“Including a van load of women?” she asked with maximum sarcasm.
Her interjection of light humor helped assuage his hurt feelings. Feelings he had no right to. “Indeed, but they won’t all get dropped off at the same time. My flat would get crowded.”
She took a step back—out of his web—and smiled, but it held a sadness of regrets. “Shower is all yours.”
And then she was gone, the connecting door to her room closing with a soft click. He didn’t bother to lock it. In fact, a not-so-small part of him would welcome her return, mistake or not, but breaching the divide of their lives would only lead to hurt.
Stepping under the warm spray, he closed his eyes and let himself imagine a world where he could take his time and woo Isabel. A world where no secrets threatened. A world where he could lay her down on a tartan blanket in the middle of the field of wildflowers and fall under the spell of her laugh and her smile and her hands.
But the world—his world—was complicated.
Chapter Eight
Izzy slipped out of her room. The shower was running and all she could imagine was a wet, naked Alasdair. Part of her wanted to bust through the door like the Kool-Aid Man, but most of her wanted to curl up like a pillbug and hide under a rock.
Their kiss in the church closet had been a revelation. She’d never felt comfortable in her own skin. As a child, she’d been aware the grace her mom possessed hadn’t made it into her DNA. Then, as she grew older, her imagination became a source of praise from teachers and ridicule from kids in school.
As a result, she hadn’t dated until college, and even then, she’d never been a hundred percent sure what to do with her hands or her tongue or if she should talk less and do other stuff with her mouth.
But the darkness had stripped all her insecurities away. She’d given herself over to Alasdair’s kiss and hadn’t worried about anything. His kiss had even drowned out the humming anxiety over the festival.
The mood flipped as soon as the defective closet door had opened, and she hadn’t been able to think of a single thing to say on their awkward ride back to Stonehaven. In fact, after she had taken refuge in the barn, she began to question herself. Had it even happened?
She touched her still tender lips. No, it had happened. Even now, her body buzzed in the aftermath as if she’d had a shot of good Scottish whisky. Yet, he’d asked if he needed to apologize like he’d bumped into a stranger on the street.
A glass of wine called. And food. It was almost dinner, and she still hadn’t made up for her missed lunch. At least, she could count on her mom and Gareth acting as a buffer during dinner so she wouldn’t have to pretend she hadn’t enjoyed kissing Alasdair. Heck, without them around, she might be tempted to repeat the mistake until they made another, bigger mistake.
Gareth and her mom were in the kitchen talking in low voices in an embrace like they were slow dancing. Her mom’s pink and white wraparound dress and heels complimented Gareth’s dark gray slacks, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and blue and green tartan vest. They looked good together. More than good, they looked happy.
Izzy cleared her throat upon entering.
“Darlin’, how did things go with Loretta? Let me apologize again for dropping that hot potato in your lap. I called the other delinquent vendors by the way.” Her mom didn’t step away from Gareth, only turned and leaned back against his chest. While her mom was comfortable charming men and women alike, this was the first time Izzy had seen her charmed in return.
“I squeezed the deposit out of Loretta and I hope she and I have reached a new understanding.” A hamper stood on the kitchen island. “Aren’t you two a tad overdressed for a romantic picnic?”
Her mom exchanged a glance with Gareth, a blush coming to her cheeks. “Actually, the hamper is for you and Alasdair.”
“What?” She really hadn’t meant to yell, but the word echoed back against the kitchen tile.
“Not romantic, of course. Just a friendly picnic. Gareth offered to take Alasdair to the river earlier, but I had already arranged for the two of us to meet Mike and Sally at Clarkson’s for dinner. We were hoping you’d step in and take Alasdair down to the river. You know all the best spots anyway. Do you mind?”
Her heart thudded so hard and painfully, Izzy glanced down surprised not to see an arrow protruding from her chest. Mike and Sally had been her parents’ best friends. They had hosted parties together and had gone to dinner as a foursome on a regular basis.
“Mike and Sally. Wow. A double date just like you and Daddy used to go on.” Izzy had gotten used to seeing Gareth and her mom kiss and cuddle and whisper sweet nothings. Her mom deserved to be happy, and Gareth made her happy, but this date weaved Gareth into their lives in Highland like plucking old stitching out and remaking the fabric.
It was a shock, but Izzy would adjust. And until she did, she’d fake her pleasure at the turn of events. “I’d be happy to show Alasdair the river. You guys have fun. Make sure Gareth tries the catfish.”
Her mom slipped from Gareth’s arms, and after giving him a pointed look—which signaled his retreat—she took Izzy by the shoulders. “I know this is difficult.”
Izzy pretended to misunderstand. “Entertaining Alasdair will be easy as long as you packed BLTs.”
“Of course, I did, but that’s not what I was referring to and you know it.” Her mom tucked a piece of Izzy’s still-damp hair behind her ear like she had when she was little.
“I know I should be used to it by now, but sometimes I miss Daddy so much.” Izzy clenched her teeth like a dam keeping flood waters at bay.
A crease marred her mom’s brow. “Me too, honey. I always will. Your dad was special and unique and we had a wonderful marriage.”
Izzy filled in the word left hanging unsaid. “But?”
“But”—her mom shrugged—“I’m lonely. Was lonely. I didn’t realize how much until I found Gareth.”
“You have me.” As soon as it was out of her mouth, Izzy recognized the naivete of her declaration.
“You’ll understand someday.” Her mom’s smile hinted at a puzzle Izzy didn’t have the key to decipher. “Perhaps even sooner than you think.”
Heat flushed through Izzy like a wildfire sparked by memories of a dark closet and a hot half-Scot. “What are you talking about? Nothing happened.”
“Not yet, but Holt won’t give up. He’s always liked you. Has he asked you out again?”
“No. Yes.” Izzy ran a hand through her hair to attempt to reorder her jumbled thoughts, surprised Alasdair’s kiss didn’t have an outward manifestation everyone could see like a scarlet letter. “Holt and I are getting a drink together at the Dancing Jig, but only to discuss the festival. He’s nice, but—”
“Give him a chance, darlin’. You might be surprised at what happens.” Her mom leaned in to give her a hug, and Izzy nodded into her shoulder. Something niggled as being wrong. No, not wrong, just different. Her mom was wearing a new perfume.
“You smell nice,” Izzy said when her mom pulled away. “And look amazing.”
Her mom popped an exaggerated hip and slicked her bob down, patting the underside like an old-fashioned ingenue. “Gareth got me a new perfume, and I got the dress down at Emmy’s shop.”
“Have fun, and tell Mike and Sally hello,” Izzy said with a smile she didn’t have to fake this time.
Her mom backed away. “You try to have fun too.”
Izzy opened her mouth then shut it so hard her teeth clicked. She remained in the kitchen after her mom and Gareth left. In the quiet, the creaks of Alasdair walking around in his room above her head was loud.
Now not only did she not have her mom and Gareth as a buffer, but they were headed into the woods together where anything could happen. Heat she couldn’t blame on the weather or her recent shower rushed her body, and she leaned over the kitchen island and laid her cheek against the cool countertop.
The stairs signaled Alasdair’s approach like a warning siren. Casu
al, she needed to look casual. Ending up with her elbow propped on the counter at an awkward height, her other hand on her hip, and her torso in an uncomfortable curl, she slapped on a smile.
Alasdair stopped in the doorway to the kitchen, his eyes narrowing. “Why do you look like you just killed someone and are about to ask me to help bury the body?”
Izzy harrumphed and straightened, fighting unexpected giggles. Any lingering awkwardness evaporated. “I was going for inviting and friendly.”
“You might want to practice in the mirror before you unleash it on the tourists.” He wore a pair of jeans and a white undershirt but no button-down or shoes. “I was looking for Gareth. He promised me a walk.”
“Mom and Gareth left to have dinner in town with friends.” His shoulders slumped, his disappointment palpable. Her offer came out sunnier than she’d planned. “I’m offering myself as a substitute. I know all the good places anyway. You’ll have way more fun with me.”
“Of that I have no doubt.” Was that innuendo in his voice? She didn’t have time to evaluate when he moved toward the hamper. “What’s for dinner?”
“BLTs.”
“Sounds delicious.
“It will be.” She swung the basket to the crook of her arm. “Let’s go.”
“How’s the festival coming along? I feel as if Gareth and I have been a distraction.”
She had work to do assigning the booths to vendors and double-checking with the booking agents for the bands and verifying the porta-potties would be set up on time. A million little details awaited. While she hadn’t played hooky from work in a long time, she used to escape to the woods on a regular basis to avoid homework.
“The calls will keep for tomorrow,” she said simply.
The heat had broken and orange streaked the sky, promising a spectacular sunset. The river would be cool and refreshing, and the meadow overrun with flowers just like in the stories she’d used to make up. A frisson of anticipation electrified her nerves.
They both stuck their feet into flip-flops and set off side by side, stepping from the patio to cut across the field toward the line of trees. Taking the hamper from her, he said, “Allow me.”
“Thanks.” She didn’t know what to do with her hands now, so she linked them behind her back. “It’s been ages since I’ve been to the swimming hole.”
“I don’t have a suit.”
“We can just put our feet in. The water will feel good.” The grasses and flowers brushed against her jeans-clad legs.
“This field is a true wonder.” The appreciation for something new and unusual was in his voice.
Izzy had grown up with the field outside of her back door. She had stared unseeing into the distance while she’d eaten her cereal before school every morning daydreaming of the woods beyond. Now, she took the time to appreciate what she had grown up with right outside her door.
“It really is beautiful. It’s a shame we have to mow it down.”
“Mow it down? Why?” He came to a stop surrounded by knee-high flowers.
“The bulk of the festival takes place in the field. The booths will be over there.” She pointed east. “And the stage for the pipers and dancers and bands will be on the south side. The athletic events happen in the far corner.”
He continued forward, but slower now as they entered the shadow of the woods. “When will the massacre take place?”
She snort-laughed. “Massacre is a strong word. Next summer, the flowers will be back and just as beautiful.”
He hummed. “Rejuvenation. Rebirth.”
“Exactly.” Countless paths meandered through the woods, some leading to the river, others heading toward the hills. “When I was a kid I pretended the paths all shifted and every day might bring a new adventure. Which path shall we choose today?”
The calls of birds—a blue jay squawked over the softer song of a whippoorwill—blended with the evening symphony of the insects. It was her favorite time to be outside.
Alasdair pointed. “That one looks promising.”
“Good choice. Let’s be off, fellow wanderer.” The path he chose meandered through the woods to the river. The trees grew dense overhead, filtering the sunlight into the premature dusk. As a child, she felt the woods had always been an otherworldly place full of a magic she might not be able to see but could surely feel in her innocent heart.
Many times she would turned at her head at shadows, expecting to catch sight of an elf or a wood sprite, but had always been too late. As she got older and wiser (some might say jaded), the magic faded until she accepted it had never existed.
“Was it solitary being an only child?” His voice was soft and knowing and drew her gaze to his as if he’d read her thoughts.
A waver in her smile revealed her childhood loneliness. With no kids she could play with close by, she’d grown up relying on her own imagination. Maybe too much. “This may shock you, but I found it hard to talk to kids and make friends in school.”
“Actually, that’s not at all surprising.” His voice was deadpan.
She punched his arm. “Hey, you could have feigned surprise.”
He rubbed his arm like her puny punch had actually done him injurious harm, but with a smile on his face.
“The girls I knew were obsessed with Disney princesses.” Even after the years gone by, disdain crept into her voice.
“And you weren’t? With a field of flowers and magical woods to play in?” He made an expansive gesture.
“I prefer more gumption and derring-do from my princesses. I spent my free time making up my own stories and scribbling them in notebooks. The other kids thought I was strange.” She rolled her eyes toward him. Even though she had friends now, the scars from those early days remained.
“It’s not a bad thing to be different.”
“Said by someone who, if I had to guess, was voted most popular by the boys and the girls. Especially the girls,” she said dryly.
He sobered with a sigh. “Aye, I was popular, but only because I wasn’t honest with any of them. I never told anyone about how watching my parents fight scared me so much I would hide under my covers. I never knew what kind of mood my da would be in when I walked in the door from school, so I went out for every sport—even cricket, which I absolutely loathed.”
While she didn’t have many friends growing up, what she did have were two parents who loved her unconditionally and provided not only a soft place to land, but were her bedrock. “That must have been so hard. It’s not fair that kids suffer when parents can’t keep it together.”
“Mum tried, but she loved my da despite everything and she couldn’t keep her hurt from coloring everything. Now that I’m older—I don’t know about wiser—I can empathize with both of them.”
“It’s strange to realize our parents are human beings who fall in love and make mistakes and suffer heartbreak, isn’t it?” she asked more to herself than expecting an answer.
“Do you ever resent the box you’ve been forced inside?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Duty versus passion has been on my mind of late. What we want versus what’s expected of us. Do you ever wish you didn’t bear the responsibility of the festival?” He seemed truly interested.
“No.” While the stark denial wasn’t a lie, neither was it completely accurate. “Maybe? Sometimes? It’s complicated. The festival is my birthright. I inherited it from my dad. I couldn’t imagine Highland without it.”
“The hard work is worth it?”
“You’ve seen the pictures in the office. Seeing how much everyone loves it makes all the hard work worth it.”
“Even though you’re sacrificing your dream to travel?”
“Not sacrificing. Postponing,” she said firmly.
“Don’t postpone it forever.”
His warning resonated with the restless spirit inside of her she kept on a tight leash. “Honestly, the planning portion of the festival is the easy part, because I can control it. The
hard part is dealing with what we can’t control like the weather. Rain is bad; thunderstorms are worse. Starting around three weeks out, I have weather-related nightmares.”
“So if I hear you screaming about being attacked by a rain cloud, I should run in and wake you up?” His tease shifted to sympathy.
The image of Alasdair distracting her from her nightmares in the middle of the night flashed. She had almost gotten him naked in her imagination when he said, “There’s ancient magic all around us, isn’t there?”
She darted a sharp look at him. “Surely, you don’t believe in such nonsense.”
“Of course, I do. I’m Scottish. We come out of the womb believing. Whenever I misbehaved, my da claimed I was a changeling child. I’d wager, you’re a believer as well.”
“I’m a perfectly practical accountant,” she said primly.
“Who has a letter opener named Rupert,” he teased.
She pulled him to a stop. “Are you ever going to let that go?”
“It’s too delightful not to bring up whenever possible.”
She scuffed her flip-flops in the layer of dead leaves and pine needles on the path. “I used to believe in magic, but I grew up.”
“Hence your desire to write a serious novel with no magic.”
She stutter-stepped. “What made you say that just now?”
He shifted the picnic basket to his other arm and blocked the path forward. “You confessed you’re writing a serious novel, aren’t you?”
“Not that part. The bit about no magic. How did you know?”
“Know what?” His brow knitted together in what appeared to be genuine confusion.
“That’s been the biggest knock against my work. While I’m proficient at putting words together, according to my many—many—rejections, I lack the secret sauce to make them sing. In short, my writing lacks magic.” She air-quoted the last word.
His face cleared with a nod of understanding. “I see. I was actually referring to the real thing. Or at least, the kind of stories you made up as a kid.”
“Who on earth would want to read those?” She stepped around him even though her heart had kicked her in the ribs. “If we don’t keep moving, the mosquitos will feast on us.”
A Highlander Walks into a Bar--A Highland, Georgia Novel Page 13
