Chapter Six
Kirk
I watch Gretchen's bonnie wee arse as she pushes through the glass doors and out into the car park.
A shaoghail, that lass has a body made for a man like me---curvy, strong, and supple.
The fire in her eyes whenever she insults me only serves to convince me that I must have my slat inside her again ASAP.
Gretchen wants me, that much is obvious.
She loves my cock. Couldn't get enough of it, actually.
Letting her walk away was a strategic move.
Seducing her again shouldn't be difficult.
As I nibble on the last remnants of Gretchen's meal, I find myself daydreaming about her body, that erotic voice, and essentially every last bloody thing about her.
How will I seduce her if she won't go along with my master plan?
I do have mates who might be able to assist me in my quest to find the woman I need to shag.
He's a fellow Scotsman and a tech wizard.
The laddie's name is Archie MacIver, and he's the best ethical hacker in the Highlands.
The laddie keeps odd hours, but he owes me a favor.
I once rescued him from a stag night gone spectacularly awry in Portree involving a miniature horse and two litres of Buckfast, a caffeinated tonic wine.
Archie answers his mobile on the first ring, which means he's awake and busy with who knows what.
"MacIver here," he says, in his usual cheerful voice. Archie sounds like a teenage laddie, because he is just such a laddie. Archie is nineteen years old.
"It's Kirk Balfour," I explain. "I need a deep-dive on an American, Gretchen Carver. Maybe see what else you can dig up on her job in Gatlinburg, too. She's a virtual assistant. Also give me information any potential suiters."
After a pause, he ask, "We're stalking the lasses now, are we, Kirk?"
"I am not stalking any---" I glance around, just to be sure. "It's, ah, recon. She's a suspect in a theft, of sorts."
"Of sorts?" He laughs. "Whatever ye say, Kirk. Should I check the FBI or MI6? Is she a fugitive?"
I growl softly. "Gretchen is not an outlaw, ye cacan."
"You're no fun," Archie sighs. I can picture the laddie---hair sticking in every direction, thumbs flying over a gaming controller even as he hacks databases for honorable reasons. "I'll email you anything interesting by midnight. And Kirk?"
"Aye?"
"Is she hot?"
Oh, aye, Gretchen is the hottest woman any man could hope to meet, but I do not kiss and tell, or shag and tell. "I need those results on my desk faster than you once drank an entire bottle of Irn Bru without taking a breath as a dare. Vile rot, that stuff, if you ask me. Only lasses like it."
"Not true, Mr. Grumpy. My uncle Niven loves the stuff."
I snort. "That proves my point."
Archie cackles like a loon and hangs up. Laddies these days. I can't understand them.
As I head for my brother's bakery, drive a wee bit too fast, strictly to ensure Tam hasn't already heard about my lunchtime spat with Gretchen.
If Tam finds out before I tell him myself, I'll be eating month-old Dundee cake for supper.
That's my brother's favorite saying that he invented himself.
After chastising me for not answering my mobile last night, Tam urges me to "hunt down the lass with hounds if necessary. "
On my way home, I drive past the Thane Buchanan Distillery and pull off the road to admire the way the mist rises from waters along the River Ashray.
The MacTaggarts had christened the river with that name last year.
"Ashray" is what medieval Scots used to call the fairies that supposedly live in the vicinity.
The story is pure nonsense, but the lasses do seem to like it.
Maybe I should tell Gretchen about the river.
First, I need to find the lass. Or rather, Archie needs to find her for me. The laddie's way of doing things is the antithesis of my lifestyle. He's very clever and careful, whereas I am bullheaded and love danger. It's in my blood.
Finding Gretchen seems to be taking a bloody long time.
Archie's "deep dive" email lands in my inbox at precisely 11:56 p.m., and the laddie's language is far too cheerful for such a late hour. Still, I'm impressed he accomplished his task so quickly, rather than taking days to find the information.
The summary at the top of the message is succinct: "American-born, virtual assistant, high academic achievement, moderate social media use, penchant for obscure medieval wine memes.
No criminal record, but one memorable all-night protest at the Smithsonian.
No evidence of current romantic entanglement unless you count the 2,147 Instagram posts she liked featuring a ginger cat named Big Boy. "
I don't care whether she loves cat memes or if she owns ten of the little beggars who sleep in her bed all night. She's here with me in Scotland, and I have no intention of giving up on the lass. Gretchen will come around to my way of doing things. Mark my words.
Below the summary, Archie has added bullet points as well as searchable tags, and even a timeline of Gretchen's transatlantic movements.
He's also included several meme attachments---for entertainment, I assume.
I notice one with Gretchen's face pasted over the Mona Lisa.
The amadan even spliced a gif of my own mug into a scene from Braveheart, under the caption "Freedom to Stalk. "
Oh aye, he is a joker. That's what amadan means, after all.
Archie needs to get out of his basement and into the real world.
I call him on my mobile. "All that information is interesting. But you were meant to show me where the lass is now and where she will be later."
The laddie sighs dramatically. "Ye dinnae appreciate my skills, but I'll ignore that fact for now."
I growl, putting on my most intimidating voice. "Archie---"
"Aye, all right. Dinnae get yer trousers in a bunch."
I can hear him typing furiously on his keyboard, followed by the sound of him swiveling his chair around. Then Archie clears his throat. "There it is, ye grumpy bod ceann. Check your email."
"Thank you," I snarl, and then hang up.
The next morning, I resolve to make use of the information Archie provided.
It's nothing less than a tactical dossier, suitable for a full-blown MI6 black ops mission.
Thanks to Archie, I now know that so far, Gretchen has been stopping by Tam's bakery around 7:16 a.m. in the morning---for the two days she's been here, at any rate.
She always orders a raisin scone, dry, and makes it a takeaway order so she can walk the village.
The lass also chats with strangers. She's nothing if not consistent, a trait I find endearing.
But of course, on the day when I've resolved to approach her again, she changes her routine.
The lovely lass is not at Tam's bakery or any other eating establishment in the village.
As I stare blankly at the café's window, I blow out a steaming breath through my nostrils.
This café was the first place where I saw and met her.
But now she apparently vanished. Just my sodding luck.
Why do I give a toss if Gretchen Carver left the area? She isn't the only woman in Scotland. But she is the only one I want to shag. How bizarre is that? I must've caught a strange new virus that causes a man to become obsessed with one woman.
Since I've lost the lass, I leave the café and shuffle down the street, letting my mind wander. Unfortunately, it always wanders back to Gretchen. I have one option left to cure me of this illness. I ring my brother Neil.
"Halò, Kirk," he says cheerfully. "If you're wanting to do a stunt on the wharf again---"
"No, that's not why I rang you." In the background of the call, I can hear water splashing and birds crying, which means he's on his boat. "Listen, Neil, I need advice. About a woman."
"Love advice from me?" He laughs hard enough that I wish I could punch him. "Kirk Balfour never asks for my help with women. Now, if you need tips on how to cook salmon..."
"Haud yer wheesht, ye cacan. This is a serious matter.
" I glance around, making sure no one can hear this conversation.
"I met a woman. And then I lost her. She's here in Loch Fairbairn.
At least, I think she's still in the village, and I must find her.
Archie gave me her location at one precise moment.
But now she seems to have vanished from the face of the earth. "
Neil bursts out laughing again. "This is brilliant!
Never thought I'd see the day when Kirk Balfour fell for a woman so hard that it knocked the sense of out him.
Ye never had much sense to begin with, Mr. Daredevil.
" He pauses briefly. "But I can see you're in a bad way about this lass. Here's the secret you should know..."
My brother says nothing for so long that I begin to tap my feet in a staccato rhythm. "Neil, ye dafty---"
"I'm the dafty? You're the one who forgot that this village has a newspaper."
"How does that help me?"
My brother adopts a tone of false urgency. "Go ask Iona Knight, who used to be Iona Buchanan until she married a Brit. She runs the Loch Fairbairn newspaper, and that lass has better instincts for tracking people down than any New York reporter. If Iona can't find your lass, nobody can."
I already knew about the newspaper, of course. At least, I used to know that.
Bloody hell, I'm losing my mind. To save face, I tell Neil, "I know the village has a newspaper. Ye didnae need to remind me."
I hang up my mobile without saying goodbye. Neil won't care that I've been surly.
Now that my memory has returned, I make a beeline straight for the offices of The Loch Fairbairn Daily News. When I waltz into the front office, I don't see Iona anywhere. But I do see the door to the back room hanging open.
I knock on the open door. "Iona?"
There's no answer. So I call out, "Iona, ye there, lass?"
"One moment. Who's calling, please?"
"Kirk Balfour."
She moves into the doorway, smiling as she sees me. "What can I do for ye, gràidh?"
Iona's use of the endearment gràidh makes me scratch my cheek and wince. "Well, ah, I'm looking for a particular American lass. Her name is---"
"Gretchen Carver."
"How did you know?"
Iona smiles. "Everyone knows you're searching for her. And I can tell ye exactly where she is."
"Tell me then."
Her smile turns into a wide grin as she laughs. "She's standing right behind ye, gràidh."