Page 37 of Scotlander

‘We didn’t sign up for this.’ She huffed out another laugh. ‘I wouldn’t have even dreamt of booking a vacation like this in a million years.’

One second is all it takes to fall in love forever.

His father’s oft-used phrase careened into Finn’s mind so hard and fast he panicked he’d said it out loud. His dad had called it The Gut Factor. The feeling he’d had when he’d first laid eyes on Finn’s mum. I just knew, son. From the moment I saw her. I just knew.

He glanced at Willa. She was actively scanning the fields beyond him, then, without any ceremony, lifted up her skirts and began purposefully striding towards the castle.

He met her pace easily, glancing over at her occasionally to check she was alright. Annoyingly, his eyes kept dipping downwards. He’d never considered himself a boobs man before now, but his body was telling him otherwise. And not just because of yesterday’s epic costume malfunction and his role in it. The truth was, ever since he’d laid eyes on Willa Jenkins, his body had been telling him lots of things he didn’t know about himself.

He could still wake up with a raging erection for one.

That certainly hadn’t happened for a while.

Not to mention still being here at Balcraigie. He’d meant to leave last night.

Was Willa why he’d stayed?

God, he hoped not. He couldn’t think of a woman less likely to be his soulmate. Not to mention the fact she’d likely knee him in the balls if he tried it on with her.

But how else could he explain his well-laid plans being blasted to smithereens? He’d had it all planned out. Volunteer to do the airport run. Wait for Orla’s mismatched group of Outlander enthusiasts to gather together. Tell them it had all been a big mistake so that he could send them on their merry way, call the estate agent and put the farm on the market the way they should have fifteen years back when every single hope and dream they’d had for Balcraigie had died along with his dad.

But then he’d seen Willa. Her big smile. Her happy wave. Her complete absence of self-awareness when her bodice ribbons had come untied . . .

‘Hey. Second warning.’ Willa was waving her hand in front of his face and pointing her fingers upwards. ‘Eyes are still up here, bud.’

Finn winced and scrubbed a hand over his face. ‘Sorry.’

She looked down at herself and then back up at him. ‘Lordy. They really are out on display, aren’t they?’

Wince still in place, Finn responded with care. ‘I suppose if it’s true to the era then . . .’

He didn’t really know where he was going with the thought, so he let it peter out.

Willa stopped, balled her hands into fists and popped them on her hips as if she were ready to draw out a pair of pistols. ‘If I tell you something in confidence, will you keep it to yourself?’

He made a my-lips-are-sealed gesture.

She looked around her, checking they were alone, then whispered, ‘I haven’t watched Outlander.’

She took a step back from him as if waiting for a huge physical reaction to the news. When there was none, she added, ‘Or read the books.’

His entire bone structure heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Me neither.’

‘Seriously?’ She did a double take. ‘Then . . . why are you guys hosting Outlander experiences?’

‘That’s not exactly what we’re—’ He stopped himself mid-flow. What should he say? Admit that what they were doing here was fraud, pure and simple?

There was something about Willa that demanded honesty, but having seen the rest of the group’s genuine excitement about being here in Scotland – arriving in the costumes Orla had magicked up from the local amateur dramatics society, cooing over beds made of old pallets, clapping their hands at a bowl of porridge – he felt he owed it to them to stay quiet. They believed in the holiday they’d been sold. Flown halfway across the world for, in some cases. Saved for a year. So much effort for something that had been scrabbled together out of sheer desperation.

When he’d left for the airport, the compost loos had only just arrived. A lorry with a crane had been guiding them over the stables’ roof while the lads ran round like chickens with their heads cut off. Chainsaws bit into huge logs that had been sitting in the yard for years. Chests’ worth of blankets and bedding dating back to his great-grandparents were hanging on the wooden fences so Orla’s children could beat them with their cricket bats. It had been total chaos. His last glimpse of the place had been watching Dougie and a couple of the lads carrying his and Orla’s mattress across the courtyard.

When he’d devised the plan to send everyone packing, he’d thought he’d be doing them a favour. The guests and Orla.

When he’d jacked in that plan and bundled everyone into the jeep and driven them here, he knew he was exercising one of the biggest leaps of faith he’d taken in years. Even now, he still wasn’t a hundred per cent sure why he’d done it. There was so much at stake. And he wasn’t even talking about the guests. Honestly? Being strung out by the tourist board was the least of their worries. He was thinking about Orla. Her family. Her dad. Everyone who worked at Balcraigie. His parents. Especially his parents.

And even though everything was, as predicted, already falling to bits, he knew in his heart Orla was right. Balcraigie Castle was meant to be more than a crumbling heap of neglected stone and ivy. It deserved life.

But he still wasn’t convinced they were the ones to do it.