Chapter 2
two
KIT
Running/Planning - CMAT
As it turns out, Scotland is pretty fucking cold.
I’d booked a last-minute flight from Heathrow and landed, apparently, in the middle of nowhere. From there, it was a gruelling journey involving a train and a bus that took me west.
The village of Ciallach, situated on the banks of the loch that gave the town its name, had seemed magical in the pictures, the snow bountiful, but in reality it was a frozen wasteland.
I’d been deposited at a bus stop in the centre of the small town, and with no idea of where to go first, I waited for a taxi to appear, shivering in the cold.
After five minutes and no signs of life, I decided public transport might as well be a mystical creature.
Snowflakes softly swirled around me as I dragged my suitcase past residential houses – some grand with turrets and huge gardens, others cute little cottages – in search of any help. My feet were screaming, the 1995 Gucci Tom Ford boots doing their best impression of medieval torture devices.
I should’ve left the vintage at home.
The fur coat I’d stolen from the photoshoot wasn’t doing much against the biting wind. It sliced through the fabric like it was nothing, leaving my fingers numb and blue as I clung to the handle of my Louis Vuitton suitcase.
The walk felt endless, until, through the swirling snow, I spotted salvation: a pub. Its sign hung precariously in the wind, but the lights inside glowed warmly, a beacon in the white-out.
I hobbled the remaining distance, pushing through the doors.
The heat hit me first, the wonderful, beautiful warmth.
Almost instantly, the tiny icicles that had formed in my hair melted away.
Then, I noticed the total dead silence. Thirty sets of eyes were all set upon me, silent in their judgment as I stood there.
I was used to being watched, but this felt…
wrong. Frozen in the doorway, my fight or flight instincts fought to be the victor.
With an awkward wave, I said, “I’m looking for a taxi?”
A disgusted sigh broke out along the patrons, every single one turning around with the same single word on their lips. Tourist.
As though that hadn’t happened, the crowd moved back to what they had been doing, many taking a sip from their pints to wash their aversion away.
I considered heading out into the storm and accepting my fate. But if I could handle starved models and pretentious photographers, then I could certainly handle a pub full of surly Scots. So, I dragged my suitcase behind me as I pushed forward, the wheels rattling against the bare floorboards.
Squeezing in at the end of the bar, I took a moment to catch my breath.
After all the travel trauma, I was dying for a drink.
Normally, catching a bartender’s attention wasn’t much of an issue.
In the north, apparently, I did not hold much sway.
Instead, the old man stood as far away as possible, grumbling to another group who already had drinks.
He even looked my way, eyeing me up and down as I smiled and tried to look as friendly as I possibly could, before returning to his conversation as though I didn’t even exist.
“You could dance like a monkey and that man would never take your order.” A deep voice with an unusual lilt said. I glanced over my shoulder; my eyes met a deep hazel.
“Excuse me?” I blinked, assessing. Even with my 5'10 height and the extra inches from my heel, he was still much taller. His hair was a mess of dark curls like he’d just rolled out of bed, and he kept a shadow of stubble across his jaw.
But he had a wide, goofy smile across his lips, eyes glinting with a streak of confidence. He was rather cute.
Maybe this trip wasn’t a bad idea after all.
He motioned across the room, towards the roaring fire, where a sign read in big, bold red letters: ‘NO TOURISTS’
I gulped, looking back up at him. “I’m not a tourist. I’m from London.”
He cracked a smile so gorgeous that I no longer regretted coming north of the border. “Same difference.”
I took in the cozy pub. It was a little rundown, the decor mostly pine with some tartan accents, but every stray glance my way was filled with apprehension and judgement.
My brows furrowed. “Well, judging from the accent, I’d argue I’m a hell of a lot more local than you.”
American, I placed. There are still worse things to be in the world.
He laughed, and I swore everything was a fraction brighter with that sound. “Oh, they won’t willingly serve me either.”
My eyes narrowed on his glass. “Then how did you get that?”
“Public humiliation,” he replied easily, before taking a long sip, finishing the rest of it off. Reading the ever-growing confusion across my face, his attention moved past me, his head flicking up.
I spotted the bartender finally heading our way, and I prepared myself to make my order. Instead, the stranger spoke, his voice changing and coming out with the worst noise I have ever heard. “Oi. Ach laddie, can me and the bonnie wee lass get a drink?”
The bartender nodded once. “What will it be?”
“Mm, a coke for me, a…” the stranger replied, the accent continuing as his gaze slid to me.
Stuttering, I said, “V-vodka soda.”
“That for the lass.”
The bartender took one moment, an assessing gaze floating between us, before with a solemn nod he said, “Aye. Coming up.”
“What on earth was that?” I hissed as the bartender stepped away. “Are you trying to fool them that you’re a local?”
“God no,” he wheezed. “I worked out that if I make myself sound really idiotic, they take pity and serve me.”
“What was that even supposed to be?”
He pulled back. “Scottish, obviously.”
It was my turn to laugh. “Sounded more like a pirate.”
“I’ve found the more embarrassing, the friendlier they become.”
I shook my head. What on earth had I walked into?
Sighing, I resigned myself to my fate and stuck my hand out towards him. “I’m Kit, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you.” He smiled, his palm sliding against mine. “Jonah.”
The bartender arrived, placing the two full glasses on the bar. Jonah reached towards his jean pocket, assumedly for his wallet, but I stopped him.
“Let me get these.” I pulled a tenner from my purse.
“They won’t accept that.” Jonah shook his head, eyeing the cash in my hand.
“Why not?”
“That’s English money,” the bartender grumbled.
“It’s legal tender,” I argued.
“Might as well be francs,” Jonah answered.
“Isn’t it all the same?” I looked down at the note to inspect it. “It’s got the queen on it.”
Ignoring my protests, Jonah paid the bartender, grabbed both glasses, and turned, my drink stretched out towards me.
“Apparently there’s some issue with the Scottish money down south, nobody accepts it.
So, the owner of this fine establishment”—I broke eye contact, looking for the ‘fine’ to this beige cave—“took issue, and decided to serve a reverse Uno.”
“How charming.” I hummed, taking a sip. “Thanks, by the way. I’m lucky I ran into you. Apparently, you’re the key to getting a drink.”
“Did you just get into town?” he asked, leaning his jumper-clad elbow against the solid bar.
“Straight off the bus.”
“Here for family?”
I shook my head. “A little getaway.”
He smiled brightly, my heart swooning a little. “So, you thought two days before Christmas and in the middle of a snowstorm was the best time for a vacation?”
“This is closer to what I had wanted.” I peered out the window, watching the snow fall. “A cozy pub, some nice snowfall, some peace and quiet. Not ruining my feet in these vintage boots trying to find a taxi.”
What I hadn’t imagined was a six-foot-something American in a bar, with the worst Scottish accent I’ve ever heard, adding the potential for a holiday fling.
He nodded. “Are you staying in the village?”
I nodded. “A little outside of it. I think it’s called Ma-iomb-hamm Cottage?”
He nearly spat out his drink on a laugh. “MacIomhainn Cottage?” he repeated, but even with his American accent I instantly knew he’d said the name correctly. I nodded as he added, “That is not how it is said. Don’t let any of the locals hear you.”
I gasped, offended by his words. “I am not about to be lectured on pronunciation by an American.”
He smiled coyly. “I’ve got news for you, London. You are.”
I was immediately thrown back in time, memories of my grandmother doing the same thing. Every visit she’d pull out a map and teach me how to say the local place names. Apparently, I’d gotten a little rusty over the years.
I sighed, tilting my head towards him. “Do you know where I can get a taxi?”
“Well…” He leaned forward on the bar, the space between us closing.
Does he smell good or did somebody light a candle in here?
“There’s one taxi driver in the village.”
One taxi driver? What is this place? The back of beyond? “Is there a number I can call? Perhaps the bartender knows?” I waggled my eyebrows. “Maybe whip out that ridiculous accent and beg for me?”
“No need to call.” He motioned down the bar. “He’s down there.”
I narrowed my eyes, a smile on my lips. “Is the entire village here?”
His body nudged mine; it was a casual touch, but it lingered on my skin. Like the way his smile remained across his lips. “It’s Friday night; this pub is the only thing going on.”
My gaze lingered on the man Jonah had pointed towards. He sat on a stool at the opposite end of the long bar, swaying backwards and forwards almost unsteadily.
“Is he…”
The man’s eyes drearily closed before he fell forwards and face-planted the bar.
“He’s been drinking since noon.” Jonah nodded. “It’s his day off.”
“Fuck.” I knew from the information on the rental website that MacIomhainn Cottage was a little outside the village, and considering this was the middle of nowhere and it would be all icy country roads out there, I stood no chance in these heels.
“Don’t worry,” Jonah said confidently. “I know where you’re going.”
“You do?”
“Yep.” He smiled bashfully. “I’m your new neighbour.”
“What?” I scoffed a laugh. “Are you…the welcome committee or something?”
“I could be.” The way he said it was jovial, light, but the dark glint of his eyes hinted at more. He washed it all away with another sip. “I coach locally and decided to stick around while my visa lasts. Seemed like a good spot to finish my book, so I’ve been renting the lodge next door.”
“A book,” I repeated. “How fancy.”
“I’ve had a little block. Six months later, it’s still not finished. I wish I could say it’s because the coaching gig keeps me busy, but I can’t untangle it.”
“What is it you coach? And I swear if you say dialect—”
“No.” He laughed, deep and light all at once. “That I do for free.” His head hung, a single lock of his dark hair falling onto his forehead.
A vision came to mind that didn’t seem like a terribly awful idea. One that ended with him and me tangled in bedsheets…
“So how long are you here?” he asked.
“Until after Christmas,” I mustered.
“Any plans?”
You, maybe? I smiled, smothering my immediate answer with a mental pillow. “Skiing, maybe?” I said instead. “Catching up on my reading. Exploring the Highlands.”
“Is that why you’ve packed what I assume is your entire wardrobe?” He tapped my hardshell suitcase, a response to my brows pressed together in question. “This must be the largest suitcase I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“What can I say?” I shrugged. “I’m a girl who likes to be prepared for any weather.”
A gust of winter wind suddenly rushed into the pub, sucking the heat from my bones, serving as a reminder of how treacherous it was outside. Behind Jonah, a man stepped in, his face lighting up as he stepped closer to the bar.
He patted Jonah on the shoulder. “Ah, perfect, if it’s not Mr Wimbledon himself. I was hoping you’d be here.”
“How nice,” Jonah teased him. “You missed me.”
“I wanted to buy you a beer to say thank you. Never thought I’d see the day my kids wanted to play tennis!”
His words struck me like a serve to the chest, setting off a cascade of red flags in my mind. Not only red flags – alarms, fireworks, warning sirens. Then, it all flashed before my eyes. His face – my ex’s. The Wimbledon whites, the headlines, the lies. I’d trusted him straight into therapy.
Back then, the universe had one sick sense of humour, and it loved watching me squirm.
The room blurred around the edges as Jonah gave the newcomer a quick nod of recognition, and the two exchanged pleasantries as though this wasn’t a monumental disaster. When he looked back to me, I couldn’t stop myself. “You play tennis?” My voice was sharp, accusatory.
“Coach,” he corrected casually, that goofy smile still bright. Instead of feeling that spark from before, it was closer to a stinging reminder of how sharp heartbreak can feel. “It’s part-time. I work with a few of the locals. Helps cover the rent. I used to play, almost went pro.”
Tennis. Of course, it had to be tennis.
I drained the rest of my drink in one long gulp, setting the glass down with more force than I intended. “I need to go.”
“What? Wait—” Jonah reached for me, but I was already halfway out of my seat.
“No.” The word came out too quickly, too harsh. I didn’t care. I wasn’t sticking around.
It wasn’t about him. Not really. However, hearing that one word – the sport, the ambition, the echo of another life – I felt my past tighten its grip like it had never left. London might’ve been over five hundred miles away, but somehow it still knew where to find me.
I had one rule: don’t date tennis players. Even him, standing there with his stupidly perfect smile and that easy swagger, looking exactly like the kind of thing I wasn’t allowed to want. Like the catering at the shoot – off-limits, delicious, and destined to ruin me.
I’d come here looking for an escape, something new, not a rerun. Not another charming athlete with a good backhand and a bad exit strategy. If that was even possible.
The sooner I found my rental and got out of this cold, the better. These boots weren’t made for walking – especially not on black ice – but I’d take frostbite over déjà vu any day.