by L. L. Muir
She knew she looked like an absolute idiot, but she couldn’t help getting lost in the fantasy of standing toe to toe with a Scotsman that looked and sounded as if he’d just walked out of a history book.
“Lass?”
“Huh?”
“My bacon is burning.”
“What?”
“Ye must release me. The bacon…” He tugged on her hand.
She looked down to find that hand gripped around the thicker leather belt that draped over one shoulder—over his still-bare chest.
“Oh! Gah! I’m sorry.” She let go and stepped back. He winked at her and hurried back to the griddle. While his back was still turned, she took a minute to stare at the backs of his legs, his muscular back. She peeled her eyes away and stared at her knuckles instead. She could still feel his skin against them.
She closed her eyes and groaned inwardly. She was no better than her ill-mannered customers who spent the whole time staring at the waitresses.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A warm heart, a sharp tongue, and a round bum. What more could Fin have asked for if he’d been consulted on the details of his mortal quest?
Since he’d experienced the first two, he had hoped he might have a chance to get his hands on the latter. And considering how the lass had first looked him over when she thought he wasn’t watching, he thought he’d had a promising chance. But something changed.
All sudden-like, she’d ceased looking at him a’tall. Slowly but surely, her restaurant had filled with customers who needed her attention far more than he did. On a happy note, she’d been pleased enough with his dish-washing that she trusted him to do other things as well. According to Jordan, Fin was now his to order about when there weren’t unwashed dishes awaiting him.
What with a full stomach and the taste of bacon still lingering on his tongue, he was more than happy to oblige, of course. Just the sensation of blood coursing through his veins once again was a wondrous thing. But to feel his heart pounding like horses’ hooves was pure joy.
How he’d missed hard work!
The problem was this: Angel never slowed long enough to warm to him again. Gaining the lass’s attention was rather like trying to hop onto a wagon that was already moving down the road and forever three paces ahead.
Each time she entered the kitchen, she called out an order, placed a ticket on the long metal clip above the grill, and barked an order or two at Dante, who was furiously learning her recipes. She plated the food and praised the lads, and swift as a Highland breeze, she’d be gone again, along with the food.
Dante seemed to cheer considerably after each encouraging word from his lovely boss. And though he was a proud fellow, Jordan seemed to be a bit lighter in his step as well. The next time the lass appeared, Fin found himself eager for a bit of praise also and anticipated her need for a wet towel. A flash of her eyes and a quick thank you sent a fissure of pleasure through him and proved he was no different from his brothers.
Jordan smirked. “Careful there, Braveheart. That’s how she suckers you in. That’s why we all come back. If you don’t watch it, you’ll be stuck here too. Forever. There’s a reason why we secretly call this Hotel California.”
Fin laughed. He knew the song. “Dinnae give me false hope, laddie. Fate had deemed that my stay be a short one. Hope would be cruel.”
Sherry stuck her head in. “Bus twelve and fifteen, please! And four fries!”
Dante and Jordan exchanged glances. The young one shook his head. “This’ll burn, man.”
Jordan looked to Fin. “Fries are prepped. You just drop four portions in the basket and lower them into the grease. Hook the front of the basket so it don’t float around, and be sure to press the green button, to set the timer.”
Fin was finished as soon as the instructions had been given. “Now what?”
“Now you get a gray bin and go out there. You should be able to see which tables need to be cleared. If you can’t tell, ask Sherry. Tell Mott that number seven is up.” Jordan’s eyes widened. “Aw, man. You can’t go out there half naked.” He smirked. “Go put on a clean apron. Maybe nobody’ll notice.”
Fin hurried into the washroom, found a bin and an apron, then used the tail of his plaid to try to cover his chest a bit before putting the latter over it. He hurried out into the dining hall, using the swinging door on the right as he’d been told, and looked about for their Angel.
From his left, someone shouted, “Haggard!”
Oddly, many people laughed at this while others groaned. But all eyes were on Angel as she walked between tables with her hands held high—as if to say she were surrendering. She noticed Fin and her steps faltered, but she recovered and sashayed past him. After scooting behind the counter, she raised one hand higher still, then swung it around dramatically to press the large red button on the wall.
The room fell silent for a three count, then erupted with cheers when a song began playing through the speakers. He knew that song! And while he made his way to the tables Sherry pointed to, he began to hum Mama Tried.
When the chorus began, he could not resist muttering the words while he stacked and piled the soiled dishes and napkins into the bin. His voice he kept low, of course, due to the fact that the customers were listening almost reverently to the song. He used the hot, soapy washcloth to wipe down the second table just as the song ended. He then tossed the towel into the bin as well, took up his load, and turned for the kitchen doors.
Dozens of faces stared at him, some with open mouths. He reckoned he’d offended them all, either with his singing or his lack of shirt. He looked for Angel, but found her standing with her arms folded before her and a scowl on her brow. She was clearly as offended as the rest.
“I solemnly beg pardon, lass. I only wished the help.” He took another step, but she held up a hand to stop him.
“You knew that song?”
He nodded. “Auch, aye. In the late sixties, there was a caretaker that played the album continually. And once ye learn a tune, well…” He glanced at the couple sitting at the table beside him. The woman looked a bit dazed. The man waved a hand before her face to get her attention, but failed.
“Late sixties?” Thankfully, Angel stopped frowning and smiled. “Just how old are you?”
“‘Tis a conversation for another time, perhaps.” He was determined to get back inside the kitchen and away from curious eyes. But an older woman waved to get his attention and he would have proven impolite if he ignored her outright. “Aye, madam? Can I be of some service to ye, then.”
The woman took hold of his hand and held it between both of hers. “Are you really from Scotland?”
“I am.”
“What clan do you belong to?”
His chest expanded of its own accord. “Clan Robertson.” He gave her a smile. “Are ye perhaps of Scottish descent yerself?”
She bit her lip and rubbed his hand for a bit before answering. “No.” Then she shrugged as if to say she could not help it. “I just wanted to hear you speak.”
He’d often seen female tourists being overly familiar with the caretakers of the battlefield, and for the most part, the men had taken it in stride, accepting it as part of a general fascination with their clothing and their brogues. He decided that if those blokes could put up with women taking such liberties day in and day out, he could soldier through for a pair of days. After all, the tourists at Culloden had chosen to investigate the Scottish culture. Haggard’s customers had simply been faced with it, and with no warning.
He drew in a deep breath, smiled, and kissed the woman’s hand. Sighs reached his ears from opposite directions, so he decided to ham it up a bit. He turned and offered a wide grin to anyone watching, which turned out to be everyone in the place. Then he bent in a generous bow.
“Forgive my attire ladies, gentlemen. I shall go in search of a shirt and spare yer ears from my unworthy singing.”
Women booed outright when he’d mentioned finding a shirt. The self-deprecating
bit about his voice must have won their pity, for one of four women seated at a distant table stood and begged him to forget about the shirt and sing again. One of her friends shouted what he now understood to be the magic word. The rest of her friends began to chant.
“Haggard. Haggard. Haggard…”
He turned to see what Angel thought of his boldness, half-expecting her disapproval. But instead, she held her hand palm-side up and gestured to the button behind the counter, suggesting he do the honors. As he passed her, she murmured something and he wasn’t sure if she’d been speaking to him, or to herself.
“Catering to women. Not a bad idea.”
He tried to be as dramatic as possible, but ultimately, he simply pressed the button with his thumb. The ladies were surprisingly pleased in any case. It took a few measures before he could tell what song played. And as he began his first-ever performance—singing about the green, green grass of home—he wondered if they would give a fig if he sang well or not.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Angel stared at the pile of money that almost covered the prep counter. Too bad they were all ones—it was going to take a much bigger miracle for her to make her next balloon payment on time.
“As I’ve said, I have no need of money,” the Scotsman insisted for the third time. “Whatever is there, split amongst yerselves. Ye worked with much more industry than I, plying yer skills over a hot stove and skillet while I wandered about kissing hands. ‘Tis only fair the money follows the work.”
“Man, I don’t know what kind of place you come from,” Jordan said, “but I won’t argue with you anymore.” He looked at Angel for her vote.
“That’s very generous. Thank you.” She nodded at Sherry to divide up the bills that the usually-quiet half of her clientele had tucked in the man’s waistband as he’d strolled back and forth in front of their tables. “Maybe we’d be better off putting a small stage in the back corner,” she thought aloud.
“And a pole,” Sherry said, then laughed. But Angel suspected her best waitress wasn’t really joking.
Angel glanced at her watch. It was 2:30. Business wouldn’t pick up again until 4:30.
“I really appreciate everyone pulling a double shift today,” she said. “I promise you can all have tomorrow off. I’ll make some calls. But for now, you guys take your lunch while you can. I’ll cover the lull, front and back.”
She wandered out into the temporarily empty dining room so she could think in peace. Instead of pushing around the same old ideas for increasing her bottom line, she had something new to poke and prod. Something simple she would never have thought of herself.
She closed her eyes and thanked God for sending Finlay Robertson into the canyon that morning. Yes, she still had the same limitations as always. The parking lot was too small, couldn’t be expanded, so the restaurant couldn’t be expanded—unless she shuttled people in from Jackson Hole, like she did for the small weddings that she allowed during the summer. But the weddings always paid for the shuttle.
She’d always been so grateful for the daily lull, so she could catch her breath, that she had never looked at it as an opportunity. What she’d needed all along was to beef up business during the slow weekday afternoons, when the parking lot and the tables were wide open.
Speak of the devil.
Finlay stood at the opening to the back hallway, watching her, respecting her privacy. She waved him over. She had plenty of time to brainstorm. What she might not have was much time left with Mr. Inspriation.
“Hiya,” he said. “May I join ye?”
She pointed to the chair across from her. “Please.”
“Pardon me if I have been too forward…” He waved at the Haggard button.
She shook her head. “Don’t you worry about it. You’ve given me some really helpful ideas for improving business. Maybe you were inspired to start singing.”
“‘Tis an inspiring place, yer wee corner of the world.”
“Yes, it is. With plenty of dirty dishes… But a guy who doesn’t need money certainly wouldn’t want to stick around here.”
“Pleasant company makes any work pleasant, lass. But I fear I was given only a pair of days. When tomorrow goes, so must I.”
She bit her lip to hide her excitement. It sounded like he might want to come back for another day of dishes! But how fair was that?
“Well, hey. If you only have tonight and tomorrow before you have to go…wherever you’re going, you don’t want to waste it here. And you don’t want to waste it in my kitchen. What is it you’d really like to do? I’m sure one of our regulars can take you whichever direction you want.”
He laid his warm hands over the top of hers. “Well, Angel, I’ll be honest.”
Warm chills tickled up her spine at the way he said her name. “Yeah?”
“What I truly prefer to do, when I can do anything I wish…”
She swallowed and prayed he wouldn’t say something too personal, something that might knock him off the little pedestal she’d put him on. “Yeah? What’s that?”
He leaned across the table, glanced at the kitchen doors, then leaned closer still. “I truly looove…” His face broke into a grin. “Washing dishes.” He sat back and laughed, but she realized he was still holding her hands beneath his.
He’s just too good to be true. Absolutely, too good to be true.
Then it occurred to her—he really was too good to be true. She remembered her suspicions from that morning, that someone was punking her, that there were hidden cameras out there, filming her. Everything that had happened since he’d stepped out of the mist had been completely unbelievable.
She pulled her hands away and braced them against the table, preparing herself for the worst. “So, Finlay Robertson. Tell me—just who are you?”
~ ~ ~
Just when the lass had begun warming to him, she pulled away as if she’d read something in his eyes she didn’t care for. Of course he’d been trying to win her favor, but that was hardly reason to suddenly distrust him. After all, he’d been trying to impress her all the morning long.
It wasn’t as if he were hiding anything from her—well, not much anyway, just the insignificant detail that he was a newly resurrected ghost from across the Atlantic Ocean come to perform an unnamed quest.
He heaved a loud sigh and nodded. “I concede that ye have little reason to trust my intentions. I did appear in the forest rather…magically, aye?”
“Magically?” She scoffed. “You’re here to punk me. Admit it.”
“Punk? I dinna ken the term.”
“To trick me. Fool me. Get me to look ridiculous in front of…” She waved her hand at the ceiling, the windows. “You’ve got a hidden camera or something.”
He suddenly understood. With so much nonsense on the telly, it was quite understandable she would believe such a hoax, especially if she’d witnessed him appearing out of nowhere. Perhaps she’d been able to see through the mist a bit better than he had, though she surely would have mentioned it before now.
In any case, the lass needed reassurance, and quickly, or she might ban him from the premises. He wasn’t certain, mind, but he suspected that his service to the folks at Haggard’s Grill was far from over or else Soni would have collected him once the dishes were washed, aye?
At least he hoped he was still needed…
“Auch, lass. I have no camera. I wear no wire, as they do on the television programs. I vow it. I have not come to mock ye. Only to help, however I can, for as long as I am able. On the other hand, if ye’d rather I went along my way, I’ll oblige. Just say the word. I can understand why a woman like yerself would find it hard to trust a stranger, what with ye working in such a remote place such as this. But if my word means anything at all to ye, I vow I mean ye no harm. I mean to bring ye no shame.”
The lass stared into his eyes for a long moment and he willed himself to open his soul to her if that is what she needed to see. After a bit, she swallowed with effort, then nodded.
“All right.” Her gaze dropped to his bare shoulder, then glanced away quickly. “If you do plan to stay, you might want to protect that…” She gestured to his chest, though she kept her attention on the table. “You know, your kilt.” She frowned. “Come to think of it, I didn’t notice any luggage.”
“No luggage.”
“And no car?”
“No car. But when my friend collects me, I will…need for nothing.”
She shrugged. “Sorry. None of my business. But I do worry about your…you know.” She gestured to his person again. “After the rest of the evening crew arrives, I’ll go up to the garage and fish out some of Mott’s old things. There are some shirts I haven’t had the heart to give away, and maybe a pair of jeans. I’m not promising anything.”
“I appreciate the thought in any case, Miss Mott.”
She rolled her eyes. “No use getting formal now, right?”
“I thank ye, Angel.”
The lass blushed profusely, something he’d never seen her do except when speaking with him, or staring at him. Perhaps he affected her more than he thought. But he was surprised to discover he was equally as interested in impressing Angel Mott as he was in getting his arm around her.
He gave her his most practiced smile and watched her squirm. “Ye trust me, then?”
She drew a dramatic breath and blew it out. “Of course, I want to trust you. You’ve been a great help to us all day, but you haven’t asked for anything in return, other than—”
“Bacon.”
Her sudden grin had him squirming as well. “Yes. Bacon. You have to see how suspicious that seems.”
He nodded. “Aye. I see yer point, lass. Shall I be truthful?”
The smile disappeared and her spine straightened. With a nod, she bid him continue. He noted the sudden shaking of her hands, and it pained him to see such uncertainty in an obviously strong young woman. Something worried at the lass, and he’d unintentionally added to that worry.
