Chapter 2 #2
“Oh please,” I say, lifting his arm off and giving it back to him. “Does this act ever really work for you?”
There’s that look again between them.
“This has literally never happened before,” Bethany says to Callum and Mhairi.
“Is it possible that Americans are immune to Finn?” Callum asks.
“We know that isn’t true. But maybe it’s a Midwestern thing,” Mhairi says thoughtfully.
I am absolutely missing something crucial. Or jet lag is finally taking its toll. A song comes on and Callum, Mhairi, and
Bethany all suddenly squeal.
“I need to dance,” Callum insists.
Maybe the only thing I’m missing is that Finn really is a rapscallion. A rogue. A rake. Some other term from this century
that means he leaves messes for his friends to clean up. Well, I’ve sworn off relationships so no danger here.
Of course, that doesn’t mean I might not try to torture him a little. For my own amusement.
“Go dance,” I tell them. “I’ll make sure your friend doesn’t get into trouble.”
They don’t hesitate to run away, despite the clear lack of a dance floor. They find an area big enough to do some choreographed
moves that are surprisingly good. Instead of getting annoyed, other patrons slowly join in on the fun.
“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” Finn says. There’s a hint of irritation that makes me want to laugh. “Plenty
of girls have tried this angle. It never works.”
“What angle?” I’m growing a bit tired of all these cagey comments, and can’t keep a note of exasperation out of my voice.
He stares at me for a long moment, then his face softens into the first genuine smile I’ve seen from him.
A strange feeling of warmth spreads through my chest while warning bells ring in my head.
The last thing I need this summer is a distraction, no matter how handsome he is.
I have a tendency to catch feelings when I shouldn’t.
This is the worst type of guy to catch feelings for.
It’s time to change the subject. “So you’re not a dancer? ” I say, nodding at his friends.
“I’m supposed to stick to the Viennese waltz,” he says dryly. “Family policy, you know.”
“Your family has a policy on dancing? Are you some weird cult?”
“In a sense. So tell me, American Hannah. What brings you to a country you know nothing about?”
“Who says I know nothing about Scotland?” Truth be told, I don’t, beyond Margaret MacIntyre, Outlander, Macbeth, a little Robbie Burns, and whatever I read in my travel book.
“Call it a hunch. I’m genuinely curious why you’re here.”
I consider my answer while I look over the crowd. There’s a high-top populated with men in suits who are giving a group of
women the once-over. Some elderly men, all sporting white beards and flat caps, are laughing uproariously at a story one of
them is telling. Meanwhile, Finn’s friends are now doing a dance I vaguely recognize from TikTok.
I may not be Scottish, and I may have the beginning tugs of homesickness—despite everything I want to leave behind—but I don’t feel out of place here, which is why I settle on the undressed truth.
“I’m here because I need the author I admire most in the world to read my work and tell me I’m a writer so that I can go to college in the fall, become an English major, and pursue the rest of the life I’ve already
got planned out.”
“And that author lives in Edinburgh,” Finn says. I nod. “What happens if the writer is an absolute knob—”
“She’s not.”
“What happens if the non-knob writer doesn’t comply? Then the rest of your life . . . ?”
I’d never even considered it not happening as a possibility. In my experience, you make a plan, and then you execute that
plan. I meet his gaze and hold it. My control of my tongue slips and the words fall out of me. “I don’t know what happens.
But I’m scared to find out.”
Finn looks thoughtful. He puts his palms out. “Give me your hands.”
“Why?” I ask, guarded.
“Are all Americans so difficult? Come on, Marilyn Monroe. Hands,” he commands, shaking his head. The waves of his copper hair
shake back and forth. I swear they’re calling me a chicken.
I put my hands in his and try not to shiver from their warmth. To hide my reaction, I quip, “Your hands are really soft. Do you get regular manicures?”
“Of course I do.” Instead of pulling away, he holds my hands a little firmer, though not unpleasantly so, and examines my
nails. They’re currently painted red with white polka dots. “Though clearly I need to change manicurists because whoever’s
doing yours is putting mine to shame.”
“I paint them myself,” I tell him, mostly because I’m afraid if I change the subject, he’ll let go of me. Perhaps he is in
fact a rapscallion, but he’s also magnetic. Who is this guy? What’s his story? He gives my hands a little shake.
“Hannah. Pay attention. This is important.”
I laugh. “All right, Finn. Change my life.”
“You are already a writer,” he tells me gravely.
Whatever I could have imagined him saying, I never would’ve come up with that. I roll my eyes and pull my hands away. “Sorry,
it doesn’t work that way. It can’t just be some random British guy in a pub who tells me that. It has to be someone with authority.”
“Maybe I’m not ‘random.’ Maybe I do have authority. Or maybe this is all nonsense and the only person who needs to tell you
you’re a writer is you.”
Finn’s friends return in a flurry of hand gestures and shaking of phones and words I can’t quite make out.
“Just calm down,” Finn tells them, but he looks rattled.
“What’s going on?” I ask. Did an angry ex-girlfriend storm in? Or does he owe someone money? Finn gives off rich-kid vibes, but you never know.
“We have to go now,” Bethany insists. “We’ve been spotted.”
“We have to leave, like, five minutes ago,” Mhairi adds.
I look at their concerned faces. “Are you all fugitives? Are the cops after you?”
No one’s paying attention to me and they’re all talking on top of each other. I hear Bethany say something about a backdoor
exit, to which Callum makes a joke that gets a snort out of both Finn and Mhairi.
“If you’re looking for a way out, I know one,” I tell them. “I actually live here. Upstairs, I mean. I can show you the door
I use.” They all start thanking me at the same time, but I cut them off. “But only if you promise me I’m not going to be,
like, questioned by the police later or something.” I can see the headline now: “Jet-Lagged American Helps Wanted Criminals
Escape from Pub.”
The chattering stops as they appear to have a silent conversation.
“I still follow my toxic ex on Snapchat,” Callum finally says to me, pocketing his phone. “The little map says he’s headed
this way, and I simply cannot.”
“No problem.” I stand up, well-versed on the topic of toxic exes. “Follow me.”
I lead them toward the back hallway and point out the door Eileen told me to use when the pub’s closed.
Callum, Mhairi, and Bethany each give me a hug as they exit one by one. Finn stops in front of me. I wonder if he’s going to give me a hug too. For a split second, I wonder if he’s going to live up to his reputation and try and kiss me. He doesn’t.
“You’re a lifesaver,” he says. “The best thing to come out of America since the cheesesteak sandwich.”
“And you’re the one girls are supposed to find irresistible?”
He looks as though he’s about to say something else, then shakes his head.
“See you around, rapscallion,” I call after him and close the door before he can reply. It’s a throwaway line because I never
expect to see that guy again. And I’m certain that’s for the best.