Page 18 of Scotlander

Even though he made her tummy flutter, she got the feeling the butterfly faeries weren’t swirling round Gabe. Maybe once they were away from all of the hullabaloo of LA and their cell phones were out of signal and they were bathed in candlelight as they ate . . . erm . . . some haggis . . . they’d feel more comfortable.

It slaughtered her that she couldn’t just pick up the phone and ask Val what she’d been thinking when she’d booked this trip. She was pretty sure her bestie wouldn’t have wanted her to have to squint at her intended to make him seem more like someone she’d actually date.

She almost felt the accompanying finger flick on her arm as Val’s voice popped into her head.

Stop overthinking things, bendita. Just be!

It was a fair comment. But, also, at odds with real life.

She had imagined this – being on the plane with Gabe – down to the finest details. The mile-high cocktail buzz. The compartmentalised food. The cascades of giggles they’d have to suppress as they took turns popping peanuts into one another’s mouths. She’d seen it perfectly. How they would settle back in their chairs (economy plus had been as far as her dream had extended) and spend the flight talking about their hopes and dreams. When they’d exhausted themselves from all of that soul-quenching bonding, he’d shyly, but organically, offer her his shoulder to sleep on and then when she woke up in his lap he would be stroking her hair and gazing into her eyes. She’d feel like a princess and he’d be her prince and they’d get married in a castle in Scotland just like Madonna and she wouldn’t have to spend the rest of her life worrying about making the most of ten-to-fifteen minute interviews with celebrities who didn’t give a flying monkey’s about her.

Since that wasn’t happening and they were in first class, she exploited every nugget of the high life she could.

Three face masks, one pedicure, a sinus-cleansing Bloody Mary and two cheeseboards later, she and her new bestie, Marcus the flight attendant, hugged it out before he excused himself to make last calls for the toilet before landing in Scotland.

Gabe disappeared without so much as a glance in her direction, but when he came back . . . his twirl and smile knocked her breathless.

Woweeeeeewowowowowoowoweeeeewow.

Gabe in a kilt was pulse-quickeningly gorgeous. And Willa was openly gawking. The ghillie top – a loose blousy thing with a wide V-neck – fitted his shoulders and physique as if he’d been born to it. The leather thong that criss-crossed the gap from his sternum up to his throat was hanging loose, all but begging her to yank it free to make it easier for her to rip the top in two so she could rub her hands all over his smooth, golden chest. The kilt itself, a green and dark blue number, hung on his hips as if an adoring seamstress had stitched it exactingly into place. Working their way down, her eyes hungrily latched on to a scrumptious bit of leg that kept appearing as he stretched and reached for their things. And then she worked her way back up again because it had been so pleasurable a journey.

‘Nice handbag,’ she said, fingers twitching to stroke the furry exterior of his . . . sporran, was it?

‘You like?’ He offered the sporran some slick hand manoeuvres, as if he was modelling a twenty-thousand-dollar watch and not a fake-fur covered man-pouch atop his actual man pouch.

‘I like,’ she managed, hoping she wasn’t drooling, because it certainly felt like she was.

He winked at her, then, after they’d landed, busied himself with getting her tote down even though one of the flight attendants was standing right there, quite obviously enjoying the show as much as she was.

She shot a grin up to heaven and sent a mental text to Val. You do know he’s well out of my league, right?

As if she had literally said it, she heard Val shoot back, You do know you’re an idiot for thinking anyone is out of your league, right? You’re a catch, mija. The only one who can’t see it is you.

‘You okay?’ Gabe’s forehead was creased with concern, clearly wondering why tears had suddenly bloomed in her eyes.

‘Yup! Great.’ She swiped at her face. ‘I just misted.’ She dug into her clear plastic bag of liquids, pulled out a mini face mister and gave her face a squirt. ‘So good for the skin.’ She popped on her best let’s get crackin’ face. ‘C’mon. Time to meet our fellow outlanders.’

After passport control, baggage claim and customs had been cleared, Willa’s nerves kicked in. Travelling thousands of miles to a foreign country to pretend to live in Jacobean times wasn’t a skill base she had in her wheelhouse.

Again, she heard Val’s voice sing out loud and clear: It’s no weirder than interviewing famous people for a handful of minutes and pretending it’s made all of your dreams come true.

Shut up! she play-shouted in her head, as she gave her bodice an aggressive tug to shift it back into place. Dead or alive, Val knew how to hit a nerve sometimes.

‘Alright, my pretty,’ Gabe said in combo pirate-Scottish voice. ‘Are you prepared to bewitch the masses?’

She grinned up at him, relieved to feel that click of connection cinch back into place.

Val was right. This was a trip of firsts. Why not let herself simply enjoy the experience with an open heart and mind?

It was the first time she’d gone on a proper vacation with someone. A sexy someone, no less. To a castle. A castle she’d never seen for an immersive experience in a television show she’d proactively avoided, but . . . she was with Gabe. What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter Eight

When they hit the arrivals hall, Willa scanned the crowd, her eyes almost instantly lighting on a small group of women wearing similar style dresses and an Idris Elba lookalike in a red kilt, all standing by a coffee shop. One of the women saw her and Gabe and pointed. The group opened up, steering large wheelie bags out of the way until, in their midst, she saw another man holding a handwritten sign on a bit of cardboard that read ‘Balcraigie Castle’.

Her heart flew into her throat then dropped back into her chest where it began whirling round like a Tasmanian devil in heat.

It was Catalogue Kilt Man.