3. Isla
ISLA
“Are you going to glare at me the entire time?” I asked lightly, my gaze flicking across the table.
I’d parked myself in a chair for the last half hour, reviewing some of the photos I’d taken over the course of the evening.
There were epic ones of Weston and Lena mid-kiss, adorable photos of Aisling giving a speech and endless snaps on the dance floor.
I’d even managed to capture a cute one of Alistair grabbing Kenna before she could dive face-first into the chocolate fondue station.
The father and daughter duo had called it a night shortly after that, leaving me at the table with Mr. Poshpants, who had shifted to the other side of the table like I had the plague.
“I’m not glaring,” Locke muttered. He was reclined in his chair, drink in hand, regarding me over the top of his glass.
“Brooding?” I lifted my camera and snapped a quick photo of him.
He grimaced, sipping his drink and waving me away. “You’re insufferable.”
“It’s my job,” I pointed out.
“To take photos of the happy couple,” he shot back. “Not me.”
“You’re a guest,” I said. “And I know Lena wants photos of the resident sheep whisperer.”
He grumbled something I couldn’t quite hear, clearly unamused.
His loss. I thought I was hilarious. I took a sip of my whiskey.
“You know, the entire sheep debacle was your fault,” he said. “We both would have been out of there long before the sheep arrived if you’d just yielded to me from the start, like you should have.”
“What, so I could get stuck in the mud and leave Weston and Lena without a photographer again?” I cried, holding up my camera.
Locke huffed, taking another swig of his drink. My gaze dropped to the glass—black rum floating on golden ginger beer—and my lips twitched.
“What?” he snapped.
“Nothing, it’s just…” I burst out laughing. “A dark-n-stormy for Mr. Storm Cloud over there. It’s very fitting.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re drunk,” he said.
“Bah! Not even close.” I picked up my glass again, pressing the cool rim to my bottom lip, watching the way his tongue darted out. I washed the strange fluttery sensation in my gut down with a gulp of whiskey.
“That flush in your cheeks says otherwise,” Locke said, pointing a finger at me. He had nice fingers. Nice hands, even. Wait…
I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t be looking at my flush.” My cheeks did tend to get a little rosy a few drinks in, but with my tolerance, all that meant was that I was getting warmed up.
He opened his mouth to respond, hesitated, his eyes flicking to my mouth then away—as if catching himself wanting something he shouldn’t. My blush deepened as the corner of his mouth curled.
“Mind if I…” Locke got to his feet, picking up his glass, waltzing closer to me.
He set his glass down by the chair next to mine, leaning against the table.
He was close enough now I could smell the rum on his breath.
As I held his gaze, heat prickled all over my body, but I refused to look away even as that warmth crept up my neck.
No way was this grumpy businessman getting under my skin.
I picked up my glass and downed the rest of my drink in one gulp.
I let the alcohol settle, then pushed my glass away.
“Tapping out already?” he said, sinking down in the chair. The air around me crackled with his presence. “What was that, your second?”
“Fourth,” I corrected him. And I was still going strong.
He hummed.
“What?”
“I’m impressed by your tolerance. I’ve watched you flitting about the dance floor taking photos. Not even a wobble.”
“And that’s in heels,” I added. “Also, why are you watching me?” My pulse thumped unevenly at the question.
“Because you’re interesting. Annoying, but interesting. And my eyes are always drawn to what interests me,” he quipped. “It’s human nature. Just like curiosity.”
I crossed my arms, pursing my lips. “And what are you curious about?”
He shrugged. “For starters, where’d you learn to put away drinks like that?”
I smirked, holding my arms out. “Do you not realize the excellent company you’re keeping is that of a MacRae?”
His expression shifted, his amusement turning to genuine surprise. “Wait…as in MacRae’s Whiskey?”
I nodded just as a new drink was deposited in front of me.
I raised my glass. “The one and only,” I said.
“So of course I can hold my liquor. It’s practically my birthright to be able to drink anyone under the table.
When I was little, I half lived in the distillery.
Even had a swing set in the garden behind the building. ”
“So,” he said, genuinely interested. “What was that like growing up? Were you bottling whiskey as a toddler?”
“Obviously.” The corner of my mouth curled. “No, I mean, it was a really small operation back then. I mostly just remember poking around my father’s office and the smell. A weird mix of malty sweetness and, like, tangy vinegar.”
He shook his head, lips pursed.
“What?” I asked.
“I’m surprised, that’s all. Never would have guessed you were actually from Scotland.” He crossed his arms, sinking against the back of his chair. “Based on your accent, I assumed you were American, just visiting for the ceremony like some of Lena’s friends.”
“Braeburn born and raised,” I said. “At least for the first chunk of my life.”
He hummed. “I didn’t realize the distillery was so close by. You think I would have noticed it driving in one of these times.”
“Oh, it’s not here anymore. These days, all that’s left is an abandoned building. The operation was relocated years ago,” I said. “The land has basically returned to nature. It’s been really great for the local wildlife. There are some gorgeous walking trails out there.”
“Yeah?”
I nodded. “I take my dog out sometimes. There’s a trail along the creek that runs all the way to this massive waterfall. It’s just about the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen.” My chest warmed, remembering how much my mother had loved that waterfall.
“Sounds lovely,” Locke said. I smiled a bit; he actually meant what he said.
“It’s my favorite place in all of Braeburn.”
“I fancy Hamish’s Pie Shop, personally,” he quipped. “But the waterfall can be a close second.”
We talked a bit longer, sharing stories of our favorite places in the area.
I wasn’t even aware of how much time had passed until I noticed people around us shifting, collecting their things, and heading off.
We’d basically shut the place down…and I’d been so caught up in talking to Locke that I’d barely even noticed.
“I think people are turning in for the night,” I said, tucking my camera into its case. “Guess that means my job is done.”
“Aye,” Locke agreed, tossing back the rest of his drink.
I did the same, and he eyed me with an expression that was equal parts amused and impressed. He got to his feet, surprisingly steady for a man who’d drunk just as much as I had.
“Are you good to drive?” I asked.
To his credit, he stopped and gave the question serious consideration as he ran a hand through his dark hair, a few of the tousled strands falling across his forehead in a way that had my hand itching to reach out and curl my fingers through.
“If I was in the city, I think I’d be all right,” he said, “but to get to Weston’s place in the dark, on these roads… ”
I winced a little at the thought. I got a little nervous on those narrow, windy roads at night even when I was stone-cold sober.
“I suppose I could ring Alistair and ask him to come get me, but I’d hate to make him drive all the way back here.”
“There’s an inn in town called the Deerhound,” I told him. “It’ll have space for you. I can show you where it is, if you like? Unless, of course, you’d prefer just to bunk in with your favorite flock of sheep.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but before he said anything, his hand shot out abruptly, blocking my path. He turned his body slightly, his shoulder creating a physical barrier between me and the very drunk guest that came stumbling past, singing the Proclaimers at the top of his lungs.
“Sorry,” Locke muttered, stepping back the moment the guest had moved on.
“Such chivalry,” I teased, noticing how raspy my voice sounded. “I’m surprised.”
He tilted his head, his eyebrow popped. “Oh, believe me…you have no idea what I’m capable of.”
I felt myself flush even hotter and turned to the door, hoping he hadn’t noticed. “This way,” I said, striding forward.
We stopped briefly at his car to pick up his duffle bag, then we strolled down the high street.
My head only spun a little as we came upon the stone facade of the inn.
A sign hung from the roof with an image of a scruffy Scottish deerhound as the mascot.
There were two lights burning on either side of the door.
I grabbed the doorknob and led Locke inside.
He followed after me. “Quaint,” he said, glancing around as he shed his suit jacket, rolling his sleeves.
I tried not to think about those muscly forearms, but it was a little difficult.
All my thoughts revolved around how attractive Locke was in the low lights of the lobby.
He caught me staring, cocking his head. I wanted to reach out and catch his jaw in my hand, run my fingers along the neatly trimmed beard. “Isn’t it?”
“It’s cozy,” I agreed, trying (and failing) to shake off those thoughts. “And the staff are exceptional.” I walked around the check-in desk, giving him a playful grin.
“This is your inn?” he said. I couldn’t help the way my eyes dropped to those forearms again as he leaned against the desk. “Color me surprised,” Locke said. “And impressed.”
“Do I not strike you as a businesswoman?” I asked, busying myself with getting his room key sorted before my thoughts could run away to horrible, no-good, very-bad places. “Credit card, please.”
“Whiskey, hotels, photography,” he rhymed off on his fingers once he’d handed his card over. “How many businesses are you in?”
“I contain multitudes,” I said, typing his details into the computer. “Last name?”