“Halle Berry!”
“Beyonce!”
“Olivia Pope!”
“Gladiators!!”
That was new.
I don’t think anyone has called me a fictional Black woman before.
“A+ for originality, boys,” I mutter to the drunken group calling out to me from a nearby balcony.
The humidity cheats me out of dragon’s breath—the misty cloud accompanying exhalations on cold dry winter days in California—and it’s just one more thing annoying me five days into our holiday.
Let’s go to Scotland, I told my sister, Sal, less than two months ago.
It’ll be fun, I’d said. We can take part in the Hogmanay celebrations and walk in the Up Helly Aa festival.
She’d cut off my explanation of the annual New Year’s celebration when I got to the Vikings and ship burning part.
“Sign us up,” Sal had enthusiastically proclaimed. “Two weeks in Europe in the dead of winter? It’ll be like a second honeymoon, minus the skimpy bikinis and fruity drinks with garish paper umbrellas.”
I love my sister.
To their credit, Sal and her wife of three years, Mona, have been great. The first few days were rainy and cold.
Now, it was just rainy and humid.
Lovely.
If I were honest, I’d admit I was searching for the Scotland I found in fiction. So far, no one from the clan of MacKeltar nor Jericho Barrons has made themselves known.
Not even one damn faerie!
I’ve always had an affinity to fire, and the largest Winter Fire Festival in Europe held during the Scottish New Year just seemed the perfect way to shrug off a year of mindless dating and sporadic, often lacking fucking.
It also helped Edinburgh was over five thousand miles away from Los Angeles and the drama of this chapter of my life.
God, it is cold!
I should have paid closer attention to Scotland’s proximity to the Artic Circle. This California girl thought she was ready for the cold.
"All the thermal underwear in the world cannot prepare a person used to a subtropical climate for this level of cold.”
A woman passing me at the light barks out a laugh as she scurries across the intersection.
I must stop muttering to myself!
She heard me, but my would-be suitors can’t hear me from their balcony perch. Nor can they see my outstretched, gloved middle finger encased in a wool muff. Ignoring them, I pull up the phone hanging from a cord around my neck—safety first—to check on my progress on Google Maps.
I scan and find the blue dot indicating my location. Wait. Why is there a light blue circle around my dot?
The catcalls increase in volume and tempo. They also appear to have moved on to some Hispanic women given the sound of rolled R’s—slightly off-putting when combined with their slurring Scottish accents.
“Please go fuck yourselves and leave me alone,” I mutter again. I’m cold, definitely lost, and none too happy to be the center of this type of attention.
Oh, and according to Google, the light blue ring means they can’t even figure out where I am in Scotland.
Just. Great.
“Zoeeeeee.”
Really? I look nothing like Zoe Saldaña!
This was the second time in my week in Scotland to encounter this type of behavior. I've been Beyonce, Halle Berry, Vivica A. Fox, Dorothy Dandridge, and even Eartha Kitt.
Women who look nothing alike but all share one characteristic: their Blackness.
I suppose it depends on the age of the Scotsman as to which Black actress or performer he thinks I am or decides to call me in a drunken stupor.
“Excuse me, Miss?”
The deep voice to my left startles me.
I’m close to the street!
I’m being robbed!
At least he’s polite about it.
I drop my phone and clutch the lapels of my coat, stepping back and out of harm’s way—right into another person trying to cross the busy intersection up ahead.
“Oh, sorry.”
“It’s nothing on ye, lassie. Good day to ye.”
I am warmed by the small kindness and endearment.
“Thank you, and the same to you.” I turn to wave at the retreating form.
Robbery all but forgotten.
I’m such a tourist.
“Excuse me, Miss?” Ugh, again with the Miss??
Also, robber! Danger! Dammit!
I turn to face the baritone voice of either a really polite robber or—and whatever cold I am feeling despite five layers of clothing—including my Tisja Damen Echoes lingerie that barely counts as a layer—evaporates when I turn to place the face with the distinctly Edinburgh accent—crisp, posh, the split on the long vowel sounds—with a hint of the more glottal Scots.
Arctic blue eyes peek out from behind retro rectangular glasses with wisps of hair—a striking combination with his light brown hair. He reminds me of Ewan McGregor a la Star Wars, not Emma. Thank God.
“Miss?”
“Sorry. Yes?”
“Are you crying?” The concern on his face is charming… and warming.
“No, just cold and annoyed. But it’s goddamn menopause. I’m frustrated, lost, and just—never mind, I am fine.”
“Oh, aye. It can be a bitch. My sister can’t watch those hurt animal commercials without going through a box of tissues.”
At that moment, the cacophony emanating from my would-be balcony suitors goes up several notches, and I grimace at their drunken catcalls.
“Look. Let’s go into the café in the next block. You can see the yellow circle behind the ‘b’ in ‘breakfast.’”
I look to where he is pointing and see the café. It is close and open. Safe.
“I’m sorry. Who are you?”
“I’m Graeme. Graeme Stockard.”
I place my gloved hand into his outstretched one. “I’m Natalie.”
“Hello, Natalie. It is my pleasure to welcome you to Edinburgh.”
A thrill rips through me at the way he pronounces my name Nata-lay.
“I've been here for over a week.”
“Have you then?”
His left hand stretches out, guiding me in the general direction I was going anyway, but I still pause.
“Let’s walk, and you can decide when we get there. They’ll get bored and find someone else to bother.”
“Do you know them?” As we are on a public street, I see no problems going with him to the café. I could stand to get out of the cold.
“No. They’re just Weegies on holiday.”
“So, you can recognize tourists from Glasgow?” Thank you, James McAvoy, for that bit of information.
“Aye. Ah ken because I, like the rest of the fine residents of Edinburgh, would ne’er do such a thing.”
His voice fairly wreaks of sarcasm, and I fall just a little in love with the man.
“Olivia Pope!”
“Oliiiiviiiaaa.”
“Gladiators!!”
I turn to see my balcony suitors spill onto the street a little more than a block behind us. Their voices grow louder as they advance toward us.
I turn back. “Are they chanting?” I ask, slightly bemused at this point. Of all the Black women’s names bellowed so far, I favor the fictional Olivia Pope the most.
“Of a sort. Let’s turn here.”
I pull up short, unsure whether to continue following the gorgeous man at my side. “I don’t even know you.” It doesn’t stop me from wanting to follow him, but I’ve seen enough true crime shows to know this is when things start to go terribly wrong.
“True but, I need to get you ‘out of sight and mind,’ as you Americans say.”
“How do I know you aren’t some serial killer disguised as a burly, ridiculously handsome Scotsman?”
Did I just say that out loud?
“You find me handsome then?”
I did. Oh, God, take me now!
“Oh, please. You know you look good with those Scottish blue eyes and that accent you have and,” I motion with my hand, sweeping down his tall broad frame, “all of that.”
“What accent? You’re the one with an accent. I sound like everybody else here except the tourists.”
“Huh.” I actually hadn’t considered that. “Touché.”
“As to the rest…” He pauses as he glances behind us when we turn and proceed up the first small flight of steps.
Did his voice just deepen? I was not ready for that.
“The rest?” I query, a bit breathless… with excitement. I spent the last two months walking five miles a day along flat roads and ascending the “easy” mountain trails to prepare my body for this trip. This was after two months of searching for shoes to eliminate the pain of my plantar fasciitis. Forty-plus years of being flat-footed had really taken a toll.
Graeme stopped us midway through a small side street. We appear to be just outside the opening of Brewhemia—its windows decorated with silk flowers covered in a light dusting of snow and ice. The smells and sounds of the bustling café spill out onto where we have stopped. The series of stairwells ahead of us lead to an open area.
He stares intently at the arched opening to the street below, waiting for the rowdy group to pass. I hadn’t noticed their voices growing slightly fainter as their drunken walk appears to have taken them away from us.
I reach out to touch his arm, bringing him back to where we are. “I think they’ve moved on.”
“Aye. I believe so.” His breath billows out in the cold. “Are ye all right?”
He turns fully toward me. The steps separating us, slightly lessening the height difference. A slight tilt of my head and our eyes meet.
“Aye, I believe so.”
My awful attempt at a Scottish accent has the desired effect, and I’m greeted with the puff of cold air accompanying his deep laugh.
“As to the rest—”
His voice has dropped again, and the heat from his stare warms me—some parts more than others.
“The rest?” I’m not sure which of us leaned in—maybe both—but we are closer. So close a cool breeze wafts over my face with each breath.
“I don’t normally go about kissing women I’ve rescued—”
“My hero.” I press my fingertips to my heart in an exaggerated gesture of the damsel in distress.
“Ye are a right smart-arse, aren’t ye?”
“Guilty.” I bat my eyes up at this big burly bear of a man, not caring if I look like a complete idiot. I am emboldened by his response to my shameless flirting.
“As I was saying,” he moves even closer, one hand reaching up, fingertips glancing across my cold cheeks, “I want to kiss ye.”
“Really? Why? I mean, I’m flattered, but… you don’t know me.” My heart is pounding, drowning out the sounds of the city around us.
“I don’t have to know ye to want to kiss ye. It’s called ‘instant attraction’ for a reason. There is no rationale. I just know what I feel, and I feel like I need to kiss ye.”
“Or you’ll die?”
“What?” He pulls back slightly. A puzzled look crossing his gorgeously cold pinked face.
Maybe that was a bit too much.
“Sorry. I read a lot of romance novels. Continue. I’ll be quiet.” I touch his chest briefly as I grin up at him. I may even bat my eyelashes a bit.
“I doubt that, and I don’t need ye to be. I like it when a woman talks to me and lets me know if she likes what I’m doing.”
“Has that line ever worked?” Anticipation courses through my blood as it plumps and fills.
“I'll tell you in about ten minutes.”
“What are you doing?” I lean back as he leans forward; a game of stalk and retreat. My back presses against the cement building. The cold finding its way through my many layers, but I can’t seem to care.
“If I don’t kiss you, I think I’ll expire right here on Fleshmarket outside the Brewhemia in front of God and kin.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. He’s fun and sexy and so… big. I’m charmed… and completely turned on. “You are so full of shit. There’s no one around us.”
“Too much then?” He pulls back slightly. His left eyebrow lifting with the question.
“No,” I move forward closing the distance he just created, “it was actually perfect.”
I smile as his mouth descends toward mine.
His lips are cold and slightly chapped, lightly abrading my own as he hesitantly kisses me. Eyes wide open. Blue eyes staring into my brown.
He pulls back slightly and there is movement at our waists—he’s not about to whip it out now, is he? I am somewhere between intrigued and slightly appalled. Please don’t be a psycho perv. Nooo!
“Whatever are you thinking, Natalie?”
“Nothing.” The lie rolls easily off my tongue. No sense introducing him to my own brand of crazy this early in our… whatever this is.
His lips press together in a smirk as he hums his disapproval. “I’ll find out. Later. For now—”
“Now?” I ask. Possibly too eager. Sue me. The man is hot, and I really want him to kiss me.
“There are so many things I want to do to you, but I’m no 25 anymore.”
“Does your age matter?” Call me confused because I’m 43 and fully on board with where we were headed a minute ago.
“I was a lot more reckless back then.”
“More reckless how?”
His bare hands frame my face, lightly touching my cheek—I guess he was taking off his gloves and not… something else. His fingers are cool and thick—the pads slightly roughened.
“I want to kiss ye.”
“You said that already.” I lean my face into his hand and inhale. He smells of shea butter and sweet almond oil.
“I have, but it bears repeating. I’ve no game when it comes to you.” His hands move back to cup the back of my head, angling my face up.
“Do you need game?” We are as close as our coats allow. Our faces millimeters apart. His fingertips press into my beanie as his palm cradles my head.
I tighten my grip on the lapels of his coat. My body straining toward his. My fingers itching to dive into his thick uncovered salt and pepper hair.
“I don’t know,” his smile is slow and easy. The laugh lines tell of a life well-lived. “Do I need game to kiss you?”
“No,” I whisper.
“Good.”
His kiss is deep. His hands are gentle. My face is cradled in his right hand as his left snakes around my waist to draw us closer.
He kisses me like he has all the time in the world. He kisses me like he is exploring, conquering, claiming.
Like a warrior to newly discovered land.
I can’t help the moan that starts low in my belly and moves up and out, breaking the bubble that surrounds us.
As he pulls back, I see his mouth glistening with me, with us. He is mussed. His jacket slightly askew—the top of a heather gray button down now visible.
“Wow.” His arctic blue eyes stand out against his flushed skin. God, he’s adorable.
“Yeah. Wow.” I smirk. I seem to do a lot of that with him.
“Are you laughing at me, Natalie?”
“You’re adorkable.”
“I’m what?”
“An adorable dork. A hot as fuck dork, to be honest.”
OMG Shut up, Natalie.
“I like it when you’re honest. Look, I have somewhere to be in about two hours.”
This can’t be happening.
“No. Don’t. Don’t look like that.” His hand returns to my face, comforting. “I want to spend more time with you. There's something there. Between us, I mean.”
“Besides my ten layers of clothing?”
“Yeah, Natalie. Besides your ten layers of clothing.” His eyes roll. “You’re so irreverent and young.”
“Young?” My eyebrows draw together with my confusion.
“I’m 43. What are you, 30?”
“45.”
Five years till fifty, I scream in my head.
“What?”
I’ve surprised him.
“I’m an older woman.” I look up, way up, and bat my eyes. He probably thinks I’m having a seizure.
“There is no focking way you’re 45.”
Have I mentioned how cute he is??
“Black don’t crack.”
He guffaws. He literally guffaws at me. “I’m not touching that one. You’ll have to prove you’re over 30 later.”
“You’re on.” I am getting so turned on in the middle of the street in front of God and everybody.
He looks at me almost thoughtfully as if trying to catch an elusive memory. “You know, I almost didn’t walk. It’s only a mile or so. I considered a taxi, but I needed a brisk walk to clear my head.”
“What’s wrong?” I reach out to touch his arm and not just to cop a feel.
“Nothing. I broke up with my girlfriend, but that’s no—that’s not what I want to say.”
“I’m sorry.” Am I his rebound fling? I can’t be his rebound fling. Please don’t let me be his rebound fling. I don’t want him accidentally calling out her name when I’m riding—
“It’s okay. We should have ended it years ago, but I don’t want to talk about her now. If we—if this continues, we will have plenty of time to talk about exes and whys and all of that.”
God, he’s such a geek, and I am completely smitten.
“Now, I want to have a cup of tea—or whatever you’d like—and a bite and just see what this is.”
“See what what is?” I need him to say the words. I can’t be the only one feeling this thing between us. Maybe I caught something? A fever dream?
“I have more chemistry with you than I had with the woman I spent the past ten years with.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Don’t be. God, I am really mucking this up. You’re muddling my brain. All I want to do is take you back to my apartment and not leave for a month.”
“We’ll miss Hogmanay!” I do so like fucking with this gorgeous man.
“What am I going to do with you?” His smile is warm with a fondness I haven’t seen in decades.
“I don’t know, but you’ll have a month to get it right.” I grin back at him. My cheeks starting to get numb from the cold, but I can’t seem to care.
“Stop baiting me… and arousing me. Look. Let’s have tea and a bite? Or coffee? Or a chai latte? Whatever you like. Just, spend a bit more time with me, and let’s see if this is—what this is.”
“Okay, Graeme.” Should I tell him now how much I hate chai lattes? Probably later. Much later. OMG, we have later!
Graeme leans forward. A cool minty breath wafting against my face. I look up into striking blue eyes that bore into mine. “Say my name again, lass.”
My breath actually hitches. I guess that is a thing. “Are you serious?”
“Oh, aye. I am. It’s your accent. I’ve watched a thousand shows and movies from the States, but I’ve never heard an accent like yours.”
The world
“Graeme.” I whisper it and watch as his eyelids flutter. Intrigued that my slightly husky voice would entice anyone who sounds as good as he does.
“God, yes.” His exaggerated full-body shudder breaks the tension, and I do nothing to stop the full-body laugh his silliness invokes.
I look at him—everything I’m thinking and feeling on full display.
Don’t hurt me.
Fuck me.
Hurt me a little… in a good way.
“Your face is so expressive. You must tell me what you are thinking—over tea. I can’t believe I’ve kept you out in the cold. You must think me a right nutter.”
“No, Graeme. I think you’re pretty close to perfect.” My voice drops, wavering slightly as I look up into his eyes, “Don’t fuck it up, okay?”
He pauses, appearing to take in what I said and didn’t say. A look flitters across his face, and if I had to guess I’d say it was relief mixed with joy. “No pressure.” He reaches out to take my hand.
I close my hand around his as we turn to walk to the café. “Never that.”