Chapter Seven
Gretchen
The nice gray-haired Scottish lady who told me I should go to the newspaper office never explained why I should do that.
She said her name was Mrs. McKinley, and she'd been eating an Empire biscuit at the time, delicately breaking off chunks to avoid getting powdered sugar on the doily.
I'd never heard of Empire biscuits until today.
Is it a Scottish thing? Or a British thing? Maybe it's both.
"Ye ask for Iona," she'd said, eyes twinkling over the rim of her teacup, "and tell her Elsie McKinley sent ye. She'll ken what to do."
Which would've sounded more like a spy mission if we weren't standing inside a church hall, flanked by three crumbling statues of St. Michael slaying the devil and one glowering portrait of Robert the Bruce.
But if there's anything I've learned in the past two days, it's that small towns run on secrets the way the rest of the world runs on data coverage.
So, I obey Mrs. McKinley's advice---partly because the gray sky suddenly decided to dump bucketfuls of rain on me.
I rush toward the squat stone building labeled "THE LOCH FAIRBAIRN DAILY NEWS.
" I'm soggy from head to toe, and I have never felt more like a duck in my whole life than I do right now.
As I slip inside the newspaper office, the clang of the bell on the door makes me jump.
All I can do is stand here with my clothes and hair drenched.
My arrival has triggered a tinkling bell that alerts my presence. The other two people inside the office take notice of me too. And I suddenly recognize the muscular figure before me, despite only seeing his back. I've seen and fondled every inch of that body.
It's Kirk Balfour, the jackass who did the old screw-and-run routine on me. Well, it was more like screw-and-get-kicked-out-the-door. Either way, I wish with all my might that I could slug him in the gut.
The woman who stands behind the newspaper's desk---Iona, I presume---speaks to the jackass whose body prevents me from seeing anything else in this space. I want to evince righteous indignation. But I'm too soggy to pull that off.
Kirk blocks my way, and yup, it's impossible not to gawk at that body, that stance, the way he cocks one hip against the counter, portraying cocky attitude and casual disinterest all at once.
And he's still facing away. On purpose, I bet.
Since I've become frozen in this spot, I can't help noticing his clothes.
A soft flannel shirt, the kind with pearl snaps that always makes guys seem just a little more touchable.
I can't tell whether the woman behind the desk is the mysterious Iona, or even if she's friend or foe.
My worldview has condensed to Kirk's rippling back muscles, Kirk's tight jeans, and Kirk's bulging biceps.
But oh, that sexy body...
Don't think about the jerk. Grr, how I wish I could whack him in the head hard enough that he won't wake up again until after I've left the country.
Kirk glances over his shoulder at me. Naturally, he aims that cocky smirk at me.
Like a cartoon character, his eyebrows hike up and then lower into a frown as if he's debating whether to bolt out the nearest window.
I stare back, not blinking, trying to project the vibes of "you don't make me tingly inside just seeing you, and I definitely don't give a hoot if I ever see you again. "
I mean, after I leave the newspaper office I won't care.
When did I revert to teenage behavior? I blame Heather for that, with all her Gen Z slang. I'm a proud Millennial.
The woman behind the desk stops talking mid-sentence.
I stand here with my rain-soaked hair still dripping onto my clothes, and my sneakers making that embarrassing squelch on the tile.
The three of us share a moment where we pretend this collision is completely unremarkable.
Kirk clears his throat. Iona---at least, by elimination, she clearly is Iona---leans sideways, peering around Kirk's linebacker shoulders.
"Elsie sent you," Iona states matter-of-factly. "Well, at least you two bloody eejits finally found each other again.
I throw my hands up. "Don't rope me into this weird Scottish game you people are playing. I'm outta here."
Just as I begin to turn away, Kirk spins around, seizing my wrist, and stares at me intently. His gaze feels like laser beams boring into my brain. "Dinnae leave, Gretchen. Please. Let me take you to lunch and explain why, ah...Well, I'd rather do my explaining in a less public place."
"Do you mean mansplaining?"
"Whatever that is, I dinnae ken."
"Never mind." No hot, naked sex for you this time, jackass. If you want it, you've got to earn it.
Kirk clasps my hands in an almost endearing manner. Then he gazes deeply into my eyes and smiles in the sweetest, most honest way. I think he genuinely means what he just said.
A sigh rushes out of him. "What do ye say, lass?"
What do I say? Nothing, nada, zippo. When my lips finally part, the only word that emerges is a soft "uh.
" The sound is so faint that I'm not sure even I heard it.
Kirk scrunches his eyebrows, clearly confused.
After a full five seconds in which the only audible noise is the dripping of water off my sleeves onto the floor, like a cheap faucet that'll never quite shut off, I miraculously manage to speak.
"Um, uh...sure, yeah." I clear my throat, lifting my chin. "Lunch sounds fine. Thank you."
Iona doesn't bother hiding her amusement. She sits back and crosses her arms, her gaze ping-ponging between us. "Kirk, take her to the chippy that just opened up a few months ago." Iona jerks her chin at me. "Don't murder him 'til he brings ye back, aye?"
"That's up to the jackass," I tell her. "But I'm open to any groveling he wants to do to appease me."
I'm not proud of it, but my first thought is...maybe I can get a free lunch out of this. Even if it means sitting across from Kirk and listening to his entire inventory of bad decisions.
Kirk is still holding my hand. The touch of his skin makes me shiver ever so faintly, though not because I'm cold. The sensation he gives me feels like a silky warmth that reminds me of our time in his flat and how incredible he is in bed.
Get a grip woman and stop fantasizing about the Scottish jackass.
Kirk places a hand on my back, guiding me out of the newspaper office and down to a car I don't recognize.
But I glean one salient fact from its presence.
The jerk drives a frigging sports car, the kind that costs thousands upon thousands of dollars.
Amazingly, Kirk opens the passenger door for me.
At lease, I assume this is his vehicle. Once we're both ensconced inside the car, I have to ask him a question.
"What kind of car is this?" I wriggle around, trying to get into a more comfortable position. "Definitely a sports car, hey?"
He feigns disgust. "A Porsche Boxster isn't simply a sports car. It is the sports car."
"Sure, whatever you say." I do up my seatbelt, finally comfortable inside Kirk's car. "Do you always drive such a wildly expensive vehicle? I mean, it seems out of place in this town."
He grins at me. "It's a practical car, you have my word.
It fits all my essential kit. And at least it's not the sort of ruddy awful SUV the tourists use when they're clogging the Glencoe roadways.
" He throws the car into gear, and the engine revs with a throaty purr that vibrates up through my sneakers in an almost indecent way. "Besides, it was a bargain."
"I think you're full of shit again, Balfour."
He grins roguishly at me, employing the same tone my mother used when she brought home a $400 stand mixer on Black Friday and Dad nearly blew his top.
The rain comes down in thick beads that streak down the windows as we snake through the village.
The streets are narrow enough that two normal-sized cars passing each other need to do a quick, mutual side-eye and politely negotiate who gets to risk scraping the curb.
Kirk doesn't bother. He barrels along like he owns the asphalt.
As we cross the village square, past a grocery store and the newsagent's shop that proclaims itself "Ye Olde Tartan Boutique," I swear it has a mannequin in the window wearing a pink plaid mankini.
The sling suit looks goofy to me, but I'm hardly a fashion maven.
For all I know, that silly thing might be the height of couture.
Kirk's hand strays to the stick shift, which is not some sort of innuendo, but honestly should be considering the way he keeps sneaking glances at me. I pointedly ignore him in favor of staring out the window as he narrates local lore with cheerful mansplaining gusto.
"Ye see that past the burn?" He nods toward a humpbacked bridge. "That's where Mad Colin took on an entire rugby squad back in the nineties."
"Color me shocked. Did he live?"
Kirk's grin makes his cheeks dimple. "Aye, but three of the lads cannae have children anymore."
He laughs at this, like it's the most wholesome thing in the world.
I drum my fingers on my thigh, just to prove I know how not to get sucked in by the Balfour charm and make a note to look up "Mad Colin" at the first opportunity.
For all I know, that's Kirk's way of saying, "Please don't ask why I kicked you out of my flat with barely enough time to get dressed. "
We pull into a slot outside a low, whitewashed shop with a faded red sign that reads DAVINA's FISH 'N MORE, THE TOAST OF GLENCOE.
The block letters look freshly painted, but only in the sense that a toddler has recently upgraded the old ones with fingerpaint.
Kirk leaps out and does the door-for-the-lady routine again, which I do appreciate.
Most men won't treat a woman that way anymore.
No one's done that for me in years, and the idea of being doted on by a slightly damp Scottish himbo feels not terrible at this moment.
Inside the shop, Davina's is a shrine to Scottish Highlands food at its best. No fish and chips here, no sir. The shop also features charming artwork depicting crashing waves, salty sailors, and smiling Scots. Will Kirk wow me with Highland foods and beverages?
He's got one more chance to prove himself to me.
With food.