"You have come with a question," she said, not asking a question, and not looking at me.
Hamish shook his head. "No miss," he said. "My ... this ... the girl."
I turned to stare up at him, a smile breaking across my face. I'd never seen him so flustered. The girl? I was the girl now? "Hello," I said. "Are you Madame Anastasia?"
The fortune teller clucked and shook her head, closing her eyes for a long moment. "My mother," she said simply, then pulled her hand from beneath her robes and laid it face up on the table. I lifted my own hand, laying it in hers.
Her skin was cold, and it sent a ringing chill through me as she closed her fingers around my palm, leaning her face close to see better.
Hamish sucked in a shivering breath, and I glanced up at him again. He looked more uncomfortable than I'd ever seen him.
"Your path curves," the woman said, in a whispery voice like cracking parchment. "What was expected has shifted away, obscured by potential. Intentions that appear clear have shades of meaning. Take nothing at face value." She looked up at me on this last sentence, narrowing her eyes as she stared into mine.
"What?" I whispered, not understanding what this could mean.
She dropped my hand and leaned back into her chair, still inspecting me. "Don't assume things. Not all is as it seems."
In the context of her little shop, with the incense and dark thick curtains, her words felt heavy with meaning. "All right," I said.
"Familiar things are those most likely to deceive," she went on, still speaking in a kind of riddle I didn't understand.
I nodded. Hamish stood, pulling his wallet from his jeans to pay her. "Okay then," he said.
"Those we know wear many faces," she said.
I stood, still nodding. Hamish seemed in a hurry to leave, dropping two twenty dollar bills onto the little table.
"You'll come back," she told me. "I'll read your cards next time. You'll have more to consider."
"Thank you," I told her, feeling as if something that had been sitting on a stable foundation inside me had slid off center. I didn't like it and wished we hadn't come inside suddenly.
Holding Hamish's hand tightly, I followed him back outside and we climbed the stairs to his apartment. "That was strange," I said.
"Aye."
Chapter 97
Suck my Emoji
Hamish
I'd never been comfortable with the occult, though most Durns were big believers in a second world operating just beyond our ability to see it. The ancestors were important to us, and many Durns had gypsy hearts, reading Tarot and casting bones to speak to their forebears. I had always preferred to trust what I could see, what I knew. And Sophie's reading with Madame Anastasia felt like some kind of unnecessary warning, casting a shadow over an otherwise perfect night.
I opened the door to my small apartment, allowing Sophie in ahead of me and then bounding past her to scoop the mountain of discarded shirts from the end of my bed, tucking them into the closet. I came back out of the bedroom to find her exploring the small living room, investigating bookshelves and tables. I didn't have many things form home, but I did have pictures.
There was one of my father and Mam, the two of them posing with his three brothers—including the king. There was another of Mam with all the kids when we were little. Charlie stood at my mother's side, all thirteen years of him there with his shoulders pulled back, trying to look like a man. Logan was at his side, a year younger, smiling brightly. Marigold was next, sitting at Mam's feet with my sister Sarah, who we called "Sis," and me on her lap. I was only three, and Sarah was barely four. The twins sat next to us, Dane with his gleeful expression and James looking somber as always. And to one side, part of the group, but not quite, stood a tiny red-haired girl. Sophie. Her bright eyes looked up at Mam, an uncertain smile on her small face.
I heard Sophie take a sharp breath when she looked at that picture, a smile spreading across her face. "Oh my god," she said, lifting her eyes to look at me. "I haven't seen this in forever!" Like me, Sophie was just three in the photo, and it'd been taken when her Mam was still alive, when my own mother and Sophie's had been best friends.
I moved to stand behind Sophie, looking down at the faces that populated every memory I had, every fond thought. "You miss them?" I asked.
"I think about my Mam all the time. I miss her every day." She leaned back slightly, into my chest. "I try not to think about the rest of them. About you. It's been too hard."
My arms went around her, her head tucking perfectly into the hollow beneath my chin. "I'm so sorry, lass." I felt responsible for Sophie's pain. She'd cut herself off from all of us because of me, because I hadn't been brave enough to tell her that night before I left how I felt. Because even I had thought maybe I needed an adventure to confirm my feelings, needed to see what else the world held before I could know what I had.
"I miss them all," she said, turning in my arms. "But I missed you the most." She pressed herself against me then, her arms twining around my neck and her mouth finding mine as I leaned down.
As her mouth moved against mine, our tongues meeting, my mind felt washed clean, as if this truly was a new beginning. I held Sophie close, moving us toward the doorway of my bedroom and then holding her there, her back against the doorframe as my hands explored and my mouth followed.
I traced fingertips down the angle of her jaw, my tongue just behind, tasting the soft skin there, breathing her in. I sank to my knees before her, my hands pulling the cardigan sweater from her shoulders and palms following the gentle curve of her arms down to her hands, which she lifted and cupped around my neck as I gazed up at her.
"Do you realize how perfect you are?" I asked her, my hands around her waist. I'd slipped to my knees without meaning to really, but now that I was there, it felt right to worship her, to kneel in front of the woman who'd always ruled my heart.
She laughed and shook her head. "Get to your feet, man. I think you've lost your mind here with all this sun."
I did as she asked, but made sure she knew I didn't agree with her. "I haven't. I've always thought you were the most perfectly made woman I've ever known. For me at least." Sophie looked uncertain as I said this, pulling her lip between her teeth and looking away from me.
"I think at this point you've traveled enough to realize I'm not the top o'the line model. Not quite up to snuff with these tall slim blond girls here in California."
My mouth might have dropped open a bit. Did she really believe there was a comparison to be made? "Not even a contest," I said. "You've got them beat in every way." My hands were still on her hips and I leaned in again, kissing her mouth.
She pushed me away. "That's enough of that nonsense," she said. "I'm also smart enough to know when someone's feeding me a line, Hamish MacEvoy."
I let her move away, watching her explore my space, my things. It was clear I needed to convince her I wasn't giving her a line, I was trying to tell her my truth. Sophie was so perfect in my eyes I barely looked at other women. Aye, I'd explored a bit, but every road led right back here, to this woman.
"Are you still drawing?" she asked me, looking around as if she was trying to find an art table or an easel somewhere.
"I haven't had a lot of time for it." Back when we were young, we took an art class together from an old lady on the other side of the village, and I had doodled all through school. It had been one of my favorite things. Besides Sophie and football. But football had eventually won out over art. "I've done one little thing with it since I've been here," I said, wondering if I should show her my big artistic accomplishment.
"Let's see it." She put her hands together, and I imagined she thought I might unveil an easel or some masterpiece. Instead, I pulled out my phone and showed her the emoji keyboard a developer had programmed for me using some of my doodles. "Ah, those are..."
I wasn't sure what to say. On the one hand, I was proud of my work. On the other, they were a tad bit vulgar, perhaps. "They're really j
ust fun, not anything—"
"These are good, Hamish," Sophie said, scrolling through them and actually sounding impressed. She took my phone and sat down on the couch. "Not the Mona Lisa, but... you know, there's probably a market for these if you ever decide to leave the football pitch."
I laughed at that idea. I'd given the app to a few of the Sharks—it was no fun to text vulgar emojis unless others could return the favor. "I really just needed an easy way to say 'suck my—'"
Sophie held up a hand, grinning. "I get it," she laughed.
I shoved my phone back into my pocket and sat next to her on the couch, still wishing there was a way I could make her believe she was the only woman I even thought about. Maybe showing her a collection of penis emoijis wasn't the most romantic move.
But Sophie, being perfect for me in every way, didn't seem put off by it. She lifted a hand to my cheek and looked into my eyes. "God, how I've missed you." She sounded almost angry to admit it, but I quickly forgot the strange tone in her voice when she pulled my head to hers and pressed her lips to mine.
Chapter 98
Doubt is a Blonde Named Rachelle
Sophie
I stayed the night with Hamish, but he didn't seem in a hurry to push things back to a fast pace sexually, and I found my mind was turning over other things as he finally pulled me against his chest and began snoring softly.
Could it really be this easy? Could I just go home again—metaphorically speaking, of course. I had no plans to return to Durnland any time soon. But with Hamish, wrapped against his broad chest again, breathing his scent that was as familiar to me as my own, it felt easy. Maybe it felt too easy. Madame Anastasia's reading had made me question everything.
Usually I relied on my own second sense to tell me when I was getting off track, and my own instincts weren't pinging at all. Quite the contrary, actually. I felt more settled and right next to Hamish MacEvoy than I'd felt since leaving Durnland. But the psychic downstairs from Hamish's place had gotten me worried. It wasn't that I trusted her reading more than I trusted myself—not exactly. I just wondered if maybe I was so overwhelmed with getting what I'd wanted for so long that I couldn't hear my own warnings. Maybe my instincts were being smothered by some kind of longed-for satisfaction. I just didn't want to make rash decisions. The doubt I felt now was like a glimmer, like starlight, when I noticed it and tried to turn my attention to face it, it disappeared from sight. Madame Anastasia's talk of familiar things deceiving and those we know best wearing many faces was what did it. My own mam had read the cards, and her mother before her too. I didn't like mixed messages. It had me worried.
But no matter how worried I was, I wasn't sure I had the strength to walk away from Hamish again.
I had doubts—big, blond, San Diego-girl-shaped doubts. I'd seen him enjoying those women—two women who looked nothing like me. Women who I couldn't begin to compete with in any kind of beauty or swimsuit competition, should that ever be required. (Though I can tell you I'd have every single one of them beat when it came to cake—as evidenced, maybe, by my less than svelte waistline). But Hamish was here, I was in his arms, and I wanted to believe in his words. I pushed the fear and doubt, and the memory of him kissing that slim blond girl, as far down as I could.
Hamish drove me home early the next morning. We pulled into my driveway as the early morning light shone dim from the east, and I slid out of Hamish's truck feeling happy but wary. He caught me in his arms as I got down, and held me for a long minute there, our hearts speaking a language I didn't know, but one that was comforting and familiar.
"I've got to go shower and change. Saturday's a wedding day," I told him, looking up into the dark eyes.
There was a glint there as he smiled down at me. "You're not marrying someone else are you?"
I chuckled. "Not my wedding day, you big clot. I have to deliver and set up the cakes!"
"All right, lass," he said, releasing me. "I'll call you later."
I gave him a final peck on the cheek. "I had a wonderful time, Hamish."
A blush crawled from beneath his beard as he smiled at me. "The boys might be getting together tonight. Want to meet the team?" he asked.
"Sure," I called back, a warm happiness flooding my heart. I thought back to those girls I'd seen with him at the bar that night all those years ago. Tonight I'd be the girl in his arms. And if I got what I wanted, it wouldn't be just tonight, but every night from now on. Was that too much to hope for, though?
I grinned at the man I was sure I loved as he climbed back into his truck and pulled away, pushing down the strange voice of Madame Anastasia in the back of my mind, cautioning me about those we know best wearing many faces. Hamish had only one face, I told myself. And it was the one I'd loved my whole life. I wasn't going to let doubt and fear get in the way of the love I'd always wanted.
Chapter 99
Less Scottish Than One Might Think
Hamish
I couldn't pretend not to be a bit giddy as I walked into Fernando Fuerte's Coronado condo with Sophie at my side. She looked glorious in a fitted frock that swirled around her pretty legs and hugged her curves up top. She'd worn another little sweater over her shoulders and there was something so satisfyingly feminine about her. It made my insides warm and giddy.
"Hello," Fuerte said, greeting us at the door. He squinted for a second at Sophie, looking between us. "You're the baker."
"This is Sophie," I told him, tightening my arm around her waist.
"You're not Scottish," Fuerte said thoughtfully, a smile spreading over his lips. "I bet that cake isn't Scottish either, is it?" He looked between us, the smile glowing like he knew something I didn't.
"I'm baking their wedding cake," Sophie said quickly, explaining. "I told them a little white lie about my accent. And the cake."
Erica appeared at Fuerte's side, smiling down at Sophie who was a few inches shorter than she was. "Sophie," she said, a hint of confusion in her voice.
"Sophie," Fuerte said, turning to face Erica. "Isn't Scottish."
Erica's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Okay."
"And the cake we brought to dinner last week wasn't either."
Erica shook her head. "So?" She looked at me, her lips twisted in thought, and then her face cleared. "Oh my God, seriously? You're Durnish? Like Hammer? Do you guys know each other?"
Fuerte gave her a frank look. "His arm's around her waist. I think they know each other."
"We grew up together," I said, laughing. "Sophie's the only girl I ever loved." It felt good to say it out loud, to declare my love and my intentions where others could hear them.
Erica's eyes widened and a huge smile made them spark. "That's amazing!"
Fuerte waved us inside, and once we were settled, having greeted the rest of the team and the assorted folks milling around Fuerte's place, Erica found us again.
"But I don't understand," she said, looking between us. "Sophie, you've been here long enough to build a super successful business, and Hammer's been here for years, playing for the Sharks. How did you not find each other before? Didn't you know you were both here?"
"It's a bit complicated," Sophie said, clearly not wanting to explain the entire story to Erica, whose face fell a bit when she realized she had all the information she was getting for now.
"Well, it's good to see you both looking happy," she said, glancing past us to where her brother sat on the couch, his beautiful French fiancee at his side. "It makes me happy when the people I care about are happy."
"She's been in a very good mood since Fuerte proposed," I told Sophie as Erica walked away to greet more guests coming in the door.
The party progressed, with people moving from cluster to cluster, eating, drinking and watching the American football game Fuerte had put up on the television. Sophie seemed right at home with my friends, and it made me glad to see.
As the evening cooled, Sophie had gotten into conversation with Magalie and Melinda Isley on the couch, and I wandered
outside to enjoy the fresh air and the view of the ocean sprawling just beyond the huge patio.
"So what's the story?" Erica asked from beside me. "Did you go looking for her because of the birthright thing?"
"No lass," I said honestly. "The two things are related in a way, but I would have looked for her anyway if I'd know she was here. I just found out."
"But she knew you were here, right?"
I didn't like this part of our story. I felt strangely unfaithful to Sophie, to our shared history, when I thought of her seeing me in that bar, kissing another girl. "Aye, she did."
"Well, it seems like it's all worked out now," Erica said.
"It does," came another voice, and Max stood up. He'd been sprawled on a lounge chair nearby and I hadn't noticed him sitting quietly, nursing a beer and staring out at the water.
"Winchell," I said. I hadn't seen him all afternoon.
"So you're going to propose soon, right?" Erica said. "So you can get married before you turn thirty?"
Max shook his head. "What's this?"
I sighed and explained the ridiculous rules of my family legacy to him.
"Interesting," he said. Then a strange look crossed his face and he asked, "would you say you're more a fruit or a vegetable guy, Hamish?"
"Fruit I guess, why?"
He shook his head. "And were you born during the day? Or at night?"
"What?" Max was a good enough guy, but his sudden interest in random details of my life threw me for a loop. He'd sent me an email recently asking a few other bizarre questions, including something about cheese and one about rodents. "What's your story, Max? Why all the questions? I'm dating Sophie, you know. So if this is some effort to see if we're compatible, I'm afraid I have to let you down easy, lad."
Mr. Match: The Boxed Set Page 50
