2. Ciara
Istared at my laptop screen, realizing I’d been rereading the same two lines for at least the past thirty minutes. I had hours more before I got home, and I’d planned to use this time to get some work done on my capstone project. But I was too much in my head and couldn’t focus, even with the comforting and familiar rhythmic thump of the tracks beneath me.
A strident voice pulled my attention across the aisle, where a pinch-faced woman glared at her companion. I had no idea what she was saying—the language wasn’t English—but it was clear enough the two of them were arguing. At least, the woman was. The scowling man she was with had folded his arms across his chest, clearly annoyed at being hen-pecked. He snarled something back in a tone full of sarcasm, which served only to turn up the volume on his partner.
Seriously?
I glared at them, hoping the social pressure would make them take notice of everyone else on the train and dial it down. But neither of the middle-aged arguers even looked in my direction. Huffing a sigh, I glanced around. Were the other passengers as irritated as I was?
At the far front of the car, I caught sight of another man also watching the couple. Tall and muscular, with close-cropped hair that was nearly black and the scruff of a beard to match, he sat alone. Probably because of the force-field bubble of don’t-mess-with-me-I-might-bite that extended at least five feet around him. I recognized the look from my brother. This was a man who could handle himself. Military, maybe. Or law enforcement. Definitely hot, either way. How had I missed seeing him when I boarded the train?
The male half of the fighting couple threw up his hands, uttering a spate of rapid-fire words that caused his seatmate to suck in a sharp breath through her nose.
That wasn’t good.
The hottie at the other end of the train car slid his gaze to mine and shook his head a little. I offered a wry smile and an eye roll in return, and we shared a moment of empathetic annoyance over our circumstances, trapped as we were with these asshats. As our gazes held, I felt a frisson of something else. Definitely interest on my part, and as one corner of his mouth tipped up, I thought I saw a spark in his eyes as well.
Maybe that was wishful thinking. Either way, it was far more pleasant to contemplate than the problem awaiting me at home or these twats who were making a public scene.
As the couple had another outburst, my attention jerked back to them.
Right. There’d be no actual working in all of this.
Stuffing my laptop in my backpack, I stood and pulled my suitcase from the rack. I’d just find somewhere else to move. Maybe there’d be space in another car. Pushing my suitcase ahead, I edged into the aisle.
The hot guy caught my eye again and jerked his chin toward the empty row of seats across from him in clear invitation. It wasn’t really far enough away to block out the sounds of this arguing, but I was too distracted to work anyway, so why the hell not?
Making my way down to his end of the train, I lifted my suitcase onto the empty rack above and dropped into the adjacent seat with a grateful smile. My companion nodded in silent acknowledgment of my thanks. Recognizing that this guy had been keeping to himself for a reason, I reached into my backpack and pulled out my e-reader. I could at least dip into the thriller I was working through in my spare time.
Except the gits behind me continued to make a racket.
I huffed another sigh. Why hadn’t I remembered to pack my earbuds for this trip?
The stranger across from me leaned out into the aisle, raising his voice enough to call out to the couple. Whether it was the use of their language or the command in his deep voice that had even my lady parts sitting up to take notice, they shut up long enough to grab their things and leave the car, cheeks flushed bright with a mix of embarrassment and temper.
My shoulders relaxed as the noise in the train car dropped to a more comfortable level. “Thank you.”
I had no idea where this man was from, or if he even spoke English, but I figured the gist would be clear enough.
“You’re welcome.”
When a familiar burr spilled out, I could only blink at him. “You’re a Scot.”
“So are you.”
That was true enough. And it wasn’t like it was unusual to run into a fellow Scot anywhere in the UK. Still, I hadn’t been expecting that. “What language were they speaking?”
“German.”
“Huh. What were they arguing about?”
“Evidently, he fouled up their booking and, instead of flying, they’re having to take the train and are missing a whole day of their vacation.”
“Ah. So that was mostly an ‘If I want something done right, I have to do it myself’ sort of argument?”
“More or less.”
I couldn’t quite peg what region of Scotland he was from. Not the same part of the Highlands as me. Somewhere in the Borders maybe? Likely his accent was muddled a bit, as mine had been from four years of living in Edinburgh for university.
“What did you say to them?”
Those big, broad shoulders jerked in a shrug. “I reminded them that this was a public train and that no one wanted to listen to their yammering. Then suggested they ought to take their conversation elsewhere.”
I grinned. “Well, thank you. That would’ve been a very unpleasant ride for the rest of us if they’d stayed.”
He inclined his head and shifted to watch the scenery.
Message received. He didn’t want to talk. That was fine. At least I could read in peace now.
Except as I tried to lose myself in the narrative, I could feel the stranger’s eyes coming back to me. I glanced up, arching my brows when I caught him staring.
“Sorry. I just wondered what you were reading.”
“Loch of the Lost.”
Humor lit his brown eyes, and he gave a sage nod. “There’s been a murder.” He deepened his burr to give extra roll to the R’s.
“Are you a Lochlan Reid fan, then?” It was practically a requirement for anyone from our village, as Glenlaig was where Lochlan had settled a few years back, and we considered him one of our own.
“Aye. He’s no’ bad when I’m in the mood for tartan noir. Sometimes they’re too dark for me, though.”
I got that. I had to be in the mood for a body count. “What do you read instead?”
“Don’t laugh.”
I crossed my heart with one finger. “I wouldn’t dare.”
“Graphic novels.”
“Like superheroes and such?”
“Sometimes. I like fantasy, too. And sci-fi.”
“I prefer to watch my fantasy. Too many of the authors seem to feel they need to give two hundred pages of description of the setting and the magic and political system that doesn’t actually move the plot. And there’s never enough romance.”
“A romance fan, are you?”
Because he didn’t say it in a patronizing way, I didn’t bristle. “Of course. What’s the point of risking one’s life to save the world if you don’t get love in the end?”
Instead of rolling his eyes or dismissing my opinion as a lot of men would, his interest seemed to sharpen. “Fair point. That was the only real saving grace to Marvel’s End Game. Steve finally got to be with Peggy.”
Giving up all pretense of reading, I dropped the e-reader back into my bag. “Thank you! He was practically the only member of the entire MCU who got to be with the woman he loved. I don’t know why male writers always seem to think the hero has to sacrifice everything and be alone in the end.”
My companion hummed a noncommittal noise as something flashed over his face. “I imagine a lot of them would argue it’s art imitating life. A lot of the things so-called heroes have to endure—male or female, for that matter—leave them so changed, it’s not so easy to go back home.”
Talk about art imitating life. If I hadn’t been sure he was military before, I was now. But I didn’t call him on it. If he wanted to speak of it, he would. For my part, I was content to keep our discussion on fiction. “There is nothing on earth more powerful than love. Nothing.” I lifted my chin, daring him to contradict me.
His lips curved just a little. “Want to loan me some of that conviction?”
“I can give you a boatload of examples.” And I did. Over the next couple of hours, we talked of books and films, debating how many popular ones could have been rewritten to have more hopeful endings. My companion was surprisingly well read, and I lost myself in the discussion, enjoying the low-key flirting I was pretty sure was happening.
He was older. Late twenties or maybe thirty. Old enough that he had actual life experience to back up his opinions. Not that he was sharing about those experiences. And that was fine. We were just two strangers on a train, enjoying some good conversation.
It wasn’t until his gaze shifted from mine that I realized we were still sitting at one of the tiny stations we’d pulled into on the way. I’d been dimly aware of a couple of passengers getting off and more getting on. But that had been several minutes ago. We should’ve been on our way again by now.
My seatmate frowned. “Something’s wrong.”
As if he’d manifested it with his words, a tone sounded over the PA system, and the conductor asked for everyone’s attention.
“Passengers, we have a problem.”