Scotlander, page 20
‘Eh, well.’ He washed his hand over his face. ‘It’s a neat and tidy way of telling me I dropped the ball.’
‘What? No,’ Willa protested. ‘I wasn’t saying—’
He cut her off. ‘I know you weren’t. This is me giving myself lashings for something I should have done long ago.’
‘Which was?’
‘Move back here and help my family.’ He gently lifted the piglet from his lap and laid it on top of the pile of polka-dotted porkers already sleeping in the crook of the sow’s legs. He pressed his hands to the chest-height railings and looked out to the sprawling farmland beyond the barns. ‘I know my stepfamily and I will never be close, not the way my mum, dad and I—’ He stretched his jaw against a hit of emotion and began again. ‘There’s no sense in rehashing what’s happened in the past. But if I’m going to help Orla and her lot, and prove that my dad had nothing but good intentions when he bought this place, what we need to focus on is the future.’
A flush of pride warmed her. Misplaced or not, she felt like he’d included her in the statement. Not just in a could-you-help-me-out-with-a-few-errands way, but in a bigger, broader sense. And it surprised her to realise she wanted to be a part of the solution.
‘So how are we going to give you and Orla the happy ending the audience want?’
‘Is this you trying to get me to do some positive imagery or something?’ He flashed her an unexpectedly bright smile. Her heart flipped.
She gave a hapless little shrug. ‘I can’t help being a source of pure, motivational energy.’
He laughed, then let his smile fade. ‘First and foremost? We can’t let anyone know that Orla’s set this whole thing up because the potato harvester is broken. If they knew she’d had them pay good money in exchange for their labour while she tried to get parts in? We’d have to give all of that money back – and from what she told me last night, it’s gone.’
‘Okay. Noted.’ Willa made blinker gestures with her hands. ‘Eyes on the prize. Do not reveal deceptive holiday ruse to guests.’ She hesitated. ‘Gabe?’
‘Not even Gabe.’
She looked up at ‘heaven’, asked Val for permission to keep Gabe in the dark and received it. ‘Done. What next?’
‘We make sure the guests have a bloody good time and pray the parts for the harvester come in.’
‘Cool. How?’
Finn gave a self-effacing laugh. ‘You and I head down to the village. Me with my tail between my legs, you with your sunshiny American charm, and we convince folk to help us. Otherwise this place is going to have a “For Sale” sign on it in three weeks’ time.’
‘Which we will not let happen,’ she said definitively, before addressing the final and possibly stickiest problem. ‘How do we give a fully immersive, once-in-a-lifetime experience to Outlander superfans?’
Finn’s expression sobered and his voice grew thick with an unexpected charge of emotion. ‘Research, lass. Prepare for battle, then head directly into the eye of the storm.’
‘Awesome. I’m all in.’ She stepped towards him and put up her hand for a high five.
Just as their hands connected, her phone began to buzz. They both started laughed. ‘What are you?’ she asked. ‘A phone mast?’
‘Yes. That’s it exactly. All the texts in Scotland come through me.’
They stood there for a moment, smiling at one another, their hands still pressed together and then, when her phone buzzed again, Finn pulled back. ‘Looks like your real life wants a word with you.’
‘You know Hollywood!’
Finn frowned at her. No. He didn’t. Whatever problems were buzzing away on her phone would no doubt pale in comparison to what Finn and his family were going through. And yet, as soon as she dived into her bosom, took the phone out and began thumbing through the texts, she could feel the closeness between them begin to diminish.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Aubrey Washington: Hey Willz. I can’t find that list of questions you’d written up for the interview with Britney. Resend?
Bryony Stokes: Willa? Where are the questions for Britney? Also, I can’t log into your account any more. I might have accidentally changed the password and can’t remember what it was. Anyone in IT I need to sweet-talk for that? And also, there might have been a teensy accident with a mushroom smoothie in your pen drawer. Soz!
Bryony Stokes: Never mind. I pulled out the charm and I’m back in. Might need to talk to someone about fluffing the petty cash supplies. BTW your filing system is certifiable.
Charlie Foster: Willa? I’m actually being serious here. Bryony’s like IRL Lindsay Lohan on steroids. Before the fall.
Martina Glaubitz: When you come in for the morning meeting could you please bring all of the run sheets for the Zendaya/Rita Ora special? Having RuPaul do the interview should really pull in the numbers.
Bryony Stokes: Hey Willa. Weird question. Do you know how to get hold of RuPaul? I might have accidentally said you already booked her????? #BubbleBrain!
Mom: Hi there sweetie. Just wanted to let you know we’re planning on making a bit of a splash for your dad’s sixtieth. I know it’s a few months off and not very ‘Jenkins’ of us, but if you could think about coming up for a couple of days one of your brothers will pick you up from the Portland airport so you don’t have to worry about the puddle jumper over to Pendleton. Oh, and could you pick up some of those California almonds for your dad? He loves to snack on those. Says they remind him of you.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Willa sent off her last email and popped her phone on top of the ‘headboard’ bales. There’d been so many messages and emails flooding in in the end, Finn had brought her back here to the hayloft and she’d been glued to her phone for most of the day. She’d answered as many questions as she could, but her father’s oft repeated edict was gnawing at her brain like a primordial earworm. Gotta be in the game to get the touchdowns, Willy. The only question was: which game did she want to be in?
She’d been right about the texts. The ‘crises’ at TiTs paled in comparison to Finn’s To Do list. Now that she knew what was going on behind the scenes at Balcraigie Castle she felt compelled to stay and help Finn. It’s what she’d been raised to do. Help people who needed it. The fact she was beginning to like Finn a whole lot more than she originally had was a different story, but . . . Pushing all of that aside, she was fighting an increasingly panicked feeling that Bryony was trying to get her job.
If she lost it? She would be right royally screwed. Interviewing celebs about the rigours of fighting a pterodactyl on a green screen wasn’t a highly transferable skill. If she returned home to find her security pass had been revoked? She would end up doing exactly what her mother had predicted the day she’d packed up her car to head south: turning back around and getting the only guaranteed job going in Pendleton.
Don’t be too proud to take shifts at the Dairy Queen, honey. Scowling because you think you’ll spend the rest of your life making M&M Blizzards won’t change things. Remember, those cavity machines pay bills. Dreams don’t.
She tried not to let the memory rile her. Saying stuff like that was her mother’s way of being helpful. She was the grandchild of Latin American immigrants who’d earned their keep through physical labour. Her mom had been the first in her extended family to go to university and even that hadn’t been easy. The only way she’d been able to pay for it was to serve in the military. During a war. She wasn’t a cosy, cuddly, c’mere-let’s-watch-Gilmore-Girls-and-eat-pints-of-ice-cream kind of mother. She was more of a do-something-productive-with-your-time – other-people-don’t-have-half-the-time-you-do-moping-about-a-life-that’s-pretty-great mother. It had taught her resilience. And not to rely on anyone. Which was why her friendship with Val had been such a comfort to her. They ‘got’ each other in a way she’d never felt understood by her own family. Val could read her moods and do just the right thing to make it better and with absolutely no judgement. Having that perfect a relationship taken away from her, and so cruelly, felt like walking around with only one lung.
A soft knock sounded on her door. ‘Willa,’ Finn whispered. ‘It’s me.’
A shiver swept down her spine.
Stupid, sexy Scottish accent. She’d have to become more immune to it.
She padded across the thick, worn-by-time planks as lightly as she could, aware Gabe was below her and that it would be very easy to misread Finn’s pre-planned visit as a booty call.
Just because he was deeply attractive, and far more sensitive than he appeared, didn’t mean there was any depth to her visceral response to him. It wasn’t genuine attraction. This was, at most, a holiday crush. All she had to do was keep it at bay for the next ten days, then she could get on the plane, giggle with the flight attendant until they reached the big city with its superhighways and palm trees and pollution and juice cleanses, where she could get back to the business of doing what she loved.
She opened the door, sending covert looks left and right like a spy, but all she got was a face full of tweed jacket. She looked up.
Blue-grey eyes met hers. Straw-coloured waves of hair stuck out from under his flat cap, grazing the collar of a green and fawn checked shirt. His shoulders were filling out his tweed coat with Disney-hero panache and his thighs . . . Knee-weakening. She’d met Channing Tatum a number of times and had never bit down on her cheek as hard as she was now. Well-worn moleskin trousers were now ruined for her. The bastard.
She ushered him in, trying not to sniff him as he entered. He was so solidly Finn. A man. A farmer. A teacher. A brother trying to make amends. A Scotsman.
She felt flimsy in contrast. A shadow human. How could she not when her biggest form of personal identity was her job?
After she’d closed the door behind her, he took his hands out from behind his back with a flourish. In one hand he held a laptop. In the other, a steaming bag of microwave popcorn.
‘Ooo!’ She pounced on the popcorn. ‘Gimme.’
He gave it to her and looked around the room. ‘Where do you want to do this?’
An awkwardness descended. The most comfortable spot was on the bed. But . . . it was a bed. And, having given her Jacobean top a scrub in the bath, she was wearing a unicorn onesie with the word ‘smitten’ stitched into the front of it. She really should have pre-thought the impression she was giving.
She pointed at the foot of the bed. ‘What if we make a little coffee table out of one of the bales and use the bed as a backrest?’
Much further into the first series than either of them had anticipated, Willa was feeling decidedly torn. Jamie and Claire clearly had the horn for one another. She, Willa, was sitting next to someone who made her horny. She also had signed a waiver promising not to jump him like the sexy hot potato that he was. This, after having experienced that one – perfect – kiss. It was torture.
When they reached the point where (#SpoilerAlert) Jamie and Claire started undressing one another on their wedding night, she and Finn began fidgeting, clearing their throats, and basically acting like teenagers in Health class on How To Have Safe Sex day.
Willa broke first. ‘Well, this isn’t at all cringe.’
‘Nope,’ Finn agreed, using his forearm to open another bottle of alcoholic ginger beer he’d bolted down the stairs to find after the two of them had nearly died of mortification during the first of Claire’s many sex scenes.
Not that Willa was counting, (she was totally counting) but Claire had had more sex with her English and Scottish husbands in the space of . . . what was it, a few weeks? . . . than Willa had had in the past five years. And boy howdy did she want to have sex right now.
To disguise her discomfort she began to do what she always did when she was nervous. Talked to excess. ‘Their wedding was nice. Good percentage of candles. Our minister was better. And the sausage rolls. In fact, now that I think about it, from the angle they shot it? Their minister – vicar? Whatever – he looked like a satanist. But maybe he was trying not to stare at Claire’s boobs. Do you think it was spring or summer? I mean, that was a fair amount of cleavage on display. Four out of five stars for the kiss, but I think ours was totes better.’
What. The. Actual. Fuck. Was. Pouring. Out. Of. Her. Mouth?
Finn’s eyes shot to hers, then back to the screen.
Awesome. The old I’m-going-to-pretend-you-weren’t-talking manoeuvre. Cool, cool. She was down with that. She was down with all of this. Just because she’d masturbated to a picture of this guy before she’d met him, then flashed him, then freaked out when he’d accidentally grabbed her boobs, freaked out again for patronising her when, really, she’d deserved it, because, you know, first impressions are a thing for a reason, only for him to kiss her at their wedding as if he had actually wanted to, not to mention all of the mega-bonding in the pig pen earlier with actual tears and hugs and plans to save his family home, there wasn’t any reason to get bent out of shape. Who cared if he didn’t want to talk about the tingling feeling in her lips every time she remembered that kiss?
She did.
So she changed the topic. ‘On the flipside, maybe time-travelling women forced into a marriage of convenience with strapping young Highlanders deserve a bit of nooky.’
Finn gave her a wary side-eye, then, his attention caught by the absence of moaning, turned back to the screen. ‘Oh. Would you look at that.’ He was tipping his head as if the sight in front of him was something brand spanking new. ‘They’re talking. After sex.’
Willa made a vague noise. ‘Well, you know what they say, a bit of a chit-chat after the consummation of a clan-arranged marriage that saved the bride from certain death comes highly recommended.’
‘And you know this from personal experience?’
‘Oh, personal. Obvs.’
‘Shame.’ Finn stuck out his lower lip. ‘I was hoping I’d be your first.’
And then they both realised what he’d just said.
She said, ‘Ha, ha,’ and ‘Nice one,’ and ‘Sorry, bud,’ then really wanted to go and find a dark corner somewhere where she could curl up and die.
‘You’ve led quite the life.’ Finn grinned, then took a chug of his drink. Willa followed his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down the length of his sun-gold throat stubble. She forced herself to drag her eyes up to his lips, then to his eyes just as an orgasmic groan of pleasure burst from the tinny speakers.
Finn closed the laptop. ‘I think it’s getting a bit late, don’t you?’
‘Definitely.’ She faked a yawn. ‘Very late.’
He held the laptop to his chest but made no move to leave.
Her heart made an erratic oh-my-god-he’s-going-to-kiss-me beat. ‘You okay?’ she asked when he didn’t move.
‘Aye, I just—’ His blue eyes flicked across to meet hers. ‘Sorry about today. About including you in this mess. This is meant to be your holiday and I’ve pretty much ruined it.’
‘Finn.’ She was serious now. ‘I’m happy to help. Particularly as the whole Outlander thing—’ She pointed at the laptop, then flapped her hands at it while she tried to figure out exactly what to say, finally settling on, ‘I don’t really know why I’m here. Helping you makes me feel useful.’
As she spoke the words, the truth of them settled her. She was a producer. She made things happen. Correction. She made magic happen, never letting anyone know what was really occurring behind the scenes. Stroppy presenters. Truculent film stars. A real-life farmer fighting for the land that made him the man he was.
If she could do this – ensure the guests had the best immersive Jacobean experience possible – perhaps then the great, gaping hole that had nearly rent her in two when Val had died would begin to heal.
‘Thanks,’ Finn said, his voice rougher than it had been a moment earlier. ‘Well, then.’ He gave her a half bow. ‘I wish you goodnight, m’lady.’
She held out the sides of her onesie and curtsied. ‘M’lord.’
When she looked up at him, the intensity of his gaze seared through any protective layers she’d put in place. It was like wearing factor 10 sunblock in the desert.
She got the feeling that Finn, like her, was going through a personal metamorphosis. He thought he’d found his happy place at the Inverness agricultural college, but from what she’d seen? His happy place was here. And unless he did something, he would lose it.
It was a heck of a way to become a butterfly. To throw himself into saving the place that brought him equal mixes of pleasure and pain. The fact he wanted to save it, not just for himself, but for a stepfamily he’d never quite bonded with spoke volumes. He was an honourable, kind man who would put his pride to the side to tend to the greater good and she did not fancy him one tiny bit. Her erogenous zones always threw a glitter party when she wished a man goodnight. That’s just how biology worked.
He touched his fingers to his cap. ‘G’night, then, Claire.’
‘Night, Jamie.’
When she closed the door and pressed her hands against the smooth, golden sheet of wood, something told her the absence of footsteps meant Finn was on the other side, doing exactly the same thing.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Finn powered through his morning chores, eager to get into town before the Thursday market traffic set in.
As he popped his favourite wheelbarrow back against the wall, Orla came in with one of her small baskets. She held it out to him. ‘Some food for you, in case you and Willa are out for a while.’
He took the basket and, after a knotty moment’s silence, said, ‘You’re doing a brilliant job, you know. Folk seem to be loving it.’
