by Kyra Whitton
“I’m still trying to figure out if I should strike out and do something completely new, go back to plan A, or just give up, entirely.” She let out a shaky breath.
“Giving up sounds like a cop-out.” There was a bite to his tone. A challenge.
“Oh, really? I take it you’ve lost a lot of fiancées in your time?” She scoffed.
He didn’t look at her. Instead, he kept his gaze on the glass in front of him, his fingertips running over the condensation, his thumbs wiping at it absently.
Evie wasn’t sure he would ever answer her when he turned his attention back, his eyes steely.
“I just see a fire in you. It would be a shame if you snuffed that out.”
“You see that, huh? After five minutes?”
“Some people just make it obvious.” He took a sip of his drink, gaze moving back to an invisible spot on the wall behind the bar.
Or perhaps it was the model-thin beauty who was wrapping her arm around Evan’s neck.
“What was Plan A?” he asked after a moment.
She shrugged. “Grad school. I was going to finish my PhD, sit in a dusty office, and read all day.” She couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at the corners of her lips.
“So why not do that?”
“It would just be hard to go back there.”
“It might not be as hard as you think.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “You’re awfully philosophical for a scout.”
But he only regarded her with an amused twist of the lips.
****
She couldn’t shake what Evan’s coworker had said.
Evan disappeared from the bar sometime around midnight. He never made it back from the bar with her beer, instead standing with his head bent close to the leggy beauty.
Around midnight, she finally broke away from his group of co-workers to look for him, but he was nowhere in sight. So much for being the designated driver.
She had to call a cab, anyway.
The night out had done her good. She almost felt like the Evie she was before the accident. The Evie who went out for drinks at the local pubs. The one who planned day trips to Edinburgh or nights doing club crawls. The one who agreed to go to Monaco with her flat mate last minute. The Evie who smiled and laughed and played. The Evie who didn’t watch daytime television and hid in her room.
She leaned her head against the window in the cab’s backseat, gaze fixed on the stars hanging in the sky. They were fairly bright in the middle-of-no-where, Kansas, but not as bright as they were at the end of the pier in St Andrews.
They’d sat at on the edge of the stone, staring up at them the night Calum kissed her the first time. It had been cold, but the sky had been clear as the waves lapped below their dangling feet. They left the Chinese restaurant for a stroll down the old streets, talking about, well, everything. Her irrational fear of volcanoes, his obsession with orange chocolate. Her newfound love affair with Scottish war history, how he had grown up in St Andrews, the only child of a single mother. And then she was teasing him about the way he dropped half of his consonants, and he was kissing her.
They were interrupted when her mobile phone went off, singing out into the near silence of lapping water and calling seagulls. Calum gave her a quizzical look and made fun of her taste in music as she had answered the phone to her incredibly drunk flat mate.
The corners of Evie’s lips lifted at the memory, and then regret flooded over her, cold and heavy. She hadn’t talked to Sarah since she left Scotland. Sarah was always calling and emailing, but Evie found it difficult to reciprocate. What was she supposed to say? “Glad you’re doing well, my life is shit?” She wondered if she had let it go for too long, if she could contact Sarah and not have it be weird.
Before she could regret it, she dug her phone out of her pocket and pulled up her email. A few taps of the screen, and “I miss you,” buzzed through the airwaves to the other side of the world. She didn’t expect an answer, but… Maybe she would get one.
The cab dropped her off in front of her parents’ house, the front porch light still glowing. She expected they went to bed hours before, but when she let herself in, it was to find her father sitting in the living room, a book open, his glasses perched on his nose. He didn’t wear them often, only for reading, watching television and at the movies. Jamie took the wire rims off, folding them up and setting them on the side table when he saw her. He shut the book, but didn’t stand up.
“Have fun?” he asked.
She gave a little shrug of one shoulder, but her lips crept up at the corners.
“Where’s my change?” He grinned.
She made no move to pull out the change stuffed in her back pocket. “Can I borrow your car, tomorrow?”
“Sure, kiddo. What’s up?”
“Nothing, I’d just like to get out, I think.”
“You got it.” He rose and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’m proud of you, Kiddo. See you in the morning.”
“Night, Dad.”
Chapter Four
Fort Riley was smack dab in the middle of a wasteland. A major state university and an Army base should have warranted more in the way of shopping chains, regional stores, or even cute local shops. But the prairieland between Topeka and Salina was only dotted with farmland and the basic necessities.
How did people survive it?
Evie had seen a lot of the world, lived in a lot of the world, but she couldn’t remember chain stores being so under-represented at any of the other major bases. Sure, Fort Lewis in Washington had sorely lacked any sort of popular chain restaurant options; Fort Lee in Virginia had been in the center of it all, though just a few too many miles away; their time in Germany had been full of travel, so if anything was missing, she had never had time to notice. Living in St Andrews, she became accustomed to having everything she needed, just on the miniature. But the same could not be said of Junction City and Manhattan.
For awhile, she just drove aimlessly, looking for anything that caught her eye. Gun shops and faith-based furniture stores were not it.
But when she came to a little bookstore not far from where Evan took her the night before, she felt the first prickles of interest. It was just off the main footpaths of the university’s campus, perhaps only a block, if she remembered correctly.
She found a parking spot and strolled in its direction, her step light, her limp almost undetectable. Rolling bookcases were pulled out onto the sidewalk, reminding her of the Saturday morning sales in St Andrews, the booksellers hawking their wares in the middle of Market Street.
Evie pushed inside, the familiar scent of old books enveloping her. Ah, yes. She could get lost in here.
Most of the books were used, but she didn’t care. She hadn’t read anything since the accident. She was always a voracious reader, her tastes spanning across all genres. She was suddenly overcome with the desire to own as many of these books as she could carry. The remainder of the money her father had given her was suddenly burning a hole in her pocket, and she was drawn to the shelves like a crow to a discarded picnic lunch.
In no time, she cradled a stack against her chest, a mystery, a young adult novel, a fantasy novel several of her friends had been raving about a few years ago. She found a particularly steamy romance that had her intrigued, but nearly nude bodies were splashed across the cover. She tucked it between the mystery and the fantasy, hoping no one would see she wasn’t above purchasing smut. She was just about to head to the counter when a name caught her eye.
Sylvia Bascomb-Murray.
Dr. Bascomb-Murray was her mentor. Evie spent months as her graduate assistant. She made the historian’s copies, highlighted her notes. She organized bibliographies and pulled books from the library. And Dr. Bascomb-Murray was the one to give Evie the long weekend that destroyed her life.
Evie swallowed and reached for the book. “Women of Culloden: Taking Up The Tartan,” she whispered.
It was published a few months before she too
k the research assistantship, and this particular copy looked like it had been read through a few times. She had meant to read it, but she was too busy helping with the follow-up research to find the time.
She ran the pad of her thumb over the slick cover of the paperback, brushing over images of the Carlisle tartan and crest: lavender and blue with threads of white, tree and crown, and motto “Eternal.”
The book hit each of her interests: feminism, war, Scotland. Her obsessions. Not the Carlisles, per se, but the Scottish resistance. It’s why she applied to work with Sylvia Bascomb-Murray. Why she had applied to St Andrews. She became fascinated by the subject as an undergraduate after taking a course on Britain before the 1830s. Was there anymore more romantic than taking on the most powerful Army in the world? And a full generation before the American Revolution? Their determination was so strong to self-govern they clashed against the English muskets with swords and knives and pitchforks.
The book brought back the memory and excitement of having an idea or hypothesis no one else had ever published. It reminded her of the smell of the library and the white gloves used in the rare books section. A tingle ran up her spine as she imagined the paintings of Highlanders and the feel of the magic in the mountains and lochs of Scotland.
Maybe she should go back.
Her pulse accelerated, and the tickle of anticipation dripped into her stomach until a knot formed. She wasn’t ready for that, yet. Maybe she should just read the book.
She added it to her pile and turned, barreling right into someone.
The books fell to the floor, one of them landing squarely on her foot. She sucked in her breath, and then knelt to pick up her requisitions, but quickly drew her hand back when her fingers brushed against another’s.
“Sorry,” she muttered, and then lifted her face to see him—because, of course, she had run into him—looking quizzically at her.
She was instantly drawn to him, as if some invisible thread connecting them pulled taut. As if she was destined to be there at exactly that moment. Time stood still with the beating of her heart, and when they caught up, she felt shy, tongue-tied. She’d never felt shy and tongue-tied, before. At least not like this.
He stared at her with pewter gray eyes and something akin to shock. His eyes were wide and his lips parted before they turned up in a ghost of a smile. Did he feel it too, that tug? No, she was being ridiculous.
“My apologies,” he murmured, books outstretched.
She could only gape at his mouth. Soft, almost feminine, pouty. It seemed misplaced on his rectangular face and firmly set square chin.
When she didn’t respond he canted his head to the side. “Do I know you?”
Blushing, she shook herself out of her silent reverie, and took the books from him, their fingers brushing. Again, a spark of awareness raced through her and she realized the smutty romance novel was on top, the half-naked hero and heroine glistening in sweat at they clung to one another.
Heat flooded her face as her eyes grew wide. “I-me, too. I mean. Um. No. Thank you.”
She stood, but a twinge of pain pulled at her thigh, and she reached out a hand, grasping his forearm, to keep from falling. His hand wrapped around her elbow, steadying her, and she stammered her thanks, again, even more embarrassed than she had been for not only running into him, but staring at his mouth. Her gaze caught his and she couldn’t look away.
“Are you okay?” He looked concerned, his eyebrows pulling together.
She readjusted the books in her arms and gave a weird little head-shake-shrug. “Just a, just a bad leg.,” She tried to smile and roll her eyes, but probably just looked like she had some sort of tick.
“Here, I can get those.” He held out one hand. In the other, he cradled the Bascomb-Murray research.
“No, really, I’m fine. But thank you.” She cleared her throat and cut her gaze away only for him to draw it right back. Why did he have to be so tall? He had nearly a full foot on her, and she was five-and-a-half feet in her bare feet. And why did he have to smell so good? Like toasted wood and spices.
He smiled again, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and warmth reflecting in his eyes. It wrapped around her insides until her pulse fluttered, and her skin tingled.
She was staring. Again. Shit.
Evie focused on the book he carried and held her hand out for it. Confusion briefly crossed his features, and he followed her gaze. “Oh, this is yours.” He offered it over, cover facing up. “It’s not bad. Interesting hypotheses.”
She added it to the pile, quickly covering the romance, and pressed it into her chest. Hopefully, he didn’t notice.
“You’ve read it?”
He shrugged, a non-answer.
“I was her graduate assistant,” she said.
“Really?” His eyebrows shot up.
She nodded slowly. “Yeah. It was after this, though. I just never got the time to read it. I mean, I know what she was working on, but it was already in publication when I came along, and so what I helped with was… different.”
His head canted to the side. “You’re an historian, then?”
She shook her head. “I was going to be, but…”
She didn’t want to tell this stranger her problems. There was clearly such a thing as oversharing, and she’d already crossed that line. She wished she could sink right through the floor and disappear.
Yet, he held out his hand. “Alec.”
She leaned back to take the burden of the books into one arm and held out the other. He grasped it, his long fingers curling over her, his palm warm.
“I’m Evelyn. Well, Evie.”
“You don’t often hear that pronunciation,” he mused as she let her hand fall. It was true; Eve-lin was not nearly as popular as Ev-ellen.
“Oh, yes. I know. Weird parents and all that.” She rolled her eyes and grimaced around a blush.
He grinned. “I couldn’t buy you a coffee, could I?”
Her shocked expression had him immediately backtracking. “Sometime. Whenever,” he added.
“S-sure.” She forced herself to breathe.
The left corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smirk. “Are you free now?” he asked shyly.
She tried to wrack her brain for anything she could be doing, but all she could think of was the curve of his lips, the dimple in his cheek, his broad shoulders, and the way his t-shirt pulled across his chest. She just nodded dumbly.
“Let me just…” She motioned to the cash register manned by a spectacled college student.
“Of course.”
She scurried to the counter, glad her back was to Alec so he couldn’t see the besotted grin spreading across her face. Most of the leftover cash went to the books. The clerk carefully lifted them into a paper bag with the store’s logo rubber stamped on its side before passing her the change. She shoved the wad of paper and coins into the pocket of her cropped jeans and moved to the side for Alec. He paid for a small, black book using a credit card, slashing his signature across the bottom of the receipt with a wiggle of his fingers.
He turned down a bag, instead tucking his copy of the receipt between the pages. He joined her by the door, pushing it open so she could walk through ahead of him.
“There’s a coffee shop down the street on the next block.” He pointed with his book. “Are you okay to get there?”
Ah. He had seen the limp. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Just an old battle wound.”
He frowned. “Were you…”
She quirked an eyebrow as they started down the street next to each other. “In the service? No. In fact, hell no,” she grinned up at him. “Car accident.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he murmured.
“What about you?” she asked quickly, wanting nothing more than to change the subject.
“No major accidents recently.”
She grinned. “I meant are you in the service?”
She really didn’t need to ask, she could already tell. His hair was short and we
ll groomed. His face clean shaven, even on a Saturday. The metal dog tag chain hovered just above the collar of his red t-shirt. It was in the way he stood and the way he walked. She suspected it was in the way he talked, but their conversation had been somewhat limited, so far.
“How did you know?”
Evie grinned at his sarcasm. “Well, it was either that or well-paid student, and those are like giraffe-spotted unicorns. Or were-pigs.”
Were-pigs, he mouthed, followed by a soundless chuckle. “Are you working at the university, then?” he asked.
They came to a standstill at the street corner and waited for the lights to change and walk signal flash.
“What?” The idea seemed ridiculous. “Oh, no. I’m just sort of… in holding, I suppose.”
He gave her a questioning look.
For the first time in a year, she wanted to answer. Avoiding it became second nature, but perhaps opening up about it the night before had cured her reluctance. Or perhaps something about him made her want to open up. To tell him everything.
And then strip him naked and have her way with him.
“I’m staying with my parents. The accident left me… in need of a lot of help.” She sucked her lips between her teeth and bit down on them. “I was working on my PhD overseas, you know, with Dr. Bascomb-Murray who wrote the book? And had no one nearby who could really be at my beck and call while arms and legs and face were in casts.”
“Face? Really?”
She nodded. “Yup. My whole face was screwed up. What you see now is a masterpiece created by one surgeon Cho of Edinburg and contains little to no resemblance to my former genetic self.”
“Now that I find hard to believe.” He came to a stop outside a glass door and smiled down at her.
Her insides turned to liquid.
She pulled her gaze away and stepped inside, falling into line next to the case of pastries. The scent of hot coffee and warm sandwiches wafted through the air, filling the space their conversation had briefly occupied.
