“I almost do,” she said softly, resting her chin on her knees.
A whistle startled Alasdair. From experience, he knew that whistle could cut through the wind and gorse and stone to call him home. “That’d be Gareth.”
Isabel popped up faster than a jack-in-the-box, brushing at her shirt and shorts. Despite her attempt to degrass herself, she still looked as if she’d taken a roll in the hay. He was even worse off, but didn’t care.
“See you later.” She scampered toward the house, only slowing slightly to greet Gareth.
“Dare I ask what’s put that smile on your face and the grass in your hair, laddie?” Gareth came up beside him to watch Isabel disappear into the house.
Alasdair touched his lips unaware he was even smiling. “What is it about the ladies of Stonehaven?”
“Perhaps the Blackmoors are genetically predisposed to love them,” Gareth said with a wry smile.
“I don’t…” Alasdair whirled on Gareth. “Ah, but you do love Rose.”
“How could I not?” It was a philosophical question for the ages. In a brisker voice, Gareth asked, “And how does the Wellington saga proceed?”
“Badly. Richard is questioning my loyalty—rightly so—and is putting his new lapdog on the deal.”
“What kind of bite does he have?”
“Not as ferocious as mine,” Alasdair said darkly.
Alasdair smoothed a hand down his jaw and pulled at the hair on his chin. He’d shaved daily, even on weekends, since he was fifteen and had a standing appointment with a barber in London that he had missed because of his Southern detour. But letting himself go feral held its appeal.
“What will you do when you fly home?” Gareth asked.
Alasdair noted the singular, but didn’t press Gareth further. “I’ve decided to stay through the festival.”
“Your boss is okay with that?”
“One way or another, he won’t be my boss for much longer.” He’d already moved on from any regrets or grief over the loss. Throwing off the yoke seemed to satisfy the Blackmoor inclination to revolution.
“Ach, I’m sorry. Even more so if I bear the burden of causing the rift even unintentionally. I know how important Wellington is to you. It’s your life.”
“No paltry job is more important than you.” Alasdair clapped Gareth’s shoulder and gave him a bracing squeeze. If he’d still been a lad, he might have hugged him around the waist. In fact, he could almost smell the old tweed jacket his uncle favored in Scotland. Alasdair added thoughtfully, “I want my life to be bigger than a soul-sucking job. I’m not sure what that looks like yet, but I’ll figure it out.”
After a long bout of silence, Gareth asked, “Might that life include Isabel?”
“I’ve known her mere days. How can I answer that?”
“With your heart. I knew Rosie was the one after our first pot of tea.”
Even though they were grown men, Alasdair’s throat dried and clogged with a wad of awkwardness. “Are the two of you … intimately involved?”
Gareth’s cheeks turned ruddy. “Christ preserve me, are you attempting to have the sex talk with me?”
Alasdair couldn’t help but chuckle. “Not the birds and bees portion, I assume you’re well versed at your age, but responsible sex is important. I read in the London Times that the STD infection rate is actually highest amongst the elderly.”
“Elderly?” Gareth’s shoulders bowed up and reminded Alasdair of a bull shown a red cape. “I can still put you flat on your back, laddie.”
Alasdair held his hands up in surrender. “I have no doubt you could. I just wanted to make sure you were being smart.”
Gareth harrumphed. “Smarter than you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Are you and Isabel—how did you so delicately phrase it—intimately involved? Or were you rolling around on the ground looking for a lost contact?”
Now the tables had turned, Alasdair searched for an escape route, because he wanted to become intimately involved with Isabel several times over but didn’t want to answer to his uncle. “It was only a kiss.”
“For you, perhaps. What did it mean for Isabel?”
Alasdair stared at back door as if he could conjure Isabel. She soothed him and bolstered him and agitated him all at the same time. Like an addict, he wanted more. “What do you know of Holt Pierson, gentleman farmer?”
“Oh-ho! So that’s the way the winds blow.” Gareth mostly controlled the twitch of his lips. “Pierson is well liked and from a family who settled the land the same time as the Buchanans. According to Rosie, Holt and Isabel have been friends since they were in nappies. But recently, Holt’s interest has veered romantic. I’ll not lie, Rosie is partial to him. It would make sense, I suppose. Two scions of Highland marrying.”
“You make it sound like olden times when two lairds would betroth their offspring.”
“Some things never change.”
“Should I quit the field? The man has been patiently waiting for his chance, and my life is across an ocean.” Alasdair wanted Gareth to argue with him and encourage him to follow his … Actually, he wasn’t sure which part of his anatomy was in charge of his life’s sat-nav.
“As it was only a kiss, I’m sure it will be a simple matter to watch another man win Isabel.”
Alasdair narrowed his eyes, but Gareth remained deadpan. Imagining driving his fist into Holt Pierson’s blandly handsome face was strangely satisfying.
“A simple matter indeed.” Alasdair couldn’t keep a snarl from curling his lip.
Gareth rubbed his hands together. “Now that you’re staying for the festival, we must kit you out.”
“Kit me out in what?” Alasdair asked, grateful for a change in conversation.
“In Highland dress.” He walked away and gestured Alasdair to follow, so he did. “You’ll compete, of course.”
“Holt the turnip farmer has more experience with traditional Highland competitions than I do. I’ll embarrass myself.”
Gareth had an adventurous spring to his step that proved contagious. “Humiliation is likely, but you can at least look good while competing against the man after the fair Isabel’s heart. And body.”
Chapter Ten
Isabel pressed her hands against her cheeks, ducked inside of the house, and pressed her body against the cool wall. Spontaneous combustion was imminent.
One kiss while locked in a closet together could be attributed to the darkness or the solitude or to general stupidity. The river had been a near miss, but now their flirting had led to a second kiss in the light of day in the middle of a field of flowers. It had been deliberate and reckless and breathtaking.
Falling even an inch for the man was a horrible, terrible, very bad idea. And she was scrabbling by her fingernails on a cliff’s edge. Still she did a little jig on the way to her expanding to-do list in the office, knowing she would at least have him until the festival. She would ignore the impending doom and live in the moment. If only she could figure out how.
It was times like these when a dose of motherly advice would be welcomed. And a pie, preferably peach. She took a detour and found her mom in the kitchen, humming a tune, and dipping chicken in beaten egg and then flour.
“What’s the occasion?” Izzy asked, coming up behind her.
Her mother startled, and flour poofed up to dot her apron. “You scared the tarnation out of me, child. Must there be a special occasion for fried chicken?”
“There usually is.” Izzy watched her mother work, taking comfort in the familiar.
“The festival is coming together nicely, the forecast is predicting blue skies, and I’m happy. That’s plenty to celebrate.”
When she was young, Izzy had never discussed boys with her mom and had certainly never broached the subject of men as she grew older. Izzy had assumed, wrongly as it turned out, that her mom wouldn’t understand.
“Are you and Gareth in love?” The question popped out, and not fo
r the first time Izzy wished she had a speedbump between her brain and her mouth.
Her mom’s hands stilled in the flour for a moment before resuming their work. “What’s brought this on?”
“Seeing the two of you together makes me wonder what’s going to change.”
Her mom’s smile was knowing and a little sad. “Nothing. Everything. Who knows? Gareth and I haven’t discussed anything beyond tomorrow.”
“You’re okay with that?”
“I’m content.” The chicken went back into the egg for another round. “I assumed I’d used up all my good luck finding your father. I didn’t expect to get another chance.”
“Do you feel guilty?” Izzy wasn’t asking to put the thought in her mom’s head, but for guidance on how to handle her own mixed feelings watching Gareth take her daddy’s place.
“When you love someone—and I mean really love them—their happiness will come to mean more than yours. Your father loved me beyond words, and he would want me to be happy. So, no, I don’t feel guilty.” Her mom looked up from the chicken and cocked her head. “You don’t understand yet, but you will someday.”
Her mom’s words triggered an understanding deep in the marrow of her bones. Things might change, but she would never lose her mom, no matter what happened between her and Gareth.
Izzy forced her lips into what she hoped resembled a smile. “A cat seems more likely than a man.”
An impish twinkle banished the shadows in her mom’s eyes. “If that’s what you want, then I’ll support your feline endeavors, but I don’t think you should buy a litter box just yet. I saw Holt in town and he’s smitten with you, darlin’. Absolutely smitten.”
“We’re meeting for drinks tonight.” Izzy’s stomach took a detour to her feet.
Her mom narrowed her eyes on Izzy. “Why are you saying it like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve been sentenced to hang instead of enjoying a glass of wine with an eligible, interested man.” Her mom shot her an exasperated glance. “Darlin’, Holt is good looking, nice, and available. What the problem?”
“I don’t know. Nothing.” He’s not a dark-haired Scotsman with a crooked grin and sexy brogue. “I’ll keep an open mind where Holt is concerned.”
“Good. You deserve to cut loose and have a little fun. I apologize for slacking off when I got home, but Gareth has been a wonder with new ideas. Working with him has turned what had become staid and mundane exciting again.”
Diverting her scattered thoughts to the festival was welcome. “We need to make sure the booths don’t arrive for setup before the field is mowed.”
They both looked out the window to the flowers swaying in the slight breeze. Her mom said, “I wish we could leave them. Watching them get mowed down is a depressing sight.”
Izzy waited until the last possible moment to schedule the mowers for the same reason, and this year the cut would be even deeper after the stolen moments in the middle of the flowers with Alasdair.
“I’ll handle the mowers, the booths, and the vendors,” her mom said. “Why don’t you get your hair or nails done before you meet Holt?”
Izzy fingered the ends of her hair, her scalp tingling with the memory of Alasdair’s hands. “I do need to run by the dance school. Anna wants to show me the costumes the girls will be wearing.”
“I’m sure they’ll all look just darling. Anna has such a good eye.”
Not only did she have a good eye, but she had good ears to help Izzy parse her confusion.
* * *
Izzy exchanged polite greetings with the parents waiting in the front room for their children to finish their lessons. Instead of waiting with them, she slipped through the frosted double door and found Anna in the modern studio she’d refurbished after taking over the dance studio from her mother.
The sun diffused through the large oaks outside to bathe the studio in warm light and was reflected back from the wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. The light wood floor and cream walls added to the fresh and modern vibe.
Anna had a dozen pre-teen girls gathered around her, giving them a rundown of their upcoming events, including the parade and, of course, the games. With long, wavy red hair and a dancer’s lean body, Anna could star on a travel poster for Scotland. It was easy to picture her standing in a tartan gown at the top of a castle turret with a windswept moor of heather in the background beating back invading Sassenach with her bow.
The illusion was broken the moment Anna opened her mouth and a thick honeyed Southern accent emerged. “The crowd might be intimidating, but I know the more experienced girls will help the young’uns manage their nerves.”
A chorus of yesses accompanied hugs all around, and the chatter increased tenfold when Anna dismissed them.
Anna’s mother, Clarice, had founded the dance studio thirty years earlier. She had been ecstatic when eight-year-old Izzy signed up for dance lessons. Ecstasy quickly flipped to disappointment when it became clear Izzy had not inherited Rose’s balletic talent.
Anna had been a year behind Izzy in school, and Izzy had watched Anna shine on the cheerleading squad and dance team with awe and a small amount of envy. Anna had won the Highland games dance competition five years running.
With her arthritis worsening, Clarice had scaled back her time in the studio, finally retiring to travel with her church group. Anna had revamped the studio and the program, offering hip-hop dance in addition to the traditional Celtic dancing the studio was known for.
“Izzy! Come on back and check this out.” Anna was full of energy with a dark, sometimes biting, sense of humor. As a role model for her young charges, she was more P!nk than Mary Poppins.
After Izzy gave the requisite compliments on the dresses the girls would be donning for the festival, Anna held up an adult Celtic dancing dress in a mossy green with gold accents. Its flounced, almost childish skirt was offset by the tight bodice and low-scooped neck. She hummed a tune, swayed, and waggled her eyebrows.
“Have you taken it for a test drive? Did anything X-rated happen when you leapt?” Izzy’s lips twitched. While Anna and Izzy hadn’t hung out regularly in high school, they had become best friends over the last few years because of the festival.
“I’d for sure repeat as champion again if that happened.”
“You forget that Miss Dunbar is one of the judges. Your boob buds might give her a stroke.”
Anna and Izzy dissolved into giggles. Miss Dunbar had been their health and physical education teacher in middle school. A brief lesson on the changing female body had been riddled with euphemisms and outright dodging of reality. The word “nipple” had been deemed too scandalous to utter by Miss Dunbar. The replacement terminology of boob buds had imprinted on an entire generation of Highland’s girls.
“If my boob buds accidently pop out, I might attract a brawny man competing in the athletic feats. Lord knows, I could use a giant caber in my life.”
“You are terrible.” Izzy guffawed and checked behind them for any eavesdropping parents or, even worse, kids.
“I don’t have the chance to be terrible, but I’d like to.” Anna hung her dancing costume back up and shot her a side-eye. “Speaking of available cabers to toss, I hear you have an honest-to-goodness Scotsman staying at Stonehaven.”
“Two of them, actually.”
“I’ve met Gareth—nice guy with massive googly eyes for Rose—but I was referring to the hotty-pants with the banging accent who’s not eligible for AARP.”
“Alasdair Blackmoor. Gareth’s friend.”
“Sexy name. What’s the story?”
“He’s some high-powered financial whiz. He spent school holidays with Gareth. Old family friends. He’s flying home after the festival though.”
“Have you slept with him?” Anna asked with no embarrassment whatsoever.
“What? No. Of course not. Geez.” Izzy’s face reached roasting temperatures. “I’m actually on my way to meet Holt for a drink.”
Anna turned unusually serious. “Are you actually interested in Holt or are you settling because you’re lonely?”
“It’s just a drink.” The same line had been on repeat since her acceptance, but now that Anna had caller her out, it felt weak and unfair.
“Holt wants more.”
It was the “more” that set Izzy’s stomach to dancing an award-winning jig. Words blurted out of her mouth. “I kissed him.”
“Holt?” Anna’s eyes bugged.
“Alasdair.”
“Ah, the Hot Scot. How was it?”
“Good. Fine.” When Anna made a “gimme more” gesture, Izzy continued. “Okay, it was frigging magnificent. We were laying in the field of wildflowers out back of the house.”
Anna clutched her heart and took a step back. “In a field of flowers? Could that be any more romantic?”
“It was amazing until I got bit by fire ants.”
“And?”
The fact Anna knew there was an “and” had her spilling the rest. “We got locked in that janky closet down at the Baptist church. The dark and the diminished oxygen levels impaired our judgment.”
“Seven minutes in heaven in a church closet. That’s classic!” Anna’s laugh was infectious.
Izzy slapped her friend’s arm. “I need serious help here. I kissed one man this morning and am meeting another for drinks in like”—she checked the wall clock—“fifteen minutes. You’ve dated more than I have. What do I do?”
“Having drinks with Holt does not mean you’re engaged or anything, but don’t lead him on. Keep it friendly and if you really want to send an ‘I just want to be friends’ signal, pay for your own drink.”
“I can do that.” It sounded simple enough.
“Try to get there before him and order at the bar, otherwise Holt will insist on paying, because that’s the kind of guy he is. Avoid the tables in the back. It’s dark and cozy and screams date. Keep your distance. Get the chair across from him and not right next to him. No flirting allowed.”
“Pay for my drink. Stay in the light. Arm’s-length away.” Izzy parroted. “Keep the conversation centered on the festival.”
A Highlander Walks into a Bar--A Highland, Georgia Novel Page 16
