Chapter 3
3
HOLE-IN-ONE
Lana
With an eye on the clock on her bedside table, Lana knotted the ends of a red cashmere scarf loosely in front of her chest and turned it to the side so the soft fabric draped over her bare left shoulder. Six fifty-three. Seven minutes to finish primping. She walked to the spa-like bathroom, gathering her long hair to fall in a wavy cascade over her right side. The reflected flash of the small diamond solitaire stud earring in the mirror brought out a wide grin. Hand on hip, she struck a pageant pose. “Looking good, Lana-Banana.” Valentine’s date-worthy for sure.
Applying a cherry-flavored lip gloss, she congratulated herself on having the forethought to pack a little black dress for this trip, a floor-length maxi-style in an uncrushable bamboo viscose fabric. When she’d booked way back in June, she’d had no plan to go out on a date, but she’d long ago learned that being prepared for any eventualities—positive or adverse—always worked for her.
That and being flexible enough to go with the flow when things didn’t go according to plan. Like the frost that had canceled all play today, including her scheduled round at Kingsbarns Course.
Lana pushed out her lips in a pout as she walked out of the bathroom. She hadn’t seen Mitch at all to claim her win after her par-par-eagle finish. Not since she’d finished her round at the Old Course a little after ten in the morning yesterday. They hadn’t been able to have lunch together because he had another caddying job scheduled after her. He’d only had time to carry her bag back to the hotel.
Not dinner either because he had to stay with his mother, who was still recovering from her fainting spell in the morning. A heart ailment, apparently. While her parents had never been ill to Lana’s knowledge, she could sympathize when her friends’ mothers or fathers got sick. Especially a single parent like Mitch’s mom. Or mum, as he pronounced it.
“Friends.” Lana said the word aloud, stepping into a bejeweled pair of black ballet flats she’d left by the door of her hotel bedroom. She nodded. Yes, she and Mitch were now friends, despite their short acquaintance. Smiling, she corrected herself—Almost-Kissing-Friends. That intense moment after her hole-out eagle from the 15 th fairway kept replaying in her mind many hours later. While she walked on the chilly beach, after every other chapter of the e-book she’d been reading, before she fell asleep last night, and during her visit to tourist spots today with Mac as her guide.
The burly Scot was a knowledgeable and jolly companion, but Lana still wished Mitch had gone with her. He’d had to drive his mother to Edinburgh to convalesce at her sister’s house where she could be looked after properly.
Lana could understand and admire Mitch’s priorities. Family first. A value she shared, and that raised her estimation of him.
Three knocks on the door had her heart racing. Mitch is here!
She skipped to the entryway, eager to see how he’d complied with her instructions.
Her gasp at the sight of him echoed in the empty hallway.
His right hand braced against the door, Mitch stood in full Scottish kilt attire. A blue shirt with a plain red tie peeped under a black jacket. His tartan—a plaid pattern of forest green, navy blue, scarlet red, black, and white—fell to his knees. Long black socks with decorative pieces made from the same tartan and black shoes completed the outfit. Not full, she corrected herself. No sporran. It didn’t matter. Mitch looked gorgeous. Movie-star handsome.
“You look like Jamie Fraser,” she blurted.
Mitch laughed. He offered her the bouquet he held in his left hand, the flowers a riot of colors from yellow to pink to purple.
Lana accepted, inhaling the fragrant scent of perennials and early spring blooms. If asked, she wouldn’t be able to name the varieties. No rose in sight. How unique. She liked it.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, mo nighean donn,” he said. My brown-haired lass. Jamie’s nickname for his love interest, Claire, in the show.
Lana smiled her thanks. Combing a hand through her loose tresses, she quipped, “My hair is black.” She stepped back to let him in.
Mitch lifted the picnic hamper she hadn’t noticed was sitting by his feet and entered her hotel suite. “My kilt is not gray and brown. Which is not the correct Fraser tartan, by the way,” he countered.
“Touché.” She pointed to the coffee table in front of the fireplace to indicate where to unpack the basket of what she guessed would be their dinner. It wasn’t part of her “one thing” winnings, but he’d told her he would bring a St Andrews sampler for them to share on their Valentine date. How thoughtful.
She joined him to help, reading the descriptions as she pulled each item out of the hamper. Everything was made locally in Fife, with only an item or two from Edinburgh. In two minutes their dinner was spread out. A package of oatcakes, two kinds of cheese, a jar of honey and another of chutney, shortbread, a bottle of fruit and herb vinegar, a box of smoked salmon, two bottles of apple juice, a miniature bottle of single malt whisky, two hot foil-wrapped packages, napkins, small plates, cups, and silverware covered the entire square glass table. A veritable Scottish feast.
Lana lowered herself onto the left half of the loveseat. It pleased her when Mitch sat beside her instead of in the chair across the table, his kilt uncovering several inches of muscular thighs. To stop herself from wondering what he wore under the traditional garment, she said, “Thanks for bringing all of this.”
“You’re welcome. I thought you’d appreciate a sampling of our local delicacies.”
“I’m excited to try everything. What’s in the foil?”
He unwrapped one and then the other to reveal the contents. “Scotch pie.”
“What’s the filling? Haggis?” she asked, referring to the savory pudding containing minced sheep offal, oats, and spices. She tore into the packaging and covers of the other food items so they could start eating. A triangle of thick-cut oatcake topped with a teaspoonful of chutney, a sliver of salmon, and a drizzle of vinegar comprised her first delicious mouthful.
“No, the traditional mutton filling. Have you had our national dish?”
Lana chased the first serving with a gulp of the chilled apple juice and shook her head. “Not yet, but I want to try it. If not this week, then definitely when I return for the Women’s Open in August.”
“Let me know when you’re ready. I’ll take you to the best place that makes it here.”
She beamed. More time together. That sounded promising.
“What of our local food have you tried since you arrived on …”
“Sunday. Hmm, let me think. It’s been cold, so stews and soups mainly—stovies and Cullen skink. The usual fish and chips, porridge for breakfast. Oh, and cranachan.” The dessert made of raspberries, whipped cream, honey, and oats with a dash of whisky was utterly delectable. She ran a finger dripping with honey across her lips, a devil of an idea forming in her head. “But you know what I want to try more than anything?”
Mitch swallowed after a bite of his pie. “What?”
“Cock …” she started, watching him flush as she drew out the name, “… a-leekie soup.” His coughing fit had her giggling.
Mitch threw a splash of whisky into a glass, barely a quarter inch, and drained it in one swallow. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said in a rough voice, “As I offered earlier, whenever you’re ready, I will take you.”
Oof. Now it was Lana’s turn to blush because that wasn’t what he said before. Similar words but entirely different meanings. I will take you. Heat that rivaled the temperature emanating from the fire in the grate filled her. Take me now , her body told her to say. “I will let you know,” she said instead.
Coward , her inner voice accused. Simmer down , she shushed it. Food first. They had hours to build the heat back up before the night was over. She’d make sure of that.
With that resolved, Lana turned to the food and to the topic of her winning the bet. “You look cute in your kilt.” She smiled as he winced at the word cute. “Is that the Morris tartan?”
“It’s Clan Mitchell’s.”
Lana nearly dropped her shortbread piled high with rough crumbles of the two cheeses in her surprise and confusion. “Mitchell like your first name Mitch … ell?” She bit into the crunchy cookie while she waited for his explanation.
“Yes.” Mitch brushed the crumbs off his hands with a napkin and angled his body to face her. “The name my parents gave me at birth was Morris Thomas Mitchell, but a clerical error at the hospital added a comma after Morris.”
“Oh! So your birth certificate reads Thomas Mitchell Morris like Old Tom,” she finished for him. “That’s why Mac calls you New Tom.” She grinned at the humor of it. “You’re not related by blood?”
“A few drops from my mother’s side, but not directly to my knowledge.”
“Still. You’re practically golf royalty.”
Mitch ducked his head. “Hardly. The name comes with lofty expectations. None of which I’m able to meet.”
So humble. Lana wanted to hug him. “I don’t believe that. Your golf knowledge is among the best of anyone I’ve ever met. Must be from being born and bred at the Home of Golf.”
“It only applies to St Andrews. I may be rubbish elsewhere.”
“Nonsense. I’m sure your skills would translate everywhere.”
“You really think so?”
In Lana’s world, self-deprecating men hardly existed. Remembering how he played cheerleader for her when she was getting down on herself, she had to uplift him in a similar way. She polished off her last bite and scooted closer to convey her message. “I know so. In a mere two hours of working together, you’ve already improved my grip. When to keep it loose, when to tighten it and bear down on the shaft. I’ve never been able to pound it down with the wood until you.” By the time she finished her innuendo-laden recitation, Mitch was once again looking flushed. Lana let out the laughter she’d been holding.
“Ms. Aguilar, are you teasing me?” he asked, blue eyes twinkling.
That was all the encouragement Lana needed. She fluttered her eyelashes. “Why, Mr. Mitchell, you are the one who’s been teasing me all night. Will you tell me what you have on under the kilt? I’ve heard rumors.”
Mitch rose to his feet and moved in front of her. “You have come to collect your winnings.”
Commando, Lana decided. The bulge tenting his kilt suggested it.
She stood languidly, positioning herself so they were face to face, chest to chest like they were yesterday after her hole-out. With a sultry voice, she said, “I’ve always considered winning a team effort. Tonight, you and I are a team.” She intertwined their hands. “Come.”
He did.
So did she.