Chapter 10 Skye
SKYE
Ipractically run to my laptop. It’s very unlike me to write in the afternoon. But I’m feeling inspired. So inspired, I don’t even light my candle before opening my computer. My fingers soar over the keys. The words come out as if they are already written.
After I finish up a scene, I write another, then another after that. I introduce some side characters. Then I finally get to the scene that’s been trying to burst onto the page since I sat down.
A picturesque horse ride under a Technicolor blue sky.
It’s fiction. Not everything has to be gray.
Sorcha and Mickey stop on a hillside for a picnic with a breathtaking view of the glittering loch below.
They have crackers, cheese, grapes, and wine.
A small drop of wine lingers on Sorcha’s lips.
Miles takes a gentle finger and wipes it off, his skin hot and firm on her lip.
His hand moves to the back of her neck, finding the sensitive flesh under her hair. He leans in…
“Skye, dinner is ready.”
No. Who needs food when they are about to kiss?
He leans in, his eyes smoldering in the sunlight, and…
“Skye, we’re waiting on you, pet.”
I let out a long, low breath and close my laptop. It’s best to stop in the middle of the scene, right? Didn’t Murakami say that? Because then you can come back and jump right into the world.
I head downstairs to the dining room, and the table is set with a beautiful roast chicken.
My mouth waters as I sit down. I must be hungrier than I realized.
Miles is sitting across from me, looking just as scrumptious as the chicken.
Scrumptious? Oh Lord… Romance writer brain.
But he does look good, in a fitted dark-green sweater that seems to barely contain his biceps as he passes me the potatoes.
I reach for them. “Thank you.”
He smiles, and it’s like someone turned on the sun. “Thank you for the ride this morning.”
My cheeks warm at his phrasing.
“Ride?” my father says, making my cheeks burn. “Take the horses out?”
I nod.
Miles pours a little gravy on his potatoes. “Yeah. We rode all over and then had a picnic. It was great.”
“Had a picnic, did ye?” My father has mischief in his eyes as he says it. Cheeky bastard. “That’s wonderful. And a great way to spend the day before you have to buckle down for the film. I heard from your people. They should start arriving tomorrow in the early afternoon or evening.”
I move my food around on my plate, suddenly not as hungry. What if all these people being here changes things, and I can’t write like I have been? What if I won’t get to spend time with Miles anymore because he’ll be too busy?
“Are they? Guess I should check my phone once in a while.” Miles’s smile falters, too. He says to my father, though it feels for my benefit, “I shouldn’t be busy with the film the whole time. I’m not in all of the scenes.” Then, almost to his plate, he says, “Not anymore, anyway.”
Dad and Miles make small talk about some crime show from America called The Wire. I’ve never seen it, so I tune them out and let the back of my mind knit words and ideas together. When the knitting is louder than the conversation at the table, I excuse myself and head back to my writing room.
I write at a more measured pace this time, and this time I do light the candle and make some hot chocolate. It feels good to be inspired. It’s been so long, I wasn’t sure I would ever feel that way again, like this whole writing thing was a cold that I finally shook. I’m delighted it’s not.
Once my mug is cold and the candle is a pool of wax, I tune back into my surroundings and hear music. Not just any music, but music so familiar, it’s etched into my bones.
Closing my laptop, I head downstairs to find the source.
The ground-floor library is dark, even with the lamp on and the fire roaring in the hearth.
This library is larger than the one I write in.
There’s a large leather couch and loveseat, with two soft red damask chairs positioned around the fire.
On the shelf nearest to the sitting area, instead of books, it’s records, hundreds of them.
Most of them were my mother’s, but some are my dad’s, and over the years I've also added to the collection. The record player sits on a long wooden table behind the couch, spinning away, my mother’s voice booming out.
She had such a melodic voice, deep but feminine.
Like a Scottish version of Nico or Fiona Apple.
I used to love listening to her records.
When I was growing up, I’d put them on, and she’d come in and casually change the album.
She’d say, “Have you heard this one?” or “I have this song stuck in my head; I have to listen to it now.” She never said she didn’t want me to listen to the albums she made, but I got the hint.
After she passed, I couldn’t bear to put them on.
Not just hearing her voice again, which is its own exquisite kind of fresh pain every single time, but also the waiting.
Expecting her to come into the room and change the record. Only now, she never does.
The notes of the song playing reach right into my heart and squeeze until I can’t stand the pressure anymore. I shut off the record player. Miles sits up from where he was lying on the couch, his script that was on his face falling to the floor.
“Was I being too loud?”
“Where did you find this?” I hold up the record sleeve.
Miles motions to the record wall. “Just on the shelf.”
I shake my head. “You just picked this at random?”
There’s no way. What are the odds?
Miles stands and comes over to where I’m standing. He looks pensively at the sleeve. “It wasn’t entirely random. It’s going to sound”—he sighs—“silly, I guess.”
I carefully put the record in its case and put it back on the shelf, choosing a Simon and Garfunkel record instead. “The Boxer” rings out through the room like sage smoke.
Miles continues, “But I was looking through the records, and I thought the woman on this cover looked a little like you. So, I put it on.”
I go to the bar cart, pour a whiskey, and raise my eyebrows at Miles. He nods, so I pour him one too. After I hand it to him, I sit in the chair closest to the fire.
“I’m sorry. I should’ve asked about the records before I put one on.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. You can put on any you like. Just not that one.”
He sits back on the couch. “Got it.”
“Or any by that artist.”
He smiles. “Not a fan?”
“She was my mother.”
“Oh, that explains the resemblance.”
I nod and take a deep inhale, smelling the whiskey, the fire, and something spicy, sexy.
Miles.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Nope.” I hum with Paul Simon’s hums in the song, unable not to.
Miles smiles and scoots forward on the couch. “Are you a singer too?”
I laugh. “Only on karaoke nights at the Thistle, and lately not even at those.”
“They have karaoke nights there?”
“They do. Once a month, then randomly if it's one of the old blotters’ birthdays or something.”
“Who would have thought? What’s your song?” He holds up a hand and stands. “Wait, don’t tell me. I can guess.” Miles sips his whiskey, his eyes searching the ceiling for my song. “‘Satisfaction.’”
“It’s actually called “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction,” and no.”
“‘Paint it Black.’”
I shake my head.
He paces for a couple of minutes. Then he pauses to ask, “Is it a Stones song?”
“No.” I smile. He’s turned this into a game of twenty questions. I take another sip of whiskey, the amber liquid warming my belly, the fire warming my face, and Miles warming my heart. Whoa—this is fun, but that’s a bit far. Save it for the pages!
Miles snaps his fingers. “‘Blitzkrieg Bop.’”
“I’m not a masochist.”
“What? That’s a good song.” Miles looks adorably confused, and I bite my lip, wanting to feel some pressure on them.
“A great song. But too fast for karaoke, too hard. Actually, come to think of it, the song I usually choose—well, when I used to sing—is kind of hard too, but for different reasons. Maybe I am a masochist. But really, I haven’t sung in years.”
“Years? Why?”
I shrug, and he quickly shifts back to his guessing game.
“‘Welcome to the Jungle.’”
“No.”
“‘Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard.’”
I shake my head and sip more whiskey. A small smirk tickles my lips. These are great guesses, but he’ll never get it.
“Oh!” Miles puts a hand to his forehead. “What is that Pogues song? ‘The Sick Bed of’…ahh, somebody. You know the one I’m talking about?”
“Ahh, I see. Since I’m Scottish, I sing The Pogues, who were Irish and Londoners.”
“I didn’t mean…”
My straight face breaks, and I laugh.
“I’m joking. Although it is offensive. But my mom knew Shane. He sang at the Thistle House once, completely blotto. Sometimes around Christmas, I’ll sing “Fairytale of New York” but it’s not my go-to song.”
Miles throws himself back on the couch and sighs. “I need a hint.”
Sounds from down the hall, make me pace a bit to get a peek. “Nope.”
Mischief lights up his eyes. “I’ll just have to see at the next karaoke night. When is it?”
“It’s always the last Friday of the month, so in a couple of weeks. Next one will be extra fun because of Halloween, but like I said, I don’t sing anymore.”
“We’ll see.” He smiles, and heat spreads all the way from the tips of my ears to my toes.
He walks over to me, grabbing my empty whiskey glass, his fingertips lingering on mine. My head is swimming, my lips feel electric. “Refill?”
I look up into his warm eyes and then down at his full lips.
He leans in. My face instinctively moves closer like a force beyond my control.
It’s like he’s a magnet and I’m metal. He smells like cinnamon, cloves, and whiskey, plus a little something sweet.
The scent is enchanting. Our lips are so close now, I can feel his breath.
The commotion from down the hall gets louder and louder until the library door swings open.
“Miles!” A gorgeous woman with long black hair, pale skin, and a figure that defies all laws of gravity buzzes into the room.
We jump apart like teenagers caught making out on a couch.
The tiny ball of energy comes over and kisses Miles on each cheek. I thought people only did that in the movies.
“Oh, thank goodness.” She grabs Miles’s glass and downs the swig of whiskey he had left. “Can you get me another? My flight was atrocious, and the car ride over here took forever. This castle is really far out here, huh?”
Miles and I are both stunned. The woman half-waves to me as she unzips her coat, revealing an even smaller figure than I thought she had at first. Well, her waist is tiny. Her bosom is not. “I’m so rude. I’m Ava Garreth.”
Of course she is. I’ve seen her in close to twenty movies, probably. My favorite is the one where she played a spunky model-turned-detective.
Miles fills another glass for Ava and brings it over.
“Thank you. I have lots of ideas about our relationship in the film.”
He comes to grab my glass, but I pull away.
“I should turn in.”
Miles’s face falls, or am I just reading into his expression?
“One more.”
Ava is kicking off her shoes and tucking her lithe legs under herself.
I shake my head. “Early morning.”
Miles nods. “The demon chickens won’t feed themselves.”
Ava laughs. “Chickens? This place is wild.”
I run up the stairs. I thought the “crew” wasn’t coming until tomorrow.
As I brush my teeth and get ready for bed, I tell myself over and over it’s better this way.
I can’t indulge real feelings for Miles.
It’s not like he’s even interested in me anyway.
He’s charming for a living. It’s probably just a habit to be all smooth.
Although he does look at me like I’m a freshly poured pint with just the right amount of foam at the top.
But it doesn't matter. He’s going to leave at the end of the filming and go back to his glamorous life.
He’ll forget all about me—well, he might think of me sometimes when he’s having a whiskey. He’ll say, “I had an Irish girl once.”
And I’m not even Irish. Honestly, I’m only half Scottish.
But I’ll be here with my heart shattered, pining for the handsome man who’s in America. Nope. Not again.
Especially not for Miles Casey. He’s much better suited to someone like Ava, anyway. Someone glossy and put together. Someone who doesn’t eat carbs.
I’ll save all the kissing for the page. The romance will stay in the romance novel.
But what damage would it really do? If we did kiss? Or possibly more? I’m a grown woman. I could have a harmless fling. As long as I keep my feelings out of it, and so does he, we could indulge a wee romance.
I pull the covers up to my chin, still going back and forth in my head on what I should do. To kiss the handsome American or not to kiss the handsome American, that is the question.