Scotlander, page 12
‘What?’
‘We didn’t sign up for this.’ She huffed out another laugh. ‘I wouldn’t have even dreamt of booking a vacation like this in a million years.’
One second is all it takes to fall in love forever.
His father’s oft-used phrase careened into Finn’s mind so hard and fast he panicked he’d said it out loud. His dad had called it The Gut Factor. The feeling he’d had when he’d first laid eyes on Finn’s mum. I just knew, son. From the moment I saw her. I just knew.
He glanced at Willa. She was actively scanning the fields beyond him, then, without any ceremony, lifted up her skirts and began purposefully striding towards the castle.
He met her pace easily, glancing over at her occasionally to check she was alright. Annoyingly, his eyes kept dipping downwards. He’d never considered himself a boobs man before now, but his body was telling him otherwise. And not just because of yesterday’s epic costume malfunction and his role in it. The truth was, ever since he’d laid eyes on Willa Jenkins, his body had been telling him lots of things he didn’t know about himself.
He could still wake up with a raging erection for one.
That certainly hadn’t happened for a while.
Not to mention still being here at Balcraigie. He’d meant to leave last night.
Was Willa why he’d stayed?
God, he hoped not. He couldn’t think of a woman less likely to be his soulmate. Not to mention the fact she’d likely knee him in the balls if he tried it on with her.
But how else could he explain his well-laid plans being blasted to smithereens? He’d had it all planned out. Volunteer to do the airport run. Wait for Orla’s mismatched group of Outlander enthusiasts to gather together. Tell them it had all been a big mistake so that he could send them on their merry way, call the estate agent and put the farm on the market the way they should have fifteen years back when every single hope and dream they’d had for Balcraigie had died along with his dad.
But then he’d seen Willa. Her big smile. Her happy wave. Her complete absence of self-awareness when her bodice ribbons had come untied . . .
‘Hey. Second warning.’ Willa was waving her hand in front of his face and pointing her fingers upwards. ‘Eyes are still up here, bud.’
Finn winced and scrubbed a hand over his face. ‘Sorry.’
She looked down at herself and then back up at him. ‘Lordy. They really are out on display, aren’t they?’
Wince still in place, Finn responded with care. ‘I suppose if it’s true to the era then . . .’
He didn’t really know where he was going with the thought, so he let it peter out.
Willa stopped, balled her hands into fists and popped them on her hips as if she were ready to draw out a pair of pistols. ‘If I tell you something in confidence, will you keep it to yourself?’
He made a my-lips-are-sealed gesture.
She looked around her, checking they were alone, then whispered, ‘I haven’t watched Outlander.’
She took a step back from him as if waiting for a huge physical reaction to the news. When there was none, she added, ‘Or read the books.’
His entire bone structure heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Me neither.’
‘Seriously?’ She did a double take. ‘Then . . . why are you guys hosting Outlander experiences?’
‘That’s not exactly what we’re—’ He stopped himself mid-flow. What should he say? Admit that what they were doing here was fraud, pure and simple?
There was something about Willa that demanded honesty, but having seen the rest of the group’s genuine excitement about being here in Scotland – arriving in the costumes Orla had magicked up from the local amateur dramatics society, cooing over beds made of old pallets, clapping their hands at a bowl of porridge – he felt he owed it to them to stay quiet. They believed in the holiday they’d been sold. Flown halfway across the world for, in some cases. Saved for a year. So much effort for something that had been scrabbled together out of sheer desperation.
When he’d left for the airport, the compost loos had only just arrived. A lorry with a crane had been guiding them over the stables’ roof while the lads ran round like chickens with their heads cut off. Chainsaws bit into huge logs that had been sitting in the yard for years. Chests’ worth of blankets and bedding dating back to his great-grandparents were hanging on the wooden fences so Orla’s children could beat them with their cricket bats. It had been total chaos. His last glimpse of the place had been watching Dougie and a couple of the lads carrying his and Orla’s mattress across the courtyard.
When he’d devised the plan to send everyone packing, he’d thought he’d be doing them a favour. The guests and Orla.
When he’d jacked in that plan and bundled everyone into the jeep and driven them here, he knew he was exercising one of the biggest leaps of faith he’d taken in years. Even now, he still wasn’t a hundred per cent sure why he’d done it. There was so much at stake. And he wasn’t even talking about the guests. Honestly? Being strung out by the tourist board was the least of their worries. He was thinking about Orla. Her family. Her dad. Everyone who worked at Balcraigie. His parents. Especially his parents.
And even though everything was, as predicted, already falling to bits, he knew in his heart Orla was right. Balcraigie Castle was meant to be more than a crumbling heap of neglected stone and ivy. It deserved life.
But he still wasn’t convinced they were the ones to do it.
To Willa, he finally said, ‘This is Orla’s operation. I’m just one of the worker bees.’
Willa gave him a right nod that suggested she didn’t entirely believe him, but he could feel the energy between them shift a little. Not exactly friendly, but the playing field had been evened.
They walked in silence towards the castle, each of them with an ear cocked for voices and, eventually, they heard them.
‘I think they’re away by the doocat.’
Willa shot him a questioning look.
‘The dovecote.’ He used the English pronunciation.
‘Nope.’ She shook her head. ‘Still don’t understand.’
He thought of how he’d explain it to his students, many of them lifelong city dwellers. ‘It’s like a hen house for pigeons and doves. Except . . . this one’s not got a roof. Or pigeons and doves.’
Willa smirked at him as if he’d said something funny, then let her smile drop away. ‘Will you come with me?’
‘Of course.’ He was surprised at the request, and even more surprised at his instinctive response. If she wanted him there, he’d be there. Even if it tore at the seams of painful memories he’d much rather keep shut tight.
Eyes focused on the pathways which were, unsurprisingly, covered in all sorts of bits and pieces, he guided her past the raised main doorway as the old ladder they’d once used to clamber up into the castle had long since rotted away. They picked their way round to the side where an open archway led through to what would have been the grand receiving room if it weren’t covered in ivy and growing trees in the centre of it, then the dining room, the breakfast room and, with a quick right turn through a dodgy archway, a shortcut through a back passageway led to the massively overgrown walled garden where, up a twisted stone staircase, standing in the remaining arc of the doocat, stood Gabe and Lachlan.
Chapter Fourteen
It wasn’t the view that took Willa’s breath away. Although it should have. Up here, high above the stables where she could easily see up and beyond the castle walls, was an enormous inlet – a loch maybe? – that spread all the way to the horizon.
Surrounding it were vast, sprawling fields that stretched to the water’s edge and up, deep into rugged hills that hinted at a dusting of snow. There were sheep in some, cows in others and arable crops – potatoes, maybe – covering acre upon acre of lush farmland. As the hills grew into mountains, they extended further and further north, gradually fading in detail like a Chinese ink painting. It was one of the most exquisite views she’d ever seen.
But the beauty didn’t break through the shock of what was in front of the view.
There, at the far end of the dovecote, Gabe and Lachlan were in a fierce clench. Clinging to each other as if they were long lost . . . well . . . definitely not brothers.
Blood roared through her ears. Little bright specks of light forced her to open and close her eyes as if she was one of those dolls who was tipped awake then not awake. Which, not being funny, was how she felt. Was this even real? Heartbeats ricocheted round her chest like a pinball intent on a high score. Throat. Chest. Gut. Each pulsing beat an assault on her ribcage. And yet . . . there was a part of her that wasn’t surprised at all. If anything, she was grossly disappointed with herself for not seeing it in advance.
This hadn’t been a set-up for her and Gabe. It had been a set-up for Gabe and Lachlan.
More than anything, Val had wanted Gabe to know he was, and always had been, loved. Val wasn’t here to do it any more, so she’d found someone who could do the job for her.
Willa had been brought along for moral support. Her usual role. Good ol’ reliable Wills. There with the box of tissues and comfort snacks when you needed her. She’d done it for Val countless times when work got too political (the world of dentistry was far more Machiavellian than one might think), or the strain of young motherhood took its toll or, on the very, very rare occasions when Diego did something to piss her off, Willa had, without fail, battled through traffic, pulled up at the house with pints of ice cream, drugstore facials and an endless stream of positive affirmations.
Her cheeks burnt with humiliation. How stupid to think this trip had been about her. It was akin to thinking a celeb’s smile when she walked in the room was full of genuine delight that she – Willa Jenkins – had finally arrived.
She swiped at her nose, her eyes stinging with shame and, yeah, even though she hadn’t been entirely sure what her feelings had been for Gabe, she’d admit it, betrayal.
She’d thought they were on this trip together. For one another. To bond over their mutual loss of her very best friend. But here she was, on her own again. It was the same old record, same old tune. Always the third wheel, never the bride.
Her chin began to wobble. She was a shitty country song.
How could Val have done this? Why had she done it? Willa had risked her job to come on this trip. Of all the things that had held her in LA when Val had died, her job had been it. It was all she’d had left. When she’d met Gabe and he’d been so warm and charming (eventually), then effortlessly swept away all of the obstacles between her and Scotland, she’d felt that zing of life again. That hint of possibility that there was something beyond the TiTs studio that could give her a sense of purpose. A reason to be happy.
Token spinster friend with a broken gaydar hadn’t really been the end game she’d been aiming for.
She turned to go before they saw her only to come nose to chest with a big, check-shirted wall of heather-and-hay-scented Finlay Jamieson.
She looked up into those storm-blue eyes of his and silently pleaded with him to let her pass. She felt an ugly cry brewing and didn’t have it in her to fight. When he didn’t budge, she hissed, ‘Move.’
‘No.’
Her cheeks flared with heat. ‘No is not a two-syllable word,’ she snipped, despite the fact every Scottish-soaked word that came out of Finn’s mouth felt like getting a bumper crop at a candy dispenser. ‘Shift yourself,’ she growled.
Finn broadened his stance so that he completely blocked the narrow stone stairwell. ‘Not until you have a wee natter with your pal, there.’
‘Oh, is this how we’re playing it?’ She might not want to talk with Gabe, but maybe she did have it in her for a ‘wee’ bicker with Finn. She crossed her arms and shot him a cranky smirk. ‘Me big Scottish McManly man pretending to understand what I’m feeling? Shall I run off and find a talking stick? Unpack all of my childhood issues while I’m at it? Is that what you want? Emotions here, emotions there, Willa’s got feelings everywhere!’
Finn leant against the wall indicating he had all the time in the world. ‘If you like.’
‘Pah!’
A lock of his straw-coloured hair fluttered in her derisive gust.
Still, he stood, waiting like an irritatingly patient parent more than happy to watch their child scream themselves to silence in the cereal aisle.
In all honesty, she’d love to offload on someone she’d never see again. Val had been her go-to emotional laundry basket. A completely judgement-free friend who she could dump all her dirty problems into. After spinning them round a bit (‘Do we really need to have the blue-versus-green-mascara-will-change-everything discussion again?’), Valentina always returned her more trying life issues clean, neatly pressed and stacked in an appealing colour-coordinated order.
Right now she was a tangle of inside-out leggings, scrunched-up socks and savaged sports bras, but she wasn’t about to put on that particular light show in front of Finn Jamieson. Losing the plot would only confirm what he already thought about her: that she was a superficial, Californian hot mess.
She put her hands on his chest and tried to push past him. Not so much as a whisper of a teeter. Not that she had the brain-space for this sort of detail right now, but having actually touched it? She could silently admit that Finn’s chest was really, really nice. It wasn’t over-the-top gym buffed like a lot of the guys back home. It was more . . . organically strong. As if his day-to-day life had crafted the curve of his pecs and the – oh god! She was groping him. Not good. Definitely not good.
‘You’ve got to talk with him, Willa.’ His voice was low and rumbly and literally vibrated from her feet all the way up to her top of her head. Or maybe she was freezing to death. The wind was brisk up here and the stairwell had not come equipped with central heating.
‘Don’t want to,’ she said sulkily, then sneezed.
‘Are you feeling alright?’ He frowned as he inspected her. ‘You’re looking a bit peely-wally.’
‘That sounds like I have leprosy.’
‘It means you’re not looking a hundred per cent.’ His frown deepened. ‘Is that you shivering? Here. Take my coat. I’ll not have you freezing your tits off— freezing to death,’ he quickly corrected.
Despite herself Willa half-laughed. Her boobs should have come on this holiday by themselves.
Finn shrugged off his worn wax jacket and slipped it round her shoulders. The inside was quilted and she instantly felt the heat from his body transfer to her shoulders, cocooning her like a forcefield.
‘You okay there, Willa?’
She tugged the two halves of the jacket close round her, then pursed her lips at him in a happy now? expression to hide her actual reaction. A swoon. The gesture was pure chivalry.
‘C’mon, lass. Go and speak with him.’ His smile was gentle, encouraging. ‘You know I’m right.’
She did. But she wasn’t quite ready to admit as much.
In all honesty, her choices were fairly limited right now.
She could scream until he moved, run back to the stables, crash through the handfasting ceremony, flounce up the stairs to her hayloft, cram all her clothes back into her bag, then dramatically bump her wheelie bag down the stone steps, slip her stylishly oversized sunglasses on and demand someone call her an Uber.
A perfect plan if she were Elle Woods or Kim Kardashian. They, at least, had the guarantee of someone chasing after them to make sure they were okay, even if it was a camera crew. Something told her the chances of Gabe running after her to beg for forgiveness were slim to nil.
The thought pulled her up short.
Why did Gabe need forgiveness? All he’d done was hug a hipster in a rainbow kilt. This, after being an absolute gentleman from the moment she’d met him. Rescuing her car, buying her clothes, getting her upgraded for a long-haul flight and not mentioning once that she was personally responsible for scarring him for life because of her own epically stupid costume failure. From the moment he’d first clinked shot glasses with her, he’d been exactly what she’d needed. A friend.
She huffed out an aggrieved sigh. Was the universe really guiding her towards a moment of true grace or would she choose the easy route and destroy the first two weeks off she’d had in years by being in a huff? God, she wished it was LA time. Then she could excuse herself to answer the inevitable text flurry over who was or wasn’t Ready to Rock This Year’s Movember Moustaches.
‘So . . . what?’ she grudgingly asked Finn. ‘You think I should just walk out there?’
‘Unless you’re planning on teleporting yourself, it sounds a pretty good way to me.’ Again, his tone was kind, warmed with what she could now recognise as his gentle, trademark humour.
Asshole.
She wanted – no, she needed – someone to be cranky with, and Finlay Jamieson was in the unfortunate position of being perfect for the role.
She put on her best snarly voice, got right up in his face and said, ‘And what makes you so wise and all-knowing Mr I’m-Just-A-Worker-Bee?’
Ha! She’d got him there. That’d make him budge.
She waited.
And waited.
Not so much as a flicker.
Cripes.
She was so close to him now she could feel his breath on her lips.
He moved in closer.
Man he smelt delicious. Buttery toast served on a hay bale.
She was desperate to lick her lips but as this was turning into a rather intimate smackdown, she ran the risk of licking his as well. Definitely not an option. So she bit down on her lower lip. Hard.
‘I’m your husband,’ Finn said, his lips almost grazing hers as he spoke. ‘I know everything.’
Seriously? That’s what he was going with? The husband-knows-best line?
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I think you’ve confused me with someone who’s just escaped from a break-off Mormon cult.’
She tipped her head to the side, which let just enough sunlight in to see that his cheeks were pinking.
