe.”
She delicately cut off a small piece of the sausage and tasted it. “It’s good. But the pie is truly died-and-gone-to-heaven perfection.” She devoured the rest of the pie, aware of James’s amusement at her enthusiasm, but she didn’t care. Ladylike went out the window with food this good.
“Do you want to meet the owner?” he asked, signaling the waitress when they were finished. “She’s a friend of mine.”
“Sure. I’d love to tell her how wonderful this was.”
The waitress approached, and James asked, “Is Erica in today? We’d like to give her our compliments.”
The server disappeared through a door behind the bar. A few minutes later a petite blonde emerged, dressed in a black chef’s jacket, hair pulled back into a French braid. Her face lit up when she saw them.
“James! I don’t believe it! What are you doing here?”
James slid out of the booth, and the woman threw her arms around his neck. He squeezed her warmly and released her. “I’m showing a friend around Fort William today. Erica, this is Andrea Sullivan. Andrea, my colleague, Erica Baird.”
Erica held out her hand, and Andrea shook it firmly. “Welcome to the Blooming Fuchsia,” she said in a precise English accent. “How are you finding Fort William so far?”
“Charming,” Andrea said. “James tells me this is your place?”
Erica swept the room with a proud gaze. “It is. I hope you enjoyed the food.”
“Absolutely. The steak pie is amazing.”
“It figures. You didn’t tell her, James?” Erica laughed and rolled her eyes at him. “It’s his recipe. He gave it to me as a gift when I opened the place.”
“Only the filling recipe is mine. You’ve done something special with the crust.” Then James said to Andrea, “If it weren’t for Erica, I wouldn’t have made it through the pastry segment of my advanced certificate. I’m complete rubbish at baking. I owed her one.”
“You went to culinary school together, then?” The pang she felt at the revelation surprised her. Surely it wasn’t jealousy. She didn’t have any right to feel that. Still, the easy familiarity between them hinted at a long and close acquaintance. She just couldn’t tell how close.
“In London, yes. James was the one who told me this place was up for sale a few years ago. I said he was daft for suggesting I move to Scotland. But here I am. The place tends to get under your skin, whether you want it to or not.”
“I’m beginning to notice that.”
Erica gave an emphatic nod. “Well, then, I won’t hold you from your plans. Thanks for stopping by, James. Andrea, it was lovely to meet you. Enjoy your trip.”
“She seems nice,” Andrea said when the chef had retreated to the kitchen. “Old friend?”
James raised his eyebrows. “Do I detect a hint of jealousy there?”
Andrea gave him a supercilious look and took a drink from the nearest glass to save herself a reply. Unfortunately it was the burnt-honey ale she’d rejected earlier, and she narrowly kept a look of disgust off her face. “Your past is your business.”
James didn’t seem to believe her. His eyes traveled to the glass, and his lips twitched. “In any case, we never dated. She’s like a sister to me. She’s done a great job with the place.”
“Yes, she has.” Andrea tried not to feel pleased with the fact he felt compelled to reassure her. She had no right to feel possessive. It wasn’t as if this were a date.
As they left the restaurant, though, and James again tucked her hand between his arm and his body, that was exactly what it felt like.
Chapter Sixteen
They stepped outside into a bright spill of sunshine through the gap in the clouds. Patches of blue winked through the gray ceiling, even though it merely gave the illusion of warmth. The damp, cold air immediately chilled Andrea through the quilted fabric of her new coat.
“Where to now?” James asked.
“I think you promised me a view of the loch.”
“Then to the loch we go.” He turned her down an intersecting street, and the wind that had been blocked by the buildings hit them full force. She shivered as the cold air funneled down the neck of her coat.
They stepped onto the wood pier, and their feet thudded dully against the decking. Only a few pedestrians ventured here on a Wednesday afternoon, either going to the seafood restaurant that dominated the pier or heading for the passenger ferry. James picked a spot at the railing that overlooked the loch and gave a sweeping view of the city behind.
“The ferry goes across to Camusnagaul,” he explained. “You’d get a better view from the tour boats, but if we watch closely, we still might get a glimpse of the porpoises and otters that live in the loch.”
Andrea closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sky, breathing in the loch’s briny scent. The sunshine barely staved off the chill. “The pace is so much slower here.”
“I found it maddening when I first came back from London,” he admitted. “Especially the sheep.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned sheep.”
“They’re a menace on Skye. All over Scotland, actually. Sometimes a flock of them just decides to wander across the road and you have no choice but to wait for them to pass. Forget hurrying them along either. They just stare at you.” He narrowed his eyes. “They lie in wait for motorists and then fling themselves into the road.”
Andrea laughed at the picture he painted, imagining the animals huddled together in a field, plotting their revenge on passing motorists. “I never thought sheep could move fast enough to fling themselves anywhere.” A gust of wind caught her full in the face, and a shiver shook her whole body. “Is April always like this?”
“No. Sometimes it’s actually cold.”
“Tahiti definitely wins this round.” She rubbed her arms for warmth and scrunched down deeper into the collar of her coat.
“This might help.” James reached down into one of her bags and withdrew a bundle swathed in tissue paper. He tore off the wrapping to reveal a woolen scarf, gray and lilac tartan shot through with s
ilver threads. He folded it in half, then draped it gently around her neck and tugged the ends through the loop.
Andrea’s heart thumped against her ribs, the feeling curiously similar to panic. “You shouldn’t have. I couldn’t possibly—”
“Shh. You’ve been freezing all day. Consider it a souvenir of Scotland, and just say thank you.” He tugged down the zipper of her coat, tucked the scarf’s fringed ends inside, then zipped her back up. Somehow he managed to make the gesture both casual and intimate. She struggled to respond, but the words stuck in her dry mouth.
“You don’t like it? I thought since you said your favorite color was purple, and you were wearing a gray suit . . .”
He’d actually put some thought into the gift, and that made it even more unsettling. She looked up and saw the uncertainty on his face. It may have been the first time she’d ever seen him in less-than-complete control of a situation.
“It’s lovely,” she said finally. “And very thoughtful. Thank you.”
He met her eyes and smiled. Even now, it managed to dissolve her composure. “Your hair is caught. Here, let me.”
He slid his fingers beneath the edge of the scarf and freed her hair. His hand against her skin made her thoughts surface sluggishly, muddling all the reasons she should back away. When he bent his head toward hers, she stopped thinking and succumbed to the force that pulled them together, as strong and irresistible as gravity.
Their lips met, just the lightest touch, but it was enough to send a zing of electricity across every nerve ending. Her hand rose to rest lightly on his chest as she moved into him, but before the kiss could go any further, a shrill ring penetrated her hazy thoughts.
Andrea jerked back a step and scrambled in her purse for her cell, then stared at it dumbly when she realized it wasn’t ringing. James held up his own phone.
“I’m sorry. I have to take this.” He gave her an apologetic smile and moved away a few paces. “James.”
Andrea let out a long, shaky breath. What had she been thinking? How could she have possibly allowed him to kiss her? No, she had been a willing participant. She had taken complete leave of her senses if she was actually contemplating getting involved with a client.
Five Days in Skye Page 13
