Chapter 2 #2
But I need to understand what I’m getting into. So I do what I always do when faced with a challenge.
I research.
The number of results is overwhelming. Photos, news articles, fan sites, and everything in between.
Asher Knight is beyond famous. His name has been synonymous with rock legends like Mick Jagger and Robert Plant ever since he and his boarding school friends decided to skip college and form a band instead.
“That must have pissed off his parents,” I mutter under my breath, remembering Asher once saying something at one of the Manic concerts about being distantly related to the king. I’m not sure he was joking or…
“Not joking,” I whisper, seeing a whole section of Asher’s Wikipedia page dedicated to his family’s lineage.
I know Wikipedia isn’t always correct, but this seems very detailed. And lengthy.
According to this, his father, Stuart Knight, is the Earl of Dunloch and the Viscount of Blackstone, titles bestowed on their family by Queen Elizabeth I.
Queen Elizabeth, are you kidding me?
Under quick facts, there is a note that his great-grandmother was a cousin to the queen, making him thirty-eighth in the line of succession.
What the actual fuck? What is the point of even counting that high?
His mother, Theodora, is the Countess of Dunloch and the Viscountess of Blackstone.
Their family estate, Blackstone House, is located in the countryside, about an hour’s drive from Edinburgh in a village called Iverloch.
Asher is listed as the heir apparent.
Heir apparent. As in, Asher will one day be a lord. Or, wait…an earl? I feel my nerves start to rise, and I try to swallow down the lump in my throat.
Part of me thought he was joking that night at my brother’s concert when he was confronted by Zara’s ex. Part of me thought that when Hendrix said estate, he really just meant a large house.
But this…this is way more than I am prepared for. This is butlers and maids. Staggering generational wealth. This is a six-course meal served on silver trays, with all those extra forks and spoons I always ignore at a nice restaurant.
I may have been born into a family with money, but we are from Malibu. We eat breakfast on the deck in our pajamas. We order Chinese for Christmas Eve, so my mom doesn’t have to stress cook.
When we dress up for award shows, we have the driver pick up burgers on the way home.
We don’t do fancy.
A quiet knock comes from the other side of the curtain. I take a quick breath and answer, “Yes?”
The blonde flight attendant from before pops her head in. My eyes dart to her name tag—something I should have done earlier.
Marcy.
“Just popped in to grab your tray.” She looks down to see my still full and now cold cup of tea. Her brows furrow. “Do you need me to come back, or—”
“No.” I shake my head. “Sorry, I got distracted.”
I actually do feel bad about that. The presentation was so pretty. It seems like a tragedy now to have wasted it all.
“Not a problem. Happens all the time,” she replies in that cheerful voice again. She bends down to pick it up.
“Actually, while you’re here, can I ask you a question?”
“Of course. Although if you want advice on Scotland, I’m afraid I’ll be of no help. I’m from London.”
“No.” I laugh. “No restaurant recs or anything like that, but if I did happen to go to one, specifically a fancy one, do you happen to know what to do with all those extra utensils?”
Her brow goes up.
“The people I’m staying with are…” I try to think of the right word.
Intimidatingly rich?
Scarily sophisticated?
But she seems to understand what I’m trying to say and simply nods. “Let me just take care of this tray, and I’ll be back in a snap.”
When she returns a few moments later, she has paper, a pen, and a lot to say.
She’s surprisingly well-versed in high society.
I don’t ask why.
By the time she’s called away by another passenger, I know the difference between the fish fork and the salad fork and what to do with my napkin.
You’d think my research-loving soul would be filled to the brim and overwhelmingly happy.
But, instead, I am even more nervous.
Because now, everything feels so much more real.
Holy shit, I’m going to Scotland.
I get off the plane in record time.
With zero sleep and a stomach full of caffeine, I follow the signs to baggage claim and breathe a sigh of relief when the carousel spits out my suitcase.
Maybe my luck is turning around.
It is a new day, after all.
With my luggage in hand, I head for the exit, ready to breathe my first breath of Scottish air, when I realize I have no idea where to meet my driver.
Was it inside the terminal or outside?
Is there a kiosk?
I pull out my phone and check the confirmation email once again, and that’s when I see it.
“No…” I whisper under my breath. Right there, clear as day, under my confirmation number is the date I booked it…and it’s tomorrow.
In my haste, I booked the wrong damn date. And last night, sleep-deprived and a little drugged, I didn’t even notice when I double-checked the email.
Does that mean…What about my hotel reservation?
I quickly pull up the hotel email and check the date. Releasing a relieved breath when I see today’s date on the check-in line, I remember my dad was actually the one who booked the room. At least one of us can book travel arrangements correctly.
I take a deep, calming breath. It’s going to be okay.
I don’t have a car service, but that’s okay. There are probably other options. This is a big city. There must be cabs and rental cars. Scratch that. I’m not driving on the opposite side of the road by myself in a foreign country.
I absentmindedly glance around the terminal, as if some sort of plan will reveal itself the longer I stand here, looking like a lost puppy.
Suddenly, a man comes up to me. He’s older, with silver hair and weathered skin. His smile is gentle, and his blue eyes meet mine warmly as he asks, “Are you lookin’ for a cab, lass?”
Well, how about that…
This day keeps getting better and better.