Scotlander, page 6
Once settled in the plane (lavender-scented hand towels disposed of and fresh glasses of fizz in hand), she set about extracting information from him. She thought things were going well until she realised Gabe had deftly flipped the tables on her pretty early in the operation. She still knew next to nothing about him and he knew pretty much everything there was to know about her. Mom and Dad met when they were both in the Marines. After two tours in Iraq, her dad had retired and opened up an auto shop with his dad (Grease Monkey & Son) in Pendleton where her mom joined him after her tours in Iraq and a short stint in Walla Walla, Washington where she’d retrained as a schoolteacher. Two older brothers. Both married to their high-school sweethearts. Dean worked in the auto shop with her dad, and Rob was a probation officer at the local penitentiary. Her brothers also led a 4-H group with their mom.
‘4-H?’ Gabe asked, as if that was the one thing in her life history monologue that stood out.
‘You know? Head, heart, hands, health?’
He shook his head.
‘It’s a mentoring programme for kids. They do old-fashioned stuff like grow vegetables and can peaches and make pies for the county fair. Farmer stuff mostly, out where I’m from.’ She gave an eye-roll to show she might be from the country, but she wasn’t actually country herself.
‘Sounds like you’ve got a close-knit family,’ Gabe said.
She snorted. ‘Unless being with them makes you want nothing more than to leave town, sure.’
Gabe frowned.
Willa looked away and drained her champagne. It wasn’t an entirely fair comment. Or considerate, seeing as he hadn’t seen his own family in twenty-plus years. She may have nothing in common with her family, but when she’d left for the bright lights of LA, they had all gathered on the driveway to give her Tupperware containers of her favourite foods for the long trip, reminders of the best rest stops to use, and waved her off while pulling checked hankies out of their pockets to blow their noses and pretend they weren’t crying. They’d been proud of her (and perplexed as to why she couldn’t be happy in Pendleton but . . . proud). Gabe’s departure, on the other hand, sounded as if it had happened under a searing cloud of white-hot fury.
According to Val, the extended Martinez family were woven too tightly together – there wasn’t enough space to know who you actually were. It was why she and Diego decided to move to LA. To find out if they could survive on their own. Make their own mistakes, pick themselves up, learn from them and grow.
Gabe had obviously needed a lot more space. Twenty years’ worth.
And she got it. Willa knew first-hand that sometimes the loneliest place in the world was at the dinner table with your own family.
‘Do you want another one?’ she asked Gabe as the flight attendant approached them.
He shook his head and pointed at a bottle of sparkling water he’d picked out of the bank of mini fridges when they’d first come in. ‘I want to get some sleep.’
Oh.
That was disappointing.
Clearly sensing it wasn’t the answer she’d been hoping for, Gabe put on an appalling Scottish accent, ‘So I can be at my rugged best for you when we land, lassie.’
Then he put up the divider between them leaving her to her own devices.
She sat back and took a sip of her drink, the fizz barely landing in her stomach before she grew restless.
She unbuckled her seatbelt, pretending she needed to get something from the overhead locker so she could steal a fresh glimpse of him. With his eyes closed and a careful ‘do not disturb’ expression arranged on his features, he seemed just out of reach. It was difficult to imagine how he’d look in yesteryear gear. Even trickier to picture him all rough and tumble. She squinted, trying to add in some stubble along his clean-shaven jawline, picture a crooked tooth appearing when he smiled, replacing his aquiline nose with one that might’ve been broken while taming a fierce stallion or defending a maiden’s honour against a marauding pirate. Something – anything, really – to make him just a bit more . . . mortal.
‘He’s a bit of alright, isn’t he?’ came a male whisper in her ear.
She turned and met the wolfish smile of a flight attendant.
‘Is that one with you?’
‘Ish?’ She wasn’t really sure. ‘No. Yes?’
‘Oooh,’ meowed the flight attendant, taking away her glass and pointing to the ‘fasten seatbelt’ sign. ‘I would.’
She flashed him a playful who wouldn’t? smile, then buckled herself back in.
She would. Right?
Maybe the better question was, would he?
Even though he made her tummy flutter, she got the feeling the butterfly faeries weren’t swirling round Gabe. Maybe once they were away from all of the hullabaloo of LA and their cell phones were out of signal and they were bathed in candlelight as they ate . . . erm . . . some haggis . . . they’d feel more comfortable.
It slaughtered her that she couldn’t just pick up the phone and ask Val what she’d been thinking when she’d booked this trip. She was pretty sure her bestie wouldn’t have wanted her to have to squint at her intended to make him seem more like someone she’d actually date.
She almost felt the accompanying finger flick on her arm as Val’s voice popped into her head.
Stop overthinking things, bendita. Just be!
It was a fair comment. But, also, at odds with real life.
She had imagined this – being on the plane with Gabe – down to the finest details. The mile-high cocktail buzz. The compartmentalised food. The cascades of giggles they’d have to suppress as they took turns popping peanuts into one another’s mouths. She’d seen it perfectly. How they would settle back in their chairs (economy plus had been as far as her dream had extended) and spend the flight talking about their hopes and dreams. When they’d exhausted themselves from all of that soul-quenching bonding, he’d shyly, but organically, offer her his shoulder to sleep on and then when she woke up in his lap he would be stroking her hair and gazing into her eyes. She’d feel like a princess and he’d be her prince and they’d get married in a castle in Scotland just like Madonna and she wouldn’t have to spend the rest of her life worrying about making the most of ten-to-fifteen minute interviews with celebrities who didn’t give a flying monkey’s about her.
Since that wasn’t happening and they were in first class, she exploited every nugget of the high life she could.
Three face masks, one pedicure, a sinus-cleansing Bloody Mary and two cheeseboards later, she and her new bestie, Marcus the flight attendant, hugged it out before he excused himself to make last calls for the toilet before landing in Scotland.
Gabe disappeared without so much as a glance in her direction, but when he came back . . . his twirl and smile knocked her breathless.
Woweeeeeewowowowowoowoweeeeewow.
Gabe in a kilt was pulse-quickeningly gorgeous. And Willa was openly gawking. The ghillie top – a loose blousy thing with a wide V-neck – fitted his shoulders and physique as if he’d been born to it. The leather thong that criss-crossed the gap from his sternum up to his throat was hanging loose, all but begging her to yank it free to make it easier for her to rip the top in two so she could rub her hands all over his smooth, golden chest. The kilt itself, a green and dark blue number, hung on his hips as if an adoring seamstress had stitched it exactingly into place. Working their way down, her eyes hungrily latched on to a scrumptious bit of leg that kept appearing as he stretched and reached for their things. And then she worked her way back up again because it had been so pleasurable a journey.
‘Nice handbag,’ she said, fingers twitching to stroke the furry exterior of his . . . sporran, was it?
‘You like?’ He offered the sporran some slick hand manoeuvres, as if he was modelling a twenty-thousand-dollar watch and not a fake-fur covered man-pouch atop his actual man pouch.
‘I like,’ she managed, hoping she wasn’t drooling, because it certainly felt like she was.
He winked at her, then, after they’d landed, busied himself with getting her tote down even though one of the flight attendants was standing right there, quite obviously enjoying the show as much as she was.
She shot a grin up to heaven and sent a mental text to Val. You do know he’s well out of my league, right?
As if she had literally said it, she heard Val shoot back, You do know you’re an idiot for thinking anyone is out of your league, right? You’re a catch, mija. The only one who can’t see it is you.
‘You okay?’ Gabe’s forehead was creased with concern, clearly wondering why tears had suddenly bloomed in her eyes.
‘Yup! Great.’ She swiped at her face. ‘I just misted.’ She dug into her clear plastic bag of liquids, pulled out a mini face mister and gave her face a squirt. ‘So good for the skin.’ She popped on her best let’s get crackin’ face. ‘C’mon. Time to meet our fellow outlanders.’
After passport control, baggage claim and customs had been cleared, Willa’s nerves kicked in. Travelling thousands of miles to a foreign country to pretend to live in Jacobean times wasn’t a skill base she had in her wheelhouse.
Again, she heard Val’s voice sing out loud and clear: It’s no weirder than interviewing famous people for a handful of minutes and pretending it’s made all of your dreams come true.
Shut up! she play-shouted in her head, as she gave her bodice an aggressive tug to shift it back into place. Dead or alive, Val knew how to hit a nerve sometimes.
‘Alright, my pretty,’ Gabe said in combo pirate-Scottish voice. ‘Are you prepared to bewitch the masses?’
She grinned up at him, relieved to feel that click of connection cinch back into place.
Val was right. This was a trip of firsts. Why not let herself simply enjoy the experience with an open heart and mind?
It was the first time she’d gone on a proper vacation with someone. A sexy someone, no less. To a castle. A castle she’d never seen for an immersive experience in a television show she’d proactively avoided, but . . . she was with Gabe. What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter Eight
When they hit the arrivals hall, Willa scanned the crowd, her eyes almost instantly lighting on a small group of women wearing similar style dresses and an Idris Elba lookalike in a red kilt, all standing by a coffee shop. One of the women saw her and Gabe and pointed. The group opened up, steering large wheelie bags out of the way until, in their midst, she saw another man holding a handwritten sign on a bit of cardboard that read ‘Balcraigie Castle’.
Her heart flew into her throat then dropped back into her chest where it began whirling round like a Tasmanian devil in heat.
It was Catalogue Kilt Man.
And he was even better than she’d imagined.
Big, open, kind face and features. An instinctive smile. Freckles. One, two, three on her perfect man tick-list.
A buzzing in her ears drowned everything out but him as the rest of her body went into overdrive. Sweaty palms. Quickened breath. Goosepimples. The full gamut of ohmygawd-he’s-so-hot-he’s-giving-me-palpitations movie responses.
She’d kept Catalogue Kilt Man’s picture on her bedside table for the last couple of nights to serve as a warm-up act while she got used to the idea of fantasising about Gabe. It had made sense on the premise that Catalogue Kilt Man did not actually exist.
Catalogue Kilt Man was tall and fit. Not so much tall and lean as broad and solid. Like a Nordic wood chopper. His expression was kind, if not slightly perplexed. He wasn’t strictly Marvel-hero handsome but could believably be cast as one of Thor’s cousins. Half-brother? He was hot. To her anyway. He was wearing worn blue cords and a greeny-brown sweater with a neckline that allowed for a peek at a checked shirt collar. His waxed jacket looked like it had been in a smackdown with a mountain goat. And somehow his flat cap made him look ravageable rather than a poser. His eyes, after a few blinks, were like a sunlit stormy ocean, which seemed strangely fitting because while he didn’t look entirely happy, he did look relieved, as if, just maybe, she was a rainbow appearing through a dark gathering of clouds.
The waves of his caramel-coloured hair were suddenly and unexpectedly backlit by rays of late afternoon sunshine pouring through the high windows of the arrivals hall. If a choir of heavenly angels began to sing the Hallelujah Chorus, she would not have been surprised.
And then he smiled.
Willa’s pounding heart skipped a beat. Sweet cheeses and a fruit platter. Catalogue Kilt Man had a gap between his front teeth. She didn’t know why, but that particular dental flaw was one of the sexiest things she’d ever seen. She stared, mesmerised as his upper teeth pressed down on his full, lower lip and scraped along the length of it as if he too was wondering what she’d taste like if he licked her. Not that she was into licking, but if someone turned the man into a lollipop, she’d want to buy them in bulk.
All of which was completely at odds with the fact that her best friend had sent her here to get it on with Gabe. Right?
Even so, she was gripped by a desperate, urgent need to learn everything about Catalogue Kilt Man.
She wasn’t the type of woman who dabbled in a pool of men, picking and choosing from them as if they were a bowl of Skittles. Her flirtation techniques were sketchy at best. And more to the point, men like these rarely chose women like her. This wasn’t a case of divide and conquer. This was a throw-your-ovaries-into-one-basket scenario and pray like hell you’d made the right decision.
What was she meant to do? Stay true to what she thought her best friend wanted or go with what her gut was telling her in the here and now?
She was only a few feet away.
It was hardly the time to put up a finger and ask everyone for a few moments while she pawed through her luggage, read the letter, absorbed its contents, redid her makeup (because she’d definitely cry, even if it turned out to be a shopping list), and then gifted a smile to her preferred suitor.
What little she knew about Gabe she really, really liked. And not just because he came in above-par packaging. Beneath the coolly gruff exterior, he was kind. He knew her world and didn’t judge her poorly for it. Most importantly, he was the only remaining link she had to Valentina.
On the flipside, Catalogue Kilt Man reminded her of home in a way that didn’t make her want to run for the hills. He exuded gentleness and strength. Good humour and grace. As if he’d laugh at dad jokes – like he’d make dad jokes – but know the difference between teasing and hurting, advice and unwelcome counsel.
Who knew that perfect could come in two entirely different sets of packaging?
Her bosom strained against her corset to the point she now understood exactly why women passed out in costume dramas. Their clothes were holding their emotions hostage. And she was feeling all of the Technicolour feels right now.
Absurd angst that Gabe hadn’t announced his intentions to fall deeply, irrevocably in love with her.
Extreme distress that Catalogue Kilt Man wasn’t striding towards her, dropping to one knee and declaring himself.
Utter bewilderment that hormones were overruling her usual pragmatic approach to life. She was a girl who loved charts and lists and order.
Was this what Valentina had wanted for her? Emotions running amok like unicorns in a pastel field of clover? She often encouraged Willa to loosen up, but . . . had she meant for her to completely overhaul her concept of emotional safety?
She was about to find out.
‘Hi,’ she said to Catalogue Kilt Man in a wispy voice she didn’t quite recognise. ‘I’m Willa.’
‘Finlay Jamieson,’ he said, eyes still very much glued to hers. ‘Umm . . . tiny bit awkward, but . . .’ His eyes dipped swiftly down then up again, as if trying to communicate something urgent to her.
‘Hmmm . . . ?’ she said dreamily.
Finlay’s stormy blue eyes bored into hers, pleading for her to understand something very, very important, and while there was definitely a part of her that wanted to believe he was trying to tell her that he had just fallen deeply and irrevocably in love with her . . . she had the very uncomfortable feeling it was something else altogether.
Which was precisely the moment she realised she was suffering from an epic costume failure.
Her boobs, much to her horror, had popped up and out of her bodice. Even more horrifying was the hot pink, erect state of her nipples. ‘Oh, fuck no!’ she screamed just as Finlay pressed a handkerchief to her boobs. She must’ve been twisting round and away from him at precisely the moment his hand made contact with her chest because now, to their mutual alarm, his hand was tangled in the front lacing of her bodice along with his handkerchief. Far too mortified to derive even a nanosecond’s perverse pleasure at the contact, she pulled back and stumbled violently into the luggage trolley, which knocked over Gabe – who, despite some rather impressive flailing, collided with a clutch of hipster Japanese women’s enormous wheelie bags before crashing to the ground with a sickening thunk.
Finlay was by Gabe’s side in an instant, laying him out flat. ‘The handkerchief.’ He made a give it to me gesture with his hand as the Japanese women pulled out their phones and began snapping pictures.
While hoicking up her bodice to contain her D-cups, she handed him the handkerchief. Finlay pressed it to Gabe’s hairline. It instantly turned scarlet.
Oh god. She’d killed Gabe. Sinking to her knees across from Finlay she whispered, ‘Did I crack his head open?’
‘It’s just a cut,’ Finlay said calmly but firmly. In a stupidly delicious accent. He pressed two fingers to the nook just below Gabe’s marble-hewn jawline. ‘His pulse is a bit thready, but he’s probably just knocked himself out for a wee bit. We should get the first responders—’
‘I’m calling 911,’ said the Idris Elba lookalike, pulling an enormous phone out of his sporran. ‘I’m Jeff, by the way.’ He put out a hand for Finlay to shake and then, clocking that he was busy holding the handkerchief to Gabe’s bleeding head, gave him a little salute instead.
