Chapter Twelve
Kirk
I'm off my head. I must be. Insanity is the only logical explanation for what I'm allowing Gretchen to convince me to do.
Stay with me? No, she should not do that.
I must convince her, forcefully, that she must return to Tennessee immediately and forget about.
..whatever might have happened between us.
But the words refuse to come out of my mouth.
Yer a bloody coward, aren't ye, Balfour?
That's a dead certainty. But I'm damned if I can do anything about it now, not when Gretchen's hand feels warm and soft in mine.
This lass is stubborn, without a doubt---steely in her resolve, and bonnie even when she's riled up, especially then in fact.
I need to protect her, but I also want to keep her with me always.
It's a selfish prick's dilemma. But I never claimed to be a good man.
Gretchen sighs, smiling wistfully. "Scotland is so beautiful. You get amazing pastries, and people care enough to tell you off when you're making an ass of yourself." She pauses, watching me. "Besides, it beats Gatlinburg traffic and Tuesday trivia nights hosted by ex-frat bros."
The image of Gretchen in some cheap sports bar, fending off oversized men with nothing between their ears makes me want to punch something. Or better yet, drag her close and kiss the lass until she forgets any life she had before Loch Fairbairn.
I sit up straighter, my gaze locked on hers. "Last night, you seemed ready to toss Scotland into the ocean. Have ye changed yer mind already?"
She shrugs, and her lips curl into a sly. "You grew on me. This place did too."
"You fell for the Highlands, eh?"
She gestures with her mug, taking in the sweep of the mountains "It's less scary when you've got someone on your side who knows how to survive this country."
"Which means, what?" Och, but I know what it means. I am a cacan, so I need to hear her verdict out loud.
She wriggles her sexy erse, then lifts her chin. "I'm staying. As long as you'll have me. Turns out, the adventure I needed the most is you, Kirk Balfour."
Her statement makes me jerk my head back. She's off her head for certain. "A person cannae be an adventure. To claim it is, well...that's barmy."
"I assume 'barmy' means crazy. I'm down with all the insanity."
Someone must've slipped a mickey in her coffee, because she's clearly buckled. No sober person would suggest what she's proposing. The lass couldn't have given any rational thought to the mathematical odds of disaster in this situation.
"Let's be clear, Gretchen Carver," I begin, using her full name for some barmy reason, "if you stay, you'll be dealing with the consequences of every daft decision I've ever made.
Not to mention my chaotic work schedule and the fact that at least a dozen pensioners will expect us to get married within the month. "
She sips her coffee, leaving a faint milk mustache that almost makes me smile. "If you think you can get rid of me with the threat of nosy seniors, you haven't met my Aunt Darla. Compared to her, your village is a meditation retreat."
I struggle to hold back a smile. Since I've realized I'm incapable of telling her no or dragging her to the airport to shanghai her back to Gatlinburg, Tennessee, I have no other option except giving in.
"All right, have it your way. Ye want excitement?
Aye, ye'll have it. But we'll begin with your most daring adventure first."
She sits up straighter, her eyes alight. "And that is..."
"Meeting my family."
Gretchen punches my shoulder. "That is not a daring adventure."
I give the lass my most devilish grin and slant closer until my lips graze her earlobe. "Ye havenae met them. Might change your mind after."
She swigs the last of her tea, which must have cooled off by now, and slaps a Scottish note on the table. Enough to pay for the food and the tip, I reckon. Then she rises. "Come on, Balfour, get your tight ass off the chair. I want to meet your parents and your brothers."
"If you insist."
"Thank you. I love it when a man follows my orders. It's a huge turn-on."
She's already walking away, chin up, shoulders squared, determined to storm the Balfour stronghold like the Normandy beachhead.
I follow her---with my head down so I can enjoy the sight of her shapely legs as she moves quickly but gracefully.
I almost trip over another gent, offering a half-hearted apology.
When I come up alongside Gretchen, I can see her lovely face and the wee upward curl of her lips.
My body remains on high alert, the way it does right before I perform a mad stunt or engage in a bar fight.
My every nerve crackles with pent-up energy and the possibility and danger.
I grab her hand---can't help myself, really---and together we hustle down the stairs and into the lobby.
Mrs. Agnew is at her post, peering over half-moon spectacles and watching us with dimpled cheeks.
Outside, the clouds have begun to disperse as if Gretchen's mere presence alters the weather.
She walks like she owns the village, and maybe for today, she does.
"Where to first?" she asks. "Should I be concerned that this is the part where you lead me into a bog and abandon me there?"
"Nah." I waggle my eyebrows. "Here in Scotland, we save that for the second date."
That statement earns me a crooked grin.
My car takes us where we need to go faster than most any other vehicle in the village could. Only Rory MacTaggart's Jaguar F-Type might outdo my Boxter. He's had the car for ten years and refuses to let go of it. But my Porsche Boxster is relatively new and much sexier. I even tell Gretchen that.
She aims a skeptical look at me as the Boxster purrs down the road, the wind whipping her hair behind her. "You're definitely overcompensating for something with this car."
"Aye, of course I am," I tell her while shifting gears. "I'm deeply insecure, but it only comes out at high speeds and in death-defying drops."
She laughs with her head thrown back, her sunglasses shielding her gaze. "This is the only way I ever want to travel from now on. American sedans can go straight to the nearest garbage dump."
We take the long drive out to the old bridge that my ancestors constructed in the fifteenth century, past the low stone walls with their tufts of wild gorse.
Gretchen stays silent for several minutes.
She watches the landscape rolling by as if she's determined to memorize every hill, every blade of grass, and every crumbling ruin.
When she does speak again, her voice has become softer.
Maybe she thinks I can't hear her over the wind, but I can.
"I used to think the Smokies were the prettiest thing on earth," she says, half to herself I reckon. "But this land...it's incredible."
I don't respond at first because the sentiment behind her words is oddly touching. To break the moment would be sacrilege.
When we pull up to Mam and Da's cottage---whitewashed, with a steep roof and a garden running wild with bluebells---Gretchen doesn't wait for me to open her door. She leaps out, peering up the path and scanning the scene with an academic's curiosity. And, I suspect, a touch of nervousness.
"Ready?" I ask, rounding the car.
She straightens her clothes and checks her hair in the car window's reflection. "They'll like me, right?"
I stare at her blankly. Gretchen survived an encounter with Dougal MacWraith, walked through the village in the rain, and ate enough food for two men in Davina's chippy.
Yet she still wants to meet my family. The moment I met this lass, I never stood a chance.
The world, tilted on its axis, seems briefly and inexplicably right.
"They'll love you," I assure her, kissing her cheek. "Even my Da will fall under your spell, and he mistrusts anyone who pronounces 'loch' with a hard K."
She beams. "I watched a YouTube video about that once. Pretty sure I can pronounce it right."
"Don't try it without supervision, else ye might snap yer vocal cords."
"Ha-ha." Gretchen elbows me. "I'm looking forward to hearing all your childhood adventures."
When we finally ring the bell, a chorus erupts from within.
Not actual voices, but the yapping of three Balfour family spaniels, each more deranged than the last. The front door flies open with such force that I scuffle backward a step, and the Balfour dogs tumble out like cannonballs, followed by a woman with an apron dusted with flour and a hair clip that seems to be constructed out of repurposed knitting needles. That's Mam.
But how will she react to Gretchen?"