Meet Me at the Loch (Love on Location #1)

Chapter 1

SKYE

I’ll be the first to admit this castle can be a lonely place. Growing up as an only child, I often imagined people filling the halls, but they were never quite so nosy. In the fantasy, they just hung on my every word, enjoyed my company, more interested in me than these old stone walls.

A tug on my sweater stops me, and the group stops too.

“So, are you a princess?” The little girl with blonde ringlets asks me for about the fifth time before wiping her nose on her shirtsleeve. “Like Merida in Brave? Are you Merida?”

Her cherub face is so earnest I swallow my laugh. “No, I’m Skye Ainslie."

The girl squints her eyes. “Are you sure? You look a lot like her. Why do you live here?”

I keep leading the group through the hall as I answer. I don’t want this tour to take any longer than it needs to. “Well, when I was about your age, my grandma needed some help. So, we moved from LA here.”

Her mother, with matching blonde hair, hands her a tissue. “Is your family Scottish royalty?”

I shake my head, wrapping my sweater closer around my torso. It’s only early September, but a chill is seeping in through the cracks in the ceiling.

“Why do you live in a castle then?”

“Well…” God, what a long story. “The answer varies depending on who you ask,” I tick these off on my fingers to get the number right, “great-great-great-great grandfather Maxwell Ainslie won the castle from the Mortimers in a card game. The Mortimers claimed the game was rigged. They said the transfer wasn’t legally binding, even got local officials involved, but it was legal, and Loch Ness Castle has been in the Ainslie family ever since. ”

I walk past the library I use as my writing room, wanting to keep my private spaces for myself.

“The joke was on Great-great-great-great grandad, though. The castle was in such disrepair it was hardly livable and stayed that way for generations. My grandmother did a ton of renovations and moved her family in. Then, my mother continued the work after we moved here.” I run my hand along the wall, the stone rough under my fingertips.

“This hallway used to be covered in cement. She spent an entire summer chipping away at it to reveal the original stone.”

We head to the staircase and one of the guests points to the right. “What’s down that hall?”

“It’s our private bedrooms. We still live here.”

The man with greasy hair and sensible sneakers thrusts his shoulders back. “We paid good money for this tour. We should get to see.”

Forcing a smile on my face, I stop myself from questioning what exactly good money means to him. Instead, I say, “There’s plenty more to see, don’t worry.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it to continue the tour.

We head down the stairs to the kitchen, then through the main dining room, always an impressive stop with the carved wooden fireplace, hunting trophies on the wall and an enormous chandelier made from elk antlers.

Next stop is the library on the main floor, which was my mom’s favorite room.

I open the heavy wooden door to the warm smell of fires in the hearth, slightly dusty books, and the whisky-ginger candle I light before every tour.

My group walks around checking out the carved plaster ceiling, the shelves of heavy leather-bound books, and that’s when I notice the group is smaller than it was a moment ago. The man who asked me about the rooms upstairs is missing.

My pulse pounds like a war drum on the side of my throat, my cheeks hot. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

Running up the stairs, I head straight for the hall to the right. I peek through every open doorway with no luck. As I get closer, I see my bedroom door at the end of the hall is open. I know I closed it.

I take a deep breath.

I will not yell at the paying guest. I will not yell at the paying guest. Think of the online reviews. We need this income. I will simply ask him to rejoin the group.

Inside my room, standing next to my dresser, is the greasy-haired man, his grubby hands holding my green satin bra. A scoff comes out of my mouth. It is unbelievable.

The man drops the bra. “It was on the floor; I was just putting it away.”

“Out!” All my well-intentioned plans soar out the window. “Get out!”

I stand aside as the man storms past me. “We deserve the whole tour.”

“The whole tour does not include my pants drawer, sir!” I yell after him as he walks down the stairs and thankfully out the front entrance.

I run my hands over my face, my fingers cool against my flushed cheeks. I’ll show the rest of the group the grounds and then send them on their way. We’ll skip the ballroom; I haven’t fixed the broken tiles in the corner, anyway.

The first thing I notice as I enter the library is that one of the older guests has helped himself to a whiskey.

I sigh. It could be worse. Then I see that is in fact much worse.

The blonde woman is thumbing through an ancient edition of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, licking her finger each time she turns a page.

I’m about to take it from her hands when a crack stops me in my tracks. A man is holding a record sleeve; the record itself is shattered into hundreds of pieces at his feet. My face feels numb as I take the sleeve from his hands. Turning it around to see which album it is.

Please don’t let it be hers, please.

It’s the Rolling Stones “Sticky Fingers.” Relief washes over me. One of my favorites, but mercifully not one of Mom’s.

“The tour is over..”

There are a few groans, and no movement to leave.

“Thank you so much for coming.” Again, not one person moves. The older gentleman is still sipping on our whiskey.

“Everyone needs to leave. Now!”

The group shuffles out the door with mutters of “money back” and we should’ve gone to Urquhart Castle. Once I am alone again it hits me what I’ve done. I can practically read the Yelp reviews now.

Dad’s at a “business meeting” whatever that means. I’ll tell him tomorrow. Today I’m done. I take a long bubble bath in our claw foot tub with a glass of wine and head for bed.

The bells jingle on the bookshop door, and it sounds like home.

Better than home, because there isn’t any work to be done.

No leaks to be patched. No chickens to feed.

No tours to give. I still haven’t told Dad about the disaster tour yesterday, but I’m not going to worry about it now that I’m in my happy place.

I can pick a book at random and live any life, not the one where I’m a grown woman still living with my father.

Endless shelves of stories to escape into.

Okay, not really endless, as the bookstore in Foyers is actually quite small, possibly one of the smallest in all of Scotland.

The stock is crammed into what used to be a living and dining room of a white stone cottage.

I browse the shelves filled to bursting with books, walking past the small sitting area in the middle of the room with a red shaggy papasan chair.

The shop is empty—completely empty. Where is Gabby?

“Gabby?”

“Is that you, Skye?”

“Yes. Is everything okay?” I suddenly feel like I walked into one of the mysteries I write. Is there a killer lurking around the shelf?

“Just making tea, dear! Want any?” she calls from the back.

“No, thanks.”

I show myself to the crime fiction section and run my finger along the dusty spines, trying to decide which one to lose myself in.

I reach to the top shelf, where the A’s are, and touch the spot where my novel will go someday, if I ever get to publish one.

Of course, in order to publish one, I'll have to get over this writer's block that has descended upon me like the fog on the loch in the morning—thick and impossible to see my way through.

It's been months since I've written anything.

Well, except for the instruction booklets I write for my job, but the ins and outs of a toaster oven won't snag me a book deal.

The bell on the door jingles. My friend Kate runs in, her black hair billowing behind her along with some stray leaves and a cool fall wind.

“Sorry I’m late.”

“That’s okay.” We hug, and she gives me a kiss on the cheek, leaving a gooey smudge. I’m sure I have a fat red mark from her lipstick, her signature look since we were sixteen.

“Don’t you want to get a bite to eat before your shift?”

She shakes her head. “Books are more important.”

I laugh, but she’s absolutely right. As we browse, Gabby comes out of the back holding a steaming cup and fills the small space with a floral scent.

After a while, Kate finds me in the reference section and hands me a pink book. Two people lean together, about to kiss, flowers surrounding them. It’s cheerful and not something I would ever read. “What’s this?”

“I finished it last week. It’s delightful. You have to try it.”

I hand it back to her. “I’ll stick to murder.”

Kate smiles as she places the book on top of my stack. “You need to broaden your horizons. If you don’t love it…” She looks around, her green eyes searching for inspiration. “I’ll give your next tour.”

“I wouldn’t inflict that on my worst enemy.”

“Well, you won’t have to deal with it once the Americans come, right?” She takes her books to the register. Before I can ask what she’s talking about, over her shoulder, she says, “If you don’t like it, you’re a monster, and I’ll buy you a pint.”

“Deal,” I say.

We take our books to the register, and I hand over my card. Gabby runs it, then tries the number. My cheeks burn as my stomach twists. I should’ve just asked her to hold them, but I thought I had enough to cover it. Kate swoops in, her red nails flashing as she hands over her card. “It’s on me.”

“Kate, you don’t have to.”

“It’s not a problem.”

Gabby swipes Kate’s card. “See you hens next week at the meeting. Skye, I read your latest pages, and I have thoughts. Oh, and if you can stay a little after, my nephew is in town from Edinburgh. He’s very handsome and has a good job in finance.”