Chapter 16 Deli
Deli
Soft color spread across the stranger’s cheeks as the chill nipped at their skin.
He looked down at the sign and back. “Delilah MacDonald?”
The way his accent rolled her name almost made it sound like it wasn’t hers. “Yeah, that’s me. And you are?”
“I’m your ride.”
He reached for the handle of the larger of her two suitcases, but she pulled it back and glanced around the parking lot. “I’m not supposed to get in the car with strangers. Where’s my aunt?”
“She’s sent me to collect you. She’s a busy lady.”
Deli looked him up and down with pursed lips. “Fine, but if you kill me, she won’t be too busy to kill you back. I’m sure she’ll clear her schedule.”
“I don’t doubt it. Come on, then. Let’s get you to the cottage.
” He turned and walked toward the lot without waiting for her to respond.
She hurried after him, dragging her haphazardly packed luggage and shivering as the Scottish air cut through the denim jacket she’d thrown on at the last minute.
He glanced over his shoulder and smirked.
“What?” She caught up to him beside a classic Land Rover Defender covered in mud.
He popped open the back and leaned against the truck while he took his time sweeping his gaze from her head to her toes.
A casting of goosebumps crawled up her arms. He seemed to be wafting waves of, somehow, dislike.
Clouds of breath escaped him as he chuckled, and Deli felt spiritual hackles rise like an angry porcupine at the unearned attitude.
He finally said, “Nice jacket.”
“Thanks, it’s vintage.” It was from Target, but what did he know?
“Bold choice for this climate.”
“I run hot.” Deli fought to keep her tone civil as she pushed past him and dropped her massive backpack into the cargo space with a grunt, suppressing a full-body shiver. “You never even told me your name.”
“Well, Delilah—”
“Deli.”
He blinked at her. “What?”
“No one calls me Delilah. I go by Deli.” She crossed her arms over her chest and widened her stance in a way she hoped was signaling dominance or something. He must have been six foot two? Three?
Goliath sounded judgy. “Deli?”
“Yes. Deli.”
“Huh.” He shook his head and muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like nonsense.
“What was that?” she said.
“Nothing.”
She snagged her carry-on off the handle of her smaller suitcase and crushed it against her chest before he hoisted the thing into the back like she hadn’t had to sit on it to get it to close.
Deli knew, in her heart of hearts, that it would be ridiculous for two adults to meet and become instant nemeses.
He must have been having a bad day, or she was reading him wrong, or heartbreak had stolen her social graces swiftly away and replaced them with the nuance of a teenager.
“Hey, are you hungry, Deli?” he asked. “Strangest thing, I’m suddenly craving cold cuts.” The corner of his mouth twitched as he waited for her reaction.
She felt her lips contract like she was trying to keep a marble against her teeth as she fought back the overwhelming urge to say something childish.
“Bravo. Deli, cold cuts. A true master of comedy.”
He radiated smugness as he reached for her last bag.
Deli very much failed to rise above and slapped at his hand. “No thanks, Chuckles. I don’t need your help.”
He shrugged and disappeared around the side of the Land Rover as she planted her feet to hoist. There were two neon tags left on the handles from the flight with the word Heavy and drawings of stick men throwing their backs out.
Deli didn’t recognize the sound that came out of her as she barely lifted it a few inches and let it fall. She could hear his glee in the silence that followed. Then he whistled like he was calling a dog.
She tried for another suitcase deposit—hoping whatever adrenaline helped mothers lift cars off their babies could also be channeled by great irritation at a stranger. Her foot slipped in the gravel, and she caught herself funny-bone first against the frame of the filthy bumper.
He whistled again, followed with some clicks and “Here, girl!”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Deli growled, stalking around to face him. FunnyGuy McReachShelf stood beside the Land Rover with his arms across his chest and one foot propped on the step. He raised an eyebrow and jerked his head toward the open door.
Deli’s jaw dropped. “You think I’m gonna drive this thing?”
“No.” He used the same tone she remembered from preschool. “I value my life. You’re in Scotland. This is the passenger’s side. Do me the honor of getting in so I can load your portable clothing boutique and we can get on with it?”
Maybe it was jet lag. Maybe it was the look on his face. Maybe it was one too many men in a week standing in front of her saying something repellent. Deli didn’t know exactly where her inspiration came from, but in the coming days, she wouldn’t be proud of what happened next.
She used a caveman voice. “Ooh! Big boy want heavy! Silly woman! She no lift!”
Deli climbed past him and plopped into the seat, slamming the door and grinning into her scarf, temporarily triumphant.
The cab shook as her luggage—which could, admittedly, fill a studio apartment in Manhattan—landed in the back.
Then the least pleasant thirtysomething in Scotland slid into the cab next to her and clicked his seat belt into place.
“Well then, Deli,” he said as he pulled keys out of his pocket. The way he said her name now, like it was an insult to call someone on a playground, made her want to flick him in the eye. “Are you ready?”
Deli leaned forward and yoinked the keys from his hand, dangled them in the air, and stashed them in her fist. “As a general rule, I don’t let anyone whose email signature is probably ‘Fee fi fo fum’ drive me into the woods.”
He narrowed his eyes, clearly evaluating whether he could steal the keys back without it escalating into the inspiration for a true crime podcast. He sighed and fell back against his seat to stare at the ceiling.
Deli smiled. “Especially without their name.”
He held his hand palm up for the keys. “Lachlan.”
“Lachlan what?”
“Lachlan Scott.”
They stared at each other for a beat before she started chuckling.
His tone was flat. “Something funny?”
“Lachlan Scott?” she asked.
“Yes?” His lips pressed into a line.
“Lachlan Scott?” she repeated.
“Are you broken?”
“Your name literally means Scotland Land of Lakes.”
He blinked slowly, like he was trying to befriend a cat. “And?”
“I’ll take cold cuts over America Military Bald Eagle. What? Was William Wallace taken?” He glared at her as she lifted her fist in the air and whisper-shouted, “Freeeedommmm!”
Deli relished the irritated look on his face as she dropped the keys into his palm with a satisfying jingle. The engine roared to life while she clicked her seat belt.
“Big words from a girl who named herself after lunch meat.” He punched a few buttons on the radio.
She could be an adult again tomorrow. “You started it. Seriously, though, I heard the Highland roads are pretty gnarly, and I’m not so good with heights. So it would be great if you could just go slo—AHHH!”
She was cut off by her own scream as Lachlan pressed his foot to the floor.