Chapter Seven

The moon already hung beside the stars by the time Evie pulled the car into a spot outside the bar. Only half of the back parking lot was full, but summer was in full swing. St Andrews was the same way during the warmer months. Quiet. Empty. Students all gone home on holiday, only research assistants and professors keeping odd hours. She slung her brown leather bag over one shoulder, pushed the car door closed, and skirted the front bumper to step onto the well-lit sidewalk.

She rounded the corner and turned toward the glass doors of the bar.

“Over here!”

Evie dropped her hand and turned quickly, nearly losing her balance. She scanned the other side of the street and found Iain leaning against the stucco of another small building, face cast in shadow and lanky legs crossed at the ankle. He straightened and held up a hand.

She scanned the street in both directions and crossed between parked cars.

He joined her, his hands shoved in his pockets and his chin pointed toward his chest. “We’re over here, tonight.”

She took in the building’s face, the harp beside the logo. “Great.” He looked like he wanted to say more, his head slightly canted to the side. Instead, he leaned away, allowing her to move past him, only coming close as he reached around her to pull open the door.

Inside was a reproduction of places she frequented in Scotland. Exposed wood beams, cream colored walls, and a dark, smoky interior. The bar was long and thick, tables peppered around the exterior mismatched, the chairs and stools in varying shapes and designs.

It was exactly the kind of place she preferred, casual, shadowed, a bit mysterious with a hint of history. But Calum liked the posher establishments, taking her to the haunts of golfers and wealthy tourists. Those places were always sleek and modern with glass-topped tables, vibrantly colored stools, and mirrors. So many mirrors.

Was this the first time since the accident she thought of him without tears? She smiled softly to herself and breathed in, the air heavy with hot fish and chips, beer, and smoke. Even if he didn’t prefer it, the atmosphere reminded her of him.

A hand brushed her shoulder blade, and she turned toward Iain.

“The others are back there,” he murmured close to her ear, his breath warm as it ruffled her hair.

A shiver ran up her spine, and she followed him into a small alcove. She recognized the others seated along the long tables. They shoved in closer to each other to make room for the two of them, and she slid down the back bench shoved into a corner.

Iain took the seat beside her, his denim-clad leg pressed against the thin fabric of her green dress. His heat seeped through the layers between them, and she gulped. He was so close she could smell the laundry detergent still clinging to his shirt, the spice of his cologne, and a sweet hint of smoke.

“I hope it’s all right that Iain invited me,” she said to no one in particular.

Those that could hear made noises of welcome, and the young female lieutenant next to her, Mandy, wrapped an arm around Evie’s shoulders, giving her a squeeze.

“Any time!” she said with a grin that belied one too many drinks.

Evie blushed and sat back in the booth, the tension she held in her shoulders dissipating.

A young blond with a black apron slung low over her hips approached, a pitcher of beer in each hand. She slid them onto the scarred table in front of Iain, catching his gaze. “I’ll bring some more glasses,” she yelled over the music.

Evie dutifully passed one of the pitchers into Mandy’s eager hands.

“Where’s Evan?” she asked Iain.

She hadn’t heard from him since before her trip to the emergency room, but expected him to be there with his coworkers. But his bald head and bulging arms were absent.

“Why?”

Evie screwed her mouth to one side. “He isn’t here.”

Iain’s expression remained bland. “Were you planning to exact your revenge tonight? Or have you realized that your dislike of the boy is actually lust?”

“Boy?” She raised an eyebrow. “He’s what? Three, four years younger than you?”

“Young man, then. If you prefer.”

“Oh, I don’t care one way or the other. I merely find it amusing that you see yourself as being so much older. Looking into retirement already? Got your eye on that social security?”

He gave her a withering look.

“I’m just wondering where he is. No need to get jealous.”

“Jealous?”

She grinned but didn’t have time to say anymore. The waitress returned and plunked two stacks of chilled glasses on the table. Evie took two before passing the rest to the other end of the table. She caught the pitcher before it could disappear with them, pouring beer into both glasses and passing one to Iain. She then settled back, cradling hers in both hands.

“Questioning my feelings for Evan?”

She took a sip and scrunched up her nose as the bitter hops bubbled over her tongue. She should have known better; she’d never found light beer particularly appealing. Resisting the urge to rub her tongue on a paper napkin, she set the glass down and shoved it away from the edge of the table. “Classic sign of jealousy.”

Iain gave a short huff of a laugh and brought his own beer to his lips, drinking heavily and then sucking in his lips as he swallowed. He leaned forward, placing his left forearm on the table and turning himself slightly toward her on the bench.

“Is that so?”

“Absolutely.” She considered taking another sip of the beer, but then thought better of it. Instead, she spun the glass in her hand, condensation heavy on her fingertips. “But don’t worry, you have no reason to be jealous,” she whispered conspiratorially, the corners of her mouth quirking.

He leaned toward her, bracing his arm on the back of the bench. “Glad to hear it.”

Evie gulped. Was he going to kiss her? He was close enough she could smell the beer on his breath and count the flecks of brown surrounding his pupils. She dropped her gaze to his mouth and swayed toward him, but quickly jerked away and cocked her head to the side. She lifted her eyebrow in question. “You know, if I’m going to make out with you, I’m going to need to know you better.”

Both of his eyebrows shot up. “If I had known that was an option, I would have forwarded you a full autobiography.”

“It’s never too late.”

Had she really just said that? Was she actually flirting? The corners of Iain’s lips twitched. Sure, he was nice to look at, but he was also not her type, at all. And what did she know about him? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

But there was something about him. Something that made her want to impress him, to have him run his gaze over her. His eyes shifted, his stare skipping down her only to flick back up and meet hers head-on. She found a challenge in the dark depths. As if he knew she always met a challenge. Refusing to back down.

His lips pursed.

Yes, he was definitely challenging her. He was challenging her as if he couldn’t wait.

She narrowed her own eyes and turned her body toward him, leaning forward a bit so that the dress tightened against her chest. She knew her body wasn’t anything to envy, especially since it was riddled with scars. She’d always been on the high side of her target weight, her thighs touching, her hips rounded, her stomach a hair away from being flat, no matter how hard she worked at it. Which wasn’t much, lately. But her breasts had always been one of her best assets. They were large without being too large, round, and full.

The move she made had the desired effect. His gaze drifted down and hovered for a fleeting second. He quickly looked back up and she smirked.

“So, Captain…” she murmured sweetly. “Tell me about yourself.”

Evie giggled as Iain lined her up in front of the dart board.

When Evan finally showed up an hour after she had, the dark-haired beauty from the other night in tow, she passed off her warm beer to him and ordered herself a gin and tonic, heavy on the lime. She and Iain spent the evening with heads bent close as they traded likes and dislikes, travel stories, and sarcastic comebacks.

He seemed mildly amused through it all, a hardness reflecting in his eyes, but a slight upturn of his lips. She couldn’t shake the feeling he knew something he wasn’t saying, but she hadn’t had that much fun in over a year, and her face hurt from laughing. She nursed that lone gin and tonic for close to two hours, the glass sweating and the ice melting.

Iain stood close, a hand on each of her hips, bent over slightly, his cheek resting against her temple. “Lift your elbow,” he said next to her ear. “A little higher. Parallel to the ground.”

She did as he instructed, and squared her feet for better balance, but her heart pumped on double time. He was so close, the heat of him seeping through his shirt into the skin exposed by the low straps of her dress. It took just as much focus to keep from leaning into him as she needed to concentrate on the dart board.

“You’re going to throw on a curve,” he murmured. “Not straight forward.”

“Okay, okay.” She shushed him and took a breath before letting the dart fly. “Ha!” she cried in triumph when the needle embedded itself in the cork. “I did it!”

“If you mean you hit the board, then yes. You did.”

She twisted around and stuck her tongue out at him. “You’re just afraid I’ll beat you.”

“Precisely,” he said dryly.

She ignored him and threw her remaining darts. Both hit the board, sticking soundly, and she raised her hands in victory. “Score!” She grinned at him and patted him on the shoulder. “Your turn.”

Evie expected him to hit the board. Of course she did, he coached her through it. What she didn’t expect was all three darts to land squarely in the center of the bull’s eye, all in quick succession, as if he didn’t even have to think about it.

“Holy shit. Did you even blink between throws?”

He shrugged and his face softened around the otherwise sharp edges. His humility was endearing. Sexy. The lust building all evening finally came to a head and she leaned forward, reaching up and cupping his cheeks between her palms, and pulled his mouth down to hers.

If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. Instead, his hand snaked around the small of her back and pressed her into him. He opened to her, caressing her bottom lip with his. Even his kiss was steely. But it drove away all other thoughts and worries only he remained, wrapped around her if they weren’t standing in the middle of a crowded room.

Just as quickly as it began, it was over and he pulled away, staring down at her with an unspoken question. The niggling ache of the last year threatened to creep in, the pain and heartbreak slithering back. But she didn’t want it. And he had been able to chase it away, if only for a moment. She lifted her lips to him again, and they clashed together, the other people, the noise, everything falling away just as she hoped it would.

“Want to get out of here?” she murmured, not even second-guessing the question.

She had never done anything like that before. She held her breath, waiting for his answer. But she wanted it, if only for a few moments. She needed it. The distraction. It kept the darkness away. And after the year she’d been having, she was going to take it. She wanted to feel good for a change, and she wanted him make her feel that way.

Iain didn’t answer her, just turned away as he reached into his back pocket. He extracted his wallet, opened it, and threw down enough to cover both of their tabs and tips. Leaning over, he said something to one of the other captains. In less than a minute, her hand was folded into his, and he escorted her out into the warm, summer night. They didn’t make it two steps out of the front door before Iain whirled around, his mouth closing over hers once again.

Evie took a step back and hit the brick façade. She grabbed his shoulders, steadying herself, and pressed into him, her breasts flattening against his hard chest. Her fingers tightened on his polo, the fabric bunching into her palm, as she greedily kissed him back.

He tasted like beer and the Scotch he’d been sipping, a smoky malt that burned with the acidic tones of peat. She hummed with desire, wanting nothing more than to strip his clothes off and run her hands over his lean, muscles.

A wolf-whistle sang out behind Iain. She started and he stepped back, offering her only a mischievous smirk. She bit her lip and reached for his hand. She fumbled for it, wrapping her fingers around his long, calloused palm, and pulled him along the sidewalk toward the parking lot, stopping only at the crosswalk for a quick, stolen kiss.

She should have felt guilty for pulling a man into the back seat of her father’s car. But as she opened the back door on the driver’s side, all she could muster was anticipation. Turning back to Iain, she threaded her arms around his neck, and their mouths met once more with renewed ferocity. His lips plucked at hers and then trailed away, brushing her cheek and the soft skin just below her ear. His stubble scratched her tender flesh and a shiver ran over her. She moaned softly.

His hands traveled up from her hips until they cupped her breasts through the thin cotton dress and she arched her back further, allowing him greater access to her neck as he nipped at it. Her legs wobbled and she sank down onto the back seat, fisting her hand in his shirt as he followed. She inched across the bench seat as he clicked the door shut. Hand running up her thigh, his fingers grazing the edges of her long, thin white scar, he settled over her, his lips fingers hers, again. Did he not notice the uneven, puckered skin? Or did he not care?

She shifted and he lifted his hand from her thigh. It skimmed her waist and then his fingers hooked into the strap of her dress. He drew it over her shoulder, and she shrugged the other down as well, exposing her breasts to him. A warm, rough hand cupped her naked breast, his thumb rasping over her distended nipple.

She moaned and hooked her ankle around his calf, pressing her hips up into his. His erection was hard and straining against the denim of his jeans, pressing up against the warm, wet juncture of her legs.

He kissed her hungrily and she drew his shirt up just enough his hot skin slid against hers. Her fingers raced back down the smooth muscles until she found the buttons of his fly, and she flicked the buttons through the holes, then dove in, grasping him in her hand. His flesh was hot, and she gripped him gently, running her palm across the head of his erection before pulling back up with more pressure.

In response, he pinched her nipple between his thumb and index finger, rolling it between them. She sucked in a breath, and arched up into him, breaking the hold he had on her mouth.

“Just do it,” she gasped, into his ear as she pushed at his waistband, her breath coming in pants.

He hiked her dress up over her hips and yanked her panties to the side before wrestling them down her thighs and over her knees. She kicked them free the rest of the way, one hole still hooked around her ankle.

Shifting his weight to his knees, he dug into a pocket and produced a small, plastic packet.

Evie plucked it from his fingers, then ripped it until the serrated edge gave way. She fumbled with the condom in the dark and tossed the plastic square to the floor.

“Which side is up?” she muttered, turning it from one side to the other, unable to see it clearly in the dark.

Iain hastily grabbed it back and made quick work of slipping it on.

“Finally. Do it now,” she demanded.

He thrust inside her.

She hummed her approval and closed her eyes, shifting her hips until each stroke brought her closer.

His hands traveled up and down her hot skin as their flesh slapped in turn with her pants and his groans. He captured her mouth once more and quickly brought them both to satisfaction.

Evie relaxed into the leather and took a deep breath. Her pulse still pounded in her ears.

Iain sat up, nudging her legs aside as he pulled his jeans back over his hips, and his fingers deftly pushed the buttons of his fly back into place.

Evie pulled the strap of her dress back over her shoulder and shimmied the hem down. She pulled her panties off her ankle but wadded them up in her fist. She didn’t want to put them back on while he could see her.

Once they were both covered, he opened the door and stepped out. She scooted to the edge of the seat so she sat with her legs hanging through the doorway.

He started to turn away, leaned an arm on the door frame instead. “Can I see you tomorrow?” he asked almost guiltily.

Evie shrugged, but didn’t say anything. She hadn’t expected he would want to leave her so quickly, but she was also awash in awkwardness. She wasn’t ashamed to have had sex with someone she barely knew, and in a potentially very public place. But she was a little surprised by it.

“Meet me at Moon Lake? Around seven?”

She nodded again, and thought he might say something more, but he gazed off into the tree line. She followed the direction in which he stared but saw nothing, only the swaying of the trees in the warm summer wind.

Whatever had caught his attention must have been something of no consequence. He dropped his arm away from the car and raised his hand in farewell, treading backwards for a few steps before turning away.

With the windows rolled down, Evie drove back to her parents’ house. The wind whipped at her dark hair, sending it flying around her face no matter how many times she tucked it behind her ears, and she turned the satellite radio up until the vibrations of the music reverberated all the way to her toes. In the low-growing trees surrounding the criss-crossing rivers, cicadas screeched, almost loud enough to drown out the devastated wails of the newest alternative rock princess.

Arm resting on the sill, Evie swam her hand through the air as she hit the back roads of the base, but she worried her lip between her teeth. She should be feeling guilty, right? She should be cursing herself for being such a bad person, one who would jump into the backseat of a car—literally—with another man without a second thought to her dead fiancé. She wanted to let the guilt gnaw at her, she really did, but then… she couldn’t. She was too busy feeling. Alive and free and sexy and a bit savage.

It was something the therapists, the doctors, the nurses, her parents had all been trying to drill into her head for months; she was alive, and she needed to start taking advantage of it.

But would Calum’s mother see it that way?

Evie groaned. Why even think that? Mrs. Baird had always been a kind, motherly soul, and as far as Evie could tell, had no ill will toward anyone. She hadn’t known the woman well, having only spent a handful of Sunday teas at the North Street Bed and Breakfast Mrs. Baird owned, her son reluctantly glaring at her, one eye on the clock. The relationship between mother and son was forced, at least on Calum’s end, but Mrs. Baird had treated Evie with nothing but kindness.

She once asked him why he wanted to avoid his mother and he gave Evie a long, thoughtful look. “She places a lot of pressure on me,” was his only reply, and Evie was left wondering what his mother expected that he was unable to give. He was an only child. All expectations had ridden on him, alone. And if anything about her current experience told her anything, it was that siblings were a necessary evil when dealing with parental expectations.

Contacting Mrs. Baird was not something she had ever contemplated until that moment, her focus having been on herself and on what she had lost. She worried her lip as a frown replaced the relaxed smile she had worn since leaving Iain. Perhaps she had let Calum down in more ways than one.

She gulped past the uncomfortable lump that had formed in her throat. She was starting to have trouble remembering what he looked like. She could no longer conjure up his voice in her mind. And though she remembered he smelled slightly of bayberry and amber scented soap, even a fresh bar of the stuff didn’t help her memory.

Evie pulled into her parents’ driveway and shut off the engine. But she didn’t move from the seat, instead leaning her head back and closing her eyes trying to conjure up a memory of his lips, his laugh, the feel of his hands as they ran over her skin.

Calum had always been gentle and unhurried. When they shared their first kiss, he leaned over tentatively and brushed her lips with his own. It was she who had pulled him roughly to her. She who screamed “harder” the first time they slept together. She who wanted things faster. Deeper. Intense. More. Calum was always perfectly happy taking his time, gently, worshipping her. She was impatient. She who just wanted to do it. She wished she had taken more time. Slowed things down. Savored them.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out even the little light that glowed from the street lamps. What had his hands felt like on her skin? Soft. Feather-light. But the memory was fleeting, giving way to Iain’s rough, calloused fingers. It wasn’t Calum’s twinkling eyes and gentle brushing of lips that penetrated her memory, but Iain’s hard, angular planes, the rough scratch of his stubble, the fast pounding of his hips.

The quick coupling in the back of her father’s car had replaced the months of tenderness she had shared with the man she loved.

Evie cursed and stepped out of the car. The back of her throat was dry. It ached, a sob tearing through it. She paced, arms wrapped around herself, fighting the tears and the anguish that finally broke over her. Giving up, she allowed the tears to flow freely and gulped at the air.

It felt good, letting go. Of being sad she would never have Calum with her again, her life not what she thought it would be. But guilt at finally moving on? No, she wouldn’t feel that. She refused.

She sniffled and took a deep breath. It stuttered through her but calmed her.

What was that?

She was sure she had seen something move. Across the back alley and in the shadow cast by a small copse of hundred-year-old oaks. She searched the silhouettes, but whatever she saw was either gone, hiding, or a figment of her imagination. Deciding she didn’t want to find out, Evie pulled her purse from the car and scurried inside, clicking the door quietly shut behind her.

****

Golden light flooded a plain of waving wheat, the ends flicking and falling like the undulating rhythm of the sea. The breeze was cool, a nip ruffling her jacket, bringing along the damp scent of dead leaves and crushed acorns.

She kept her pace even but trailed those ahead of her. They were familiar sights. She knew them, their names on the tip of her tongue, their faces just out of reach of her memory. The riot of coppery red hair tumbling down like autumn fire. The silvery white blond, slight and petite, her green dress raw and homespun. The tall shadow of a hooded figure.

She bounded over the swell of grain, her movements free from her injuries, closing the gap between herself and the hooded shadow. She reached out a hand, the silvery scar marring her wrist absent, fingers a hair from brushing the smooth leather at his arm… when she woke.

Dawn had yet to break the darkness, and through the blinds, she could only make out the brilliant cobalt blue of a coming sun.

Evie tried to dive back into her mind, to recapture the images playing through her dreams as she slept and recreate them with better clarity. She wanted to connect what little she remembered, piece it together. Force it to make sense. It was a jagged bit of a large puzzle she began to live since waking in a hospital bed nine months before, one she was desperate to see unfold. But it never came together, just as it refused to do in the first light of that morning. She groaned and gave up.

Flicking on the small lamp an arm’s length away, Evie reached for one of the books sitting atop her bedside table. She had all but abandoned them there after bringing them home from the used bookstore in Manhattan. She came up with the romance; taking in the front cover, she decided she wasn’t in the mood. Tossing it none too gently toward the foot of the bed, she reached for the next.

Sylvia Bascomb-Murray’s Women of Culloden: Taking Up The Tartan.

Evie flipped it open, ignoring the table of contents and acknowledgments, instead diving right into the introduction, which of course promised heavy analysis of nationalism among women, the glorification of Flora MacDonald, and stories of other female warriors who took up the tartan to defend their homeland and raise up Bonnie Prince Charlie during the Jacobite uprisings. Some even succumbing to death for their actions.

Evie always had a particular fascination with Flora MacDonald, the woman who smuggled a defeated Charles from Scotland dressed as her lady’s maid. The woman’s portrait, reprinted in just about every book and article about the infamous uprising—this one included—had always impressed with her stoic countenance, a quiet amusement hiding just out of reach. She had a face more handsome than beautiful and a romantic story to boot.

But as Evie continued reading, it wasn’t Flora who most fascinated Evie, nor was it Lady Anne Farquharson Macintosh, the beautiful young woman who was the mastermind behind the Rout of Moy and given the nickname Colonel Anne by the prince himself. No, it was the tale of young Lady Elizabeth Carlisle, née Meyner.

One of the daughters of Chief Meyner himself, she stunned her family by marrying the youngest son of the fourth Duke of Carlisle, Lord Alexander. The young man, born some months after his father’s death, was robbed of meeting the duke after a particularly infamous duel in Hyde Park. The eldest son, John, inherited the titles and estates, the duchess moving into the dowager house before her youngest child’s presence was even confirmed.

Alexander spent his formative years in England, buying a commission into the Royal Army when he came of age. But the unexpected death of elder brother William, who had blighted the family with a rather scandalous love-match, died at the Lanarkshire estate where he had been overseeing the interests of the fifth duke for some years. Alexander gave up his commission to take over where his deceased brother left off.

It was in Edinburgh that he met the modest Elizabeth Meyner. There is little known about the early life of Elizabeth, only that she was the youngest child of the Meyner laird and his second wife, Mary. Lord Alexander only reports that he saw her from afar and was drawn in by a coy smile. Enchanted by her Scottish lilt and “eyes like the ever-changing mood of the lochs,” Alexander began a quick and heavy courtship that saw the two married as soon as the bans could be properly read. The young noble kept extensive journals, which included his infatuation with his bride, who was barely eighteen at the time of their nuptials. He referred to her as his darling Ailsa in those early days, and found it fetching when she called him Alistair rather than his Anglicized given name.

Evie flipped to the middle of the book where the thick, glossy photograph pages were, a thin line between the flimsy sheets of text. The third one back had a small miniature of Elizabeth, perhaps the only likeness in existence. Her eyes were large, rimmed by dark lashes, their centers a murky blue-green. They stared straight out, as if she were dressing the painter down. Her hair was pulled back from her face to showcase her pouty pink mouth, straight nose, and strong brow. The portrait was pretty in the way pictures of people long dead were pretty, antique, a little cracked, likely not an accurate rendering.

And below was a portrait of her husband, a man who was painted much the same; with a hint of amusement turning his lips up at the corners. He was posed against a white horse, one leg bent, the other hyper-extended in white breeches, his Army uniform a slash of color across the page. He would have been handsome had he not been painted to look far younger than his years possibly could have been.

The honeymoon period was quickly over, however, and soon Lord Alexander was finding himself more and more exasperated by Elizabeth’s zeal for politics and her disinterest in overseeing an estate that belonged to another. Less than a year after the hasty wedding, he wrote “the woman’s incessant prattle about naught but ‘the proud traditions of the highlands’ is enough to send any man to drink.”

Nonetheless, the young man saw something in the uprising, and even went as far as to forsake his family’s ties to the king of England, and led a small contingent of Carlisle clansmen to battle under the rebel prince’s banner. Some scholars theorize he took a gamble, hoping that if Prince Charles won back his throne, the Carlisle Lanarkshire holdings in the lowlands would be bequeathed to Alexander. Others suggest he was more swayed by his wife’s “incessant prattle” than he let on.

But the youngest Carlisle did not return from Culloden. His body never recovered, it is rightly assumed he was buried in one of the mass graves with the men he led, all falling where they stood with the Meyner men. Elizabeth lost not only her husband in that fateful hour-long battle on the Drumossie Moor, but also her father and brother.

When Cumberland’s men began their march back to England, they were met with a large contingent of women wielding pitchforks, dirks, and clubs, all widows of Culloden. Elizabeth Meyner Carlisle at their head, musket at the ready.

The rebel women were quickly overwhelmed by the professional soldiers, Elizabeth taken into custody. She was sentenced to death a week later and hanged for her crimes. Her last words, reportedly, were “it is at the guarding of thy death that I am; and I shall be.”

Evie jumped as a car engine stuttered to life outside her open window. The book fell to the light quilt, its pages fanning out. The night before, she hurried back into the house, completely forgetting to pick up her trash from the backseat. She didn’t think she could live down the embarrassment of her father finding a condom wrapper in the floor board of his own car.

Feeling an impending sense of doom, she tiptoed her way down the narrow servants’ staircase, and out the back door. A shaking sigh of relief escaped her parted lips. Both cars were still parked beneath the hide of the oak tree. No one else was in sight. The air was already hot and sticky, despite the early hour, the bugs beginning their morning serenades.

Quietly, she opened the back door of the sedan and sank down to run her hand over the carpeted floor. The shadows still kept it in darkness, but her fingers quickly found a crumpled piece of paper. She knew immediately it wasn’t the wrapper, but that met the tips of her digits after another sweep.

She shoved the wrapper into the pocket of her gym shorts but kept the piece of paper in hand. She knew her father kept an immaculately clean car, and her mother had taken it to get detailed right before Evie borrowed it for her jaunt to Manhattan. Whatever was in her hand must have been something dropped last night. She unfolded it in a bit of sunlight, revealing five words in scratchy pencil: Flora MacDonald. Thistle and Rose.

She frowned, her forehead creasing. It was a bit of a coincidence considering her current reading material, but it also seemed odd for Iain to have it tucked into his pocket next to his spare condom.

Deciding she would ask him about it later, she shoved it into the pocket with the empty wrapper and went back inside.