I dined on smoked salmon and sautéed carrots with blueberry crumble for desert. When I finished, I knew my waistband was tighter than when I went in. I didn’t regret a single calorie.
Playing tourist distorted time. I’d told myself when the morning began that I had an entire day at my disposal, yet already it was getting late. I didn’t want to be driving unfamiliar roads in the dark. I’d already seen how that turned out. Once. Wrecking Finley’s vehicle was not on my top ten list of exciting things to do in Scotland.
Resisting the urge to pull off at any scenic overlooks, I pointed the Jeep south and headed toward Sligachan on the A863. Without stops, the miles flew by. Soon I hit the junction with A87 and headed back north toward Portree to complete my wobbly loop. Actually, on the map my route resembled the two chambers of a heart.
There was more to explore in the southern part of the island, the Cuillin Hills in particular. Maybe I could persuade Finley to go hiking with me one day. The area was more remote and not as easily accessed. I’d feel better having a companion for that leg of my adventures.
Though I was tired and ready to be home, my hands gripped the steering wheel tightly in the last few miles. A hotel would have been lonely and impersonal. At least there I wouldn’t have to confront the man who had seen me naked yesterday.
Chapter 23
Finley was sitting on the top step of his porch when I drove up. Cinnamon lifted her head, determined it was me, and went back to sleep at his side.
I climbed out of the Jeep feeling grubby and windblown. It appeared as if Finley had showered recently. His dark hair was still damp, and he smelled like the shower gel I had found in my bathroom.
“Did you have a good day?” he asked.
The words were not at all accusatory, but some odd note in his voice brought my defenses up. “It was lovely,” I said. “I did the usual touristy things and took several hundred pictures. I’m beat.” I hesitated, not quite meeting his gaze. “I think I’ll shower and have an early night.”
I thought I could slip past him up the steps and disappear into the house. At the last second, he grabbed my wrist and pulled my hand to his mouth. When he kissed the center of my palm, my heart stumbled.
Finley tugged on my arm until I plopped down beside him. He linked our fingers and rested our two hands on his knee. “I missed you today,” he muttered.
“I thought you had lots of work to catch up on.”
“I did. I do. I still had time to think about you. And the cottage.”
I turned my head to find him smiling at me with such heat and determination that it was a very good thing I was sitting down.
“That’s nice,” I said.
He laughed. “Ah, Duchess. I wonder what you were like as a kid. Were you always so polite?”
“Probably,” I muttered. “I knew about soup spoons and hors d’oeuvre forks before I was out of elementary school. My parents put a lot of stock in good manners. They never said no to much of anything as long as I toed the line.”
“Sounds like a lot of pressure for a young girl.”
I shrugged. “I’ve learned how to cut loose over the years. After all, I slept with you, didn’t I?”
This time I looked out into the darkness, unable to watch his response to my brave taunt. For a long time, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t let go of my hand, but he didn’t say anything.
At last, he sighed. “I hope that’s not exactly correct.”
“What do you mean?”
“You used the past tense. If I have my way, it’s more correct to say you’re sleeping with me. See the difference? Or have you decided once is enough?”
Once would never be enough. Not once or twice or a hundred times. I couldn’t tell him that. “I don’t think it’s entirely up to me.” I picked at a small twig that had clung to the hem of my pants. “How am I supposed to know what you want?”
“I want you,” he said, the words gruff.
A shiver snaked down my spine. “Okay, then. We’re on the same page.” My hand was sweaty in his. “I really would like that shower.”
“As long as you don’t change your mind.”
“I won’t. I’m serious. But first I want to see your workshop.”
* * * *
I showered and put on clean clothes and undies. It would have made more sense to get ready for bed. I didn’t want to parade around Finley’s workshop that way. Instead, I put on my oldest pair of well-washed jeans and a soft baby blue cashmere sweater I’d had since I was in college. The top was a little snug in the boobs now. I still loved it.
The evening was warm enough that I felt okay in bare feet. I knew Finley’s workshop had an outer door. I also knew he accessed it from inside the house most of the time, so I didn’t think I’d be stepping on rocks and sticks to get there.
We met in the kitchen. He took one look at me and got a funny look on his face. “What?” I asked, frowning.
“You remind me of a calendar pin-up girl from the 1940s…the kind men used to hang pictures of in their lockers and fantasize about when the bombs were falling and they were scared to death.”
“Those women would be called chunky by today’s standards,” I reminded him, not entirely happy with the comparison.
“I’m giving you a compliment, Duchess. Try not to piss me off.”
I realized he was dead serious. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ve always been a little self-conscious about my…you know…” I motioned halfheartedly toward my backside.
He shook his head, his lips curving in a wry twist. “I never believed that crap about some women not knowing how beautiful they were…until I met you, Duchess. Damned if it isn’t true.”
We were in uncomfortable territory now. “I’m nothing out of the ordinary, Finley. I’ve been fortunate enough to have access to high-end cosmetics, good hair care, and flattering clothes. Not every woman is that lucky.”
I backed up against the fridge and wrapped my arms around my waist. I would rather he tell me he wanted me. That was easy to understand. I didn’t need the pretty words.
“Maybe someday you’ll believe me,” he said soberly. “I won’t press the issue for now. Let’s get this workshop thing over with. I don’t know why it’s such a big deal.”
“You’re the one who was all secretive,” I said, relieved that he was letting the other subject drop. “Besides, I want to see what you do for a living. I’ve never known a man who builds ridiculously expensive motorcycles.”
“You can’t appreciate what you don’t understand.” He gave me a little smile to let me know the patronizing tone was a joke.
I was willing to be taught. More than anything, though, I wanted to know why Finley Craig was so secretive about his work environment.
He led me back through the house to a narrow door that looked as if it went into the hill itself. The previous owner had certainly built a mishmash of rooms and rooftops. If my estimation was correct, the workshop was at least partly underground, with one end of the long rectangular room opening onto the driveway where I had taken Cinnamon for a walk my first night on Skye.
Finley unlatched the door and stepped back to let me enter. For a moment, we stood in pitch-black darkness until he flicked a bank of switches and the room sprang to life beneath multiple florescent fixtures. The flood of illumination was so bright, I had to shield my eyes for a moment until my pupils adjusted.
I’m not sure what I expected. Maybe on some level I wondered if the whole motorcycle thing was a fabrication. After all, I had more than a little experience with men who lied to me.
But no. Finley’s job or vocation or hobby or whatever you wanted to call it was real.
I studied my surroundings with intense interest. My host let me look my fill, not intruding in any way. The concrete floor was slick and smooth, the surface painted gray. It was scrupulously clean. Along the four walls, pegboards and hooks organized a myriad of motorcycle parts: handlebars, fender
s, seats…not to mention the usual nuts and bolts. In one quick glance I saw more chrome than the time one of my cousins took me to a NASCAR race in Tennessee.
The room smelled nice, a curious mix of paint and oil and lemon soap. However, it wasn’t the specifics of the workshop’s layout that left me dumbstruck. It was the pictures on the walls. Dozens of them. Large blowups of photographs mounted on foam board.
The places in the pictures looked familiar—maybe images of other spots in the Highlands? Ones I hadn’t seen yet? The trees and waterfalls and mountains were pristine. The photographer had captured the essence of nature as cathedral.
I stepped closer to one picture centered over an aluminum workbench. Studying it intently, I began to realize that the trees weren’t exactly right. I’d read articles about Highland forestation. Nothing in twenty-first-century Scotland looked so lush and dense. I turned around and stared at Finley. “Where is this?” I asked.
He shrugged, his hands in his pockets, his gaze guarded. “North Carolina. Near Asheville.”
Suddenly everything clicked into place. I’d called Finley a man without a country, if only to myself. Apparently it was true. The man was homesick, aching for the mountains where he’d been born and reared. Yet he had voluntarily exiled himself.
No wonder he hadn’t wanted me to see his workshop. These pictures told me more about him in one quick glance than if I had asked him a hundred questions.
I held my tongue, trying to understand the man behind this room. He made no move to curtail my explorations, so I continued, stopping only when I came upon a large three-ring binder. In it Finley had collected photos of his handiwork, alongside the clients who had forked over large sums of cash for the privilege of owning one of Finley’s motorcycles.
The bikes were unlike anything I had ever seen. They were beautiful. Sleek. Fast. Even in photographs, I could see they were fast.
At last, I hopped up on one of the worktables and swung my legs. Finley had followed me around the room. Now he leaned against the opposite table and stared at me. “Well?”
I shrugged. “The obvious question is why motorcycles?”
Finley picked up a small metal exhaust pipe and twirled it between his fingers. “That’s a long story.”
“All of your stories are long,” I teased. It was the truth. Even so, I wanted to understand the man whose bed I was about to share. The more I knew of Finley, the more I wanted to know. “Tell me. Please.”
In his shoulders I noted a degree of tension as if the telling was difficult, even after all this time. “My grandfather Craig died when I was a junior in high school. A massive heart attack. He was playing golf and keeled over. There was nothing they could do for him.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I was devastated. Grandpa Craig was my best friend. To lose him so suddenly was like cutting off a limb. He was a larger than life figure—an entrepreneur, a raconteur…a lover of life. I adored him.”
Chapter 24
Even now, though he’d lost his grandfather almost two decades prior, I could hear the pain in Finley’s voice. “And the rest of your family? How did they react?” I wanted to keep him talking. I had a feeling this was my one and only chance to make sense of the people and events that had made Finley who he was.
“Everyone was shocked. My grandmother died less than a year later. She told me once that losing him had taken the joy out of her life.”
“He must have been a very special man.” My heart ached in retrospect for the boy on the cusp of manhood who had lost so much.
“Grandpa’s passion was motorcycles. He was the one who taught me how to distinguish a Triumph from an Ecossee…a Harley from a Ducati. He knew it all.”
“Did he ride much?”
“Not when I was old enough to remember. As a young man, yes…apparently he was a speed demon. But he and my grandmother made an agreement that when he turned fifty-five, he would give up riding.”
“I’m surprised he agreed if he loved it so much.”
“You had to know my grandmother. She was an equally powerful force of nature. He worshipped her. When the time came for no more riding, he took it in stride and turned his attention to collecting.”
“And you learned at his knee.”
Finley grinned. “More or less. I was a head taller than he was when he died. Even though he was only five feet seven inches, you never really noticed that, because he commanded the room wherever he went.”
“Was your dad an only child?”
“Yes. So he was the executor of the estate when my grandmother was gone. Grandpa Craig had written out instructions for most of his collection to be sold and the money donated to a particular charity. He left me three of his favorite bikes with the proviso that I could not have them until I turned twenty-one.”
“Makes sense. He didn’t want you to kill yourself. From what I know of most young men, it takes some time to learn that they aren’t invincible.”
“I won’t argue with that.” He chuckled.
“So did you take a celebratory ride on your twenty-first birthday?”
“Not exactly.”
“Why not?”
Finley rolled his shoulders and stared at the floor. I felt as if I had tripped over something I didn’t see coming. “Never mind,” I said quickly. “It doesn’t matter.”
He lifted his head and stared at me, those gorgeous blue eyes the indigo of a stormy sea. “It mattered a hell of a lot to me. As soon as my grandmother was gone, my father sold every bit of my grandfather’s collection, even the three that were mine.”
“Oh, Finley. Why?”
“I think he resented the relationship I had with my grandfather, though he would never admit that. He told me the money was far more useful to me in a college fund than tied up in a rich man’s toys.”
“If you’d been an adult, you could have sued him for not following the specifics of the will.”
“True. I had started college by then, and besides, it was too late. The motorcycles were gone. They were the last physical link to my grandfather. Even if I had battled my father, I wouldn’t have been able to buy them back.”
I was beginning to see that Finley’s dad was not a nice person. That’s what we used to say in Georgia when we talked about folks we knew who had done something terrible. Now I was the one ready to punch somebody. And that somebody was Finley’s wretched father.
He had hurt his son deliberately, not once, but multiple times. “Why would he be so cruel?”
“My father is always right. You can ask him, and he’ll tell you. All of the things he did to me were for my own good. I was simply the ungrateful kid who didn’t understand how fortunate I was.”
I flung out my arm, indicating the amazing environment he had created to do the work he loved. “They say the best revenge is living well. I think you’ve done that, Finley.”
It was clear to me now that the reason he kept this place private for the most part was because it revealed so much about him. This was the sanctuary he had created in Scotland. The place he now called home. Would he ever want to go back? Or like the lost inheritance, was it too late?
Closing the small gap between us, I put my arms around his waist and rested my head against his shoulder. “Let’s go to bed,” I said softly. We had shared some heavy stuff tonight. It was time to play.
Finley didn’t take much persuading. “I thought you’d never ask,” he said.
He closed up the workshop, and we went back to my room. I’d left things a mess, so I scrambled to pick up the items I had thrown on the bed. “Sorry,” I muttered. “I was in a hurry.” I felt especially bad now that I had seen his pristine work quarters. The man could do surgery in that room it was so clean.
While I put things away, he picked up a book I had bought at the castle. “Did you enjoy yourself today?” he asked.
I nodded. “I did. Several times in the last two weeks I’ve second-guessed the idea for
Hayley and Willow and I to split up here in Scotland. I think it was the right thing to do, though. We’re all three at points in our lives when we’re feeling the need to make some kind of change…or at least to spread our wings.”
“Haven’t you already done that far more than the two of them?”
I’d told him a great deal about my friends, so the question made sense. “Yes. In some ways. Willow is tied to her shop, and Hayley to her classroom. I’ve had more freedom and more opportunities to travel.”
“Then why was it so important to you to strike out on your own in Skye?”
That was a very good question. I was still working on the answer. In the meantime, I could give him a snippet of what I was slowly coming to understand.
“Hayley and Willow have been in my life for a very long time. We’ve been very close as adult women for the last seven or eight years. The problem is, when they look at me, I think they see only one version of me. Does that make sense?”
He flicked the pages of the guidebook, staring at me with that sapphire x-ray vision that made me want to squirm. “If I had to guess, I’d say they were intimidated by you.”
My chin dropped. Hurt coiled in my stomach. “Why would you say that?”
“You’ve got it all, Duchess. You’re smart and incredibly beautiful and charming to anyone and everyone. It must be hard for your friends not to be envious.”
“That’s absurd.”
“It’s true. And yes, I agree with you. Though I’ve never met them, I’ll bet they look at you and see a woman who is kind and generous and passionate about standing up for the causes and the people she cares about. What you’re trying to tell me is that they don’t see your insecurities.”
I nodded, my throat too tight to speak.
Finley took my hand and tugged me down on the bed beside him. We sat hip to hip on the edge of the mattress. I watched as he played with the emerald and diamond ring on my right hand.
At last, he sighed. “You were looking for something when you came here, weren’t you?”
Not Quite a Scot Page 15
