Chapter 9
“That fine bone china teacup is beautiful,” I say to the first Americans I’ve encountered since landing in Scotland.
“I’m obsessed,” the woman says. She can’t stop looking at everything in the shop, even though her male counterpart seems ready
to leave.
I lean forward. “Did you see the whole tea set? It comes with a pot and two cups—and it doesn’t cost that much more.”
“No,” the woman says. I lead her to it. She also snags a box of Royal Blend Tea while she’s there.
I check out her purchase (I’m much more confident on the register now that I’ve been working here a week), carefully wrap
the tea set, all while chatting amiably with her. Once they leave and another rush of customers funnels out, Beverly approaches.
“I’ve been watching you, bonny,” she says, a twinkle in her eye. “You’re a natural with the customers and you upsell nearly everyone.”
“I worked retail all through high school,” I tell her. “And I love pretty much everything in here, so it makes the job easy.”
She pats my hand and walks away to talk to Caro about a new display. I feel a burst of pride. Maybe this is a good fit. No,
it’s not what I expected my summer to look like, but it’s better than staying home, avoiding my best friend, and playing referee
to my parents.
“You lasses go have a piece,” Beverly says to us, looking at one of the many clocks in the store. “I’ll keep an eye out here.
Another tour won’t be out for forty-five minutes. Take advantage of the quiet—and the braw day.”
“What’s a piece?” I whisper to Caro as we’re leaving.
“A sandwich,” Caro tells me. She’s been my translator, although half the time I’m asking her what she’s saying. Caro’s carrying a blanket so we can picnic under the trees. She suggested we eat our lunches together whenever Beverly
is around to keep an eye on the store, which I’m happy to do. I’d truly rather not be alone with my thoughts. Not when they
keep veering off course and to that moment in the stable with Finn. I haven’t seen him since then. Granted, it’s only been
a couple of days, but that’s weird when you live on the same estate.
Caro and I get settled on the blanket with the sandwiches we brought.
“How’s your sketch troupe going?” I ask her.
“Brilliant,” she enthuses, her orange hair falling into her eyes. It reminds me a bit of the cute bangs on a Highland cow.
“Leah wrote this hysterical thing about—okay, I won’t ruin it in case you come to our next show—”
“I’ll definitely come,” I tell her. From what Caro has said, Leah’s like a Scottish Paula Pell when it comes to comedy writing,
and I’m invested. “Are things okay between you and Duffie?”
Caro drops her sandwich into her lap and covers her face.
“Caro . . .” I say. “What did you do?”
“It was only a winch in a moment of weakness,” she says, dramatically flailing her arms out. “And then it turned into ripping
each other’s clothes off in his flat.”
“Caro,” I say, but I’m laughing. “You just can’t quit him.”
“I can’t,” she says with a shake of her head. “Have you ever had a boy like that? One you just couldn’t resist?”
“Nope,” I say with confidence, swatting away a memory of the stable scene with Finn for the second time.
We fall quiet. A light wind rustles through the trees. Birds are singing various tunes. It’s perfect. In this place, in this
moment, I’m content, which immediately fills me with guilt. I’m supposed to be focusing on my career, my future this summer,
not chilling at a castle.
“Hey, Caro?” I sit up and cross my legs. Even though what she does is different, she’s still a creative and seems to be centered. Focused. “What do you do when you’ve got a plan that falls through? Like, if you have a goal with your comedy troupe and something happens to throw you off course?”
“Aw, hen, that’s my life. Things rarely go the way I plan them.” Caro shrugs, an ease to her countenance. “I switch gears.
I keep my goals the same and I just change how I get there.”
Caro’s words sink in. My situation’s changed, but my goals haven’t, I remind myself. I can still write this summer. In fact,
not being Margaret’s assistant will allow me more time to focus on my own projects. I think back to when Margaret told me
that she doesn’t chase the muses—the muses chase her. If I finish a manuscript while I’m here, I’ll be able to tell myself
at the end of this trip that I’m a writer.
Come find me, muses.
But I can’t focus. Because down in the parterre, I can see Finn jogging around the flower beds. He’s wearing shorts, running
shoes, and . . . that’s it. I’ve never seen him shirtless before and good lord does that man have a body.
“What is he doing out here?” Caro says.
Fixated on the view before me, I barely hear her. “Oh, is he supposed to stay inside?” I say vaguely.
“When tours are going on, aye. Normally, we shut them down altogether when the family’s here, but since Prince Finneas is
about for the summer, the tours are truncated a wee bit. He’s supposed to stay tucked away, not running around half scud.”
“Huh,” I say. He looks really good.
“Close your mouth already,” Caro says with a laugh. She knocks her foot against mine.
“I . . .” I rack my brain for an excuse as to why I was just ogling the prince of England and come up with nothing. “I wasn’t
looking at him, I was admiring the flowers.”
“That’s the daftest excuse I’ve ever heard,” she squeals. “You’re blushing.”
“No, I’m not,” I lie, feeling the heat on my cheeks. I remember how close I was to kissing him and am sure I turn redder.
“I told you when I started working with you that Finn and I are barely even friends. I barely know him.” I can’t stop saying
the word “barely.” I can’t stop looking at his bare chest.
“You liar. You fancy him. All this talk about, ‘Oh, we’re just mates, we met in a pub, and he helped me out after I lost my job,’ that’s all shite
because you fancy him.”
She’s shaking my leg with her hand now and I know I’m bright red now, which is fully incriminating even though I swear I do not like Finn. That would not only be ridiculous, that’d be full-throttled batshit crazy.
“Okay,” I finally say, putting my hand up in protest. “I will admit, he looks good half naked. I have eyes, okay? And an ill-advised
attraction to men. Sue me.”
“Uh-huh . . .” Caro says, her eyes dancing.
“However, I am not masochistic enough to like a playboy prince who spends his off-hours getting plastered and making out with random socialites. I mean, I’ve got more dignity than that.”
The electricity I experienced when Finn and I had our hands on each other in the stables shoots through me again, so I stand
up and sit back down, this time with my back to him.
“See? I’m not looking at him,” I say. “I’m so disgusted with his personality, I don’t even want to look at his hot body.”
“It’s okay to admit the man’s got a rig,” Caro says with a sigh. “But he’s no Duffie.”
I laugh. One of us is definitely delusional here, and it isn’t me.