Scot and Bothered

3. Then

3

THEN

Jack’s heart raced as he led the way down the hallway to his bedroom. He grabbed a pin from above the doorframe and slipped it into the knob to unlock it. Hand flat on the door, he pushed it open and gestured for Brooke to go ahead. She held his gaze as she walked past, and he held his breath. Cutting off the oxygen supply to his lungs didn’t recalibrate his system like he’d hoped.

Jack closed the door and the noise from the party dampened. His ears rang, giving him that off-balance feeling like he was more buzzed than he’d thought. The lamp on his nightstand cast a yellow glow over the room, the mirror image reflected on the three-paned window on the far side. He scanned the floor for any discarded shirts, wished he’d made the bed this morning.

He wasn’t exactly sure what to do now that Brooke was here, not sure what she wanted. Not sure what she’d make of all the clues about him in this room or if she’d even notice.

But he wanted her to. Wanted her to think of him as something more than one of the Sutherland brothers. Something special.

He liked her American confidence and the way her smile made him feel brighter, so different from the darkness that often dragged at him.

Brooke crossed to his dresser—ran her index finger over the spines of the books stacked there, the old guitar strings—and his pulse fluttered. She stilled when she saw the wall, strung up with his photographs, and his heart beat impossibly faster. Wanting her to see the things he loved. Dreading the potential dismissal, anything akin to the way his parents said, “That’s nice, dear.”

Brooke moved in closer, resting her hands on the pine wood dresser to get a better look. Most were pictures he’d taken prowling the city on lonely nights when he chafed against the expectations for his future. Jack had never quite taken to The Heart of the Highlands—the family tour guiding business—the way his brothers had. He loved exploring the land and sharing stories and the history of Scotland with tourists from all over the world, but being on all the time, leaving real life every weekend to join a vacation that wasn’t his…it left him completely drained.

His family was energized by their trips—passionate in a way he truly couldn’t identify with. He’d watched his brothers, how much they loved this, and all Jack felt was envy that this predetermined life set before them was perfect for Logan and Reid, but not for him.

Jack didn’t want to look too closely at how quick he’d been to jump at the prospect of business school—at the promise of lectures, office hours, and grading papers—instead of guiding at the weekends.

That familiar doubt swirled inside him. At least he had Rohan to go through the master’s program with, despite a living arrangement that might be a tad wilder than he would’ve chosen. Jack took off the red pirate bandanna, ran his hands over the back of his head, then finger combed the front.

He watched the way Brooke’s eyes tracked over the glossy images of neon lights staining the cobblestones pink, the sapphire blue of the night sky reflected in a puddle, the Forth Bridge lit in red in the darkness. The look on her face was almost reverent—too much for him to take in, so he cataloged the tiny earrings curving up the shell of her ear. Two hoops, a topaz stud, cuff in the middle, gold ring at the top.

“Did you take these?”

He nodded.

“They’re incredible. You’ve captured everything I love about Scotland. The mystery around every corner. The minute I got here, it felt like home, this combination of welcoming and adventure and mystique. I could never get bored of it.”

Even as his lungs ballooned at the praise, he said, “It’s just a hobby.”

How many times had he heard his dad say that? Maybe for some people who were talented and dedicated, but for Jack, this was simply a creative outlet to take the edge off when the world felt too heavy, his path so rigidly set in front of him.

She picked up his Nikon, cupping the telephoto lens in one hand. “This is hardly the camera of a hobbyist.”

His stomach knotted at the casual way she held it.

“The distinguished poet of our generation, one Rohan Kelton, once said, ‘You can’t spend all your quid on whisky.’” He reached for the camera strap dangling by her hip. “But since I spent the rest of my money on this , do be careful.”

He tugged the camera strap, raising it over her head, the backs of his fingers sliding over the ridge of her collarbone as he settled it. Her quick intake of breath made him pull away. The second he stepped back, he regretted it. Wished he was daring enough to hold her gaze, to see if it could lead to more. But he wasn’t sure how to recreate the moment, not when Brooke had returned to studying the photos he’d taken of the city cast in shadows.

Jack cleared his throat, propping a hip on the edge of the dresser. “How’d you choose Edinburgh?”

“It’s the world’s first UNESCO City of Literature.”

Jack’s eyebrows lifted and a grin spread across his face. “Is that your real answer?”

Brooke cringed. “What I meant was, it’s an English-speaking country that gave me a scholarship?” Her voice tipped up at the end like it was a question, like she was asking him to believe her.

He nodded in overblown agreement, but couldn’t hide the smile breaking free from his lips.

She threw her hands out. “So I love books and think there’s nothing greater than highlighting a syllabus, hole punching it, and clipping it into a binder with translucent, rainbow-colored dividers, okay?” Her eyes went soft and a bit wary. “I’ve had approximately three times too much to drink for impressing you.”

He wanted to touch her cheeks and see if they were giving off the heat he felt under his skin. “I think I’d be a lost cause if you were sober.”

As if he wasn’t already.

She was open and driven and so very bright, where he was trapped and restless. He wished he was less concerned with what everyone thought of him. That he could voice the things he loved with such conviction.

Without blurting out that he admired the hell out of her for owning the things she loved, he still wanted to put her at ease. “Do you know Sir Walter Scott?” he asked.

“Personally? No.”

He narrowed his eyes at her sarcasm about the two--hundred-year-old poet. “I know a secret about the Scott Monument. That only his biggest admirers know. I could show you sometime.”

“Don’t toy with me, Jack Sutherland.”

“I would never.”

Her eyes crinkled in the corners and her gaze clung to his, so heavy his heart went achy under his breastbone. Her lips parted and he couldn’t look away. Jack leaned his head close to hers, the smell of oranges wafting to him.

The bedroom door flew open and banged against the wall, the sounds of the party spilling in as he and Brooke jumped apart.

Rohan stood in the threshold, eyes wide. He grabbed the doorknob as the door swung back and gave Jack a guilty grimace. “Unfortunate news…the police are here.”