Isabel pressed her hands against her cheeks, ducked inside of the house, and pressed her body against the cool wall. Spontaneous combustion was imminent.
One kiss while locked in a closet together could be attributed to the darkness or the solitude or to general stupidity. The river had been a near miss, but now their flirting had led to a second kiss in the light of day in the middle of a field of flowers. It had been deliberate and reckless and breathtaking.
Falling even an inch for the man was a horrible, terrible, very bad idea. And she was scrabbling by her fingernails on a cliff’s edge. Still she did a little jig on the way to her expanding to-do list in the office, knowing she would at least have him until the festival. She would ignore the impending doom and live in the moment. If only she could figure out how.
It was times like these when a dose of motherly advice would be welcomed. And a pie, preferably peach. She took a detour and found her mom in the kitchen, humming a tune, and dipping chicken in beaten egg and then flour.
“What’s the occasion?” Izzy asked, coming up behind her.
Her mother startled, and flour poofed up to dot her apron. “You scared the tarnation out of me, child. Must there be a special occasion for fried chicken?”
“There usually is.” Izzy watched her mother work, taking comfort in the familiar.
“The festival is coming together nicely, the forecast is predicting blue skies, and I’m happy. That’s plenty to celebrate.”
When she was young, Izzy had never discussed boys with her mom and had certainly never broached the subject of men as she grew older. Izzy had assumed, wrongly as it turned out, that her mom wouldn’t understand.
“Are you and Gareth in love?” The question popped out, and not for the first time Izzy wished she had a speedbump between her brain and her mouth.
Her mom’s hands stilled in the flour for a moment before resuming their work. “What’s brought this on?”
“Seeing the two of you together makes me wonder what’s going to change.”
Her mom’s smile was knowing and a little sad. “Nothing. Everything. Who knows? Gareth and I haven’t discussed anything beyond tomorrow.”
“You’re okay with that?”
“I’m content.” The chicken went back into the egg for another round. “I assumed I’d used up all my good luck finding your father. I didn’t expect to get another chance.”
“Do you feel guilty?” Izzy wasn’t asking to put the thought in her mom’s head, but for guidance on how to handle her own mixed feelings watching Gareth take her daddy’s place.
“When you love someone—and I mean really love them—their happiness will come to mean more than yours. Your father loved me beyond words, and he would want me to be happy. So, no, I don’t feel guilty.” Her mom looked up from the chicken and cocked her head. “You don’t understand yet, but you will someday.”
Her mom’s words triggered an understanding deep in the marrow of her bones. Things might change, but she would never lose her mom, no matter what happened between her and Gareth.
Izzy forced her lips into what she hoped resembled a smile. “A cat seems more likely than a man.”
An impish twinkle banished the shadows in her mom’s eyes. “If that’s what you want, then I’ll support your feline endeavors, but I don’t think you should buy a litter box just yet. I saw Holt in town and he’s smitten with you, darlin’. Absolutely smitten.”
“We’re meeting for drinks tonight.” Izzy’s stomach took a detour to her feet.
Her mom narrowed her eyes on Izzy. “Why are you saying it like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve been sentenced to hang instead of enjoying a glass of wine with an eligible, interested man.” Her mom shot her an exasperated glance. “Darlin’, Holt is good looking, nice, and available. What the problem?”
“I don’t know. Nothing.” He’s not a dark-haired Scotsman with a crooked grin and sexy brogue. “I’ll keep an open mind where Holt is concerned.”
“Good. You deserve to cut loose and have a little fun. I apologize for slacking off when I got home, but Gareth has been a wonder with new ideas. Working with him has turned what had become staid and mundane exciting again.”
Diverting her scattered thoughts to the festival was welcome. “We need to make sure the booths don’t arrive for setup before the field is mowed.”
They both looked out the window to the flowers swaying in the slight breeze. Her mom said, “I wish we could leave them. Watching them get mowed down is a depressing sight.”
Izzy waited until the last possible moment to schedule the mowers for the same reason, and this year the cut would be even deeper after the stolen moments in the middle of the flowers with Alasdair.
“I’ll handle the mowers, the booths, and the vendors,” her mom said. “Why don’t you get your hair or nails done before you meet Holt?”
Izzy fingered the ends of her hair, her scalp tingling with the memory of Alasdair’s hands. “I do need to run by the dance school. Anna wants to show me the costumes the girls will be wearing.”
“I’m sure they’ll all look just darling. Anna has such a good eye.”
Not only did she have a good eye, but she had good ears to help Izzy parse her confusion.
Izzy exchanged polite greetings with the parents waiting in the front room for their children to finish their lessons. Instead of waiting with them, she slipped through the frosted double door and found Anna in the modern studio she’d refurbished after taking over the dance studio from her mother.
The sun diffused through the large oaks outside to bathe the studio in warm light and was reflected back from the wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. The light wood floor and cream walls added to the fresh and modern vibe.
Anna had a dozen pre-teen girls gathered around her, giving them a rundown of their upcoming events, including the parade and, of course, the games. With long, wavy red hair and a dancer’s lean body, Anna could star on a travel poster for Scotland. It was easy to picture her standing in a tartan gown at the top of a castle turret with a windswept moor of heather in the background beating back invading Sassenach with her bow.
The illusion was broken the moment Anna opened her mouth and a thick honeyed Southern accent emerged. “The crowd might be intimidating, but I know the more experienced girls will help the young’uns manage their nerves.”
A chorus of yesses accompanied hugs all around, and the chatter increased tenfold when Anna dismissed them.
Anna’s mother, Clarice, had founded the dance studio thirty years earlier. She had been ecstatic when eight-year-old Izzy signed up for dance lessons. Ecstasy quickly flipped to disappointment when it became clear Izzy had not inherited Rose’s balletic talent.
Anna had been a year behind Izzy in school, and Izzy had watched Anna shine on the cheerleading squad and dance team with awe and a small amount of envy. Anna had won the Highland games dance competition five years running.
With her arthritis worsening, Clarice had scaled back her time in the studio, finally retiring to travel with her church group. Anna had revamped the studio and the program, offering hip-hop dance in addition to the traditional Celtic dancing the studio was known for.
“Izzy! Come on back and check this out.” Anna was full of energy with a dark, sometimes biting, sense of humor. As a role model for her young charges, she was more P!nk than Mary Poppins.
After Izzy gave the requisite compliments on the dresses the girls would be donning for the festival, Anna held up an adult Celtic dancing dress in a mossy green with gold accents. Its flounced, almost childish skirt was offset by the tight bodice and low-scooped neck. She hummed a tune, swayed, and waggled her eyebrows.
“Have you taken it for a test drive? Did anything X-rated happen when you leapt?” Izzy’s lips twitched. While Anna and Izzy hadn’t hung out regularly in high school, they had become best friends over the last few years because of the festival.
“I’d for sure repeat as champion again if that happened.”
“You forget that Miss Dunbar is one of the judges. Your boob buds might give her a stroke.”
Anna and Izzy dissolved into giggles. Miss Dunbar had been their health and physical education teacher in middle school. A brief lesson on the changing female body had been riddled with euphemisms and outright dodging of reality. The word “nipple” had been deemed too scandalous to utter by Miss Dunbar. The replacement terminology of boob buds had imprinted on an entire generation of Highland’s girls.
“If my boob buds accidently pop out, I might attract a brawny man competing in the athletic feats. Lord knows, I could use a giant caber in my life.”
“You are terrible.” Izzy guffawed and checked behind them for any eavesdropping parents or, even worse, kids.
“I don’t have the chance to be terrible, but I’d like to.” Anna hung her dancing costume back up and shot her a side-eye. “Speaking of available cabers to toss, I hear you have an honest-to-goodness Scotsman staying at Stonehaven.”
“Two of them, actually.”
“I’ve met Gareth—nice guy with massive googly eyes for Rose—but I was referring to the hotty-pants with the banging accent who’s not eligible for AARP.”
“Alasdair Blackmoor. Gareth’s friend.”
“Sexy name. What’s the story?”
“He’s some high-powered financial whiz. He spent school holidays with Gareth. Old family friends. He’s flying home after the festival though.”
“Have you slept with him?” Anna asked with no embarrassment whatsoever.
“What? No. Of course not. Geez.” Izzy’s face reached roasting temperatures. “I’m actually on my way to meet Holt for a drink.”
Anna turned unusually serious. “Are you actually interested in Holt or are you settling because you’re lonely?”
“It’s just a drink.” The same line had been on repeat since her acceptance, but now that Anna had caller her out, it felt weak and unfair.
“Holt wants more.”
It was the “more” that set Izzy’s stomach to dancing an award-winning jig. Words blurted out of her mouth. “I kissed him.”
“Holt?” Anna’s eyes bugged.
“Alasdair.”
“Ah, the Hot Scot. How was it?”
“Good. Fine.” When Anna made a “gimme more” gesture, Izzy continued. “Okay, it was frigging magnificent. We were laying in the field of wildflowers out back of the house.”
Anna clutched her heart and took a step back. “In a field of flowers? Could that be any more romantic?”
“It was amazing until I got bit by fire ants.”
“And?”
The fact Anna knew there was an “and” had her spilling the rest. “We got locked in that janky closet down at the Baptist church. The dark and the diminished oxygen levels impaired our judgment.”
“Seven minutes in heaven in a church closet. That’s classic!” Anna’s laugh was infectious.
Izzy slapped her friend’s arm. “I need serious help here. I kissed one man this morning and am meeting another for drinks in like”—she checked the wall clock—“fifteen minutes. You’ve dated more than I have. What do I do?”
“Having drinks with Holt does not mean you’re engaged or anything, but don’t lead him on. Keep it friendly and if you really want to send an ‘I just want to be friends’ signal, pay for your own drink.”
“I can do that.” It sounded simple enough.
“Try to get there before him and order at the bar, otherwise Holt will insist on paying, because that’s the kind of guy he is. Avoid the tables in the back. It’s dark and cozy and screams date. Keep your distance. Get the chair across from him and not right next to him. No flirting allowed.”
“Pay for my drink. Stay in the light. Arm’s-length away.” Izzy parroted. “Keep the conversation centered on the festival.”
Anna’s brow knitted. “Poor Holt. He’s a nice guy, but how could he possibly compete with your Scot?”
Izzy fiddled with the button of her shirt-dress. “He’s not mine. He lives across an ocean.”
“He doesn’t have to be yours forever, but he can be yours for right now.” Anna’s wisdom was understanding and non-judgey.
Izzy swallowed. “You’re talking about sex.”
“Flirting and kissing and yes, maybe even sex with someone you’re obviously attracted to. You work so hard on the festival, Izzy. Everyone has a great time. You deserve to have fun too.”
“But the festival needs—”
“You need too! And even if Hotty MacScottypants is stellar in bed, it won’t take more than an hour out of your schedule. At best. I think you can manage to pencil in an appointment.” Anna air-quoted the last word with an impish smile.
“I don’t even know if Alasdair wants to go all the way.”
Anna’s sniggered. “This is what living at home with your mother has done to you.”
Izzy rolled her eyes. “Mom and Gareth are packing on the PDA. I wouldn’t be surprised if they haven’t already gone all the way.”
Anna stuck her fingers in her ears and made a blech sound. “That’s like imaging my mother with a dude. Thanks for putting that image in my head. Not cool.”
“Mom and Gareth are actually kind of … I don’t know, sweet together.”
Anna cocked her head. “Are you good with that?”
“It’s crazy, but yes. I’m totally good with it.”
“Right.” Anna’s voice turned brisk and no-nonsense, and she rubbed her hands together. “What about protection?”
“Geez! How am I supposed to know if they’re using protection? Mom and I aren’t sharing our favorite sexual positions over cocktails or taking Cosmo quizzes together.”
Anna poked her elbow in Izzy’s side. “Not for your mom, you idiot. For you.”
“For me? Oh, in case Alasdair and I … you know?”
“Yes, I know. I’m worried it’s been so long you’ve forgotten.” As if she were speaking to a certified idiot, complete with a framed certificate, Anna said succinctly, “Do you have condoms?”
“Even if I did have some, they probably would have expired.”
“Disintegrated is more like. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.” Anna tossed a grin over her shoulder before she disappeared in her office. She returned with her hands full of an offering. “Here.”
Like she was performing a magic trick, the package popped out of her hand like a triggered fake snake in a can, unfolding to cascade three feet toward the floor.
Izzy grabbed the condoms and worked to refold them, hiding them close to her body. Her heart raced like a drug deal was going down. “I don’t need this many. One is fine.”
“One is sad.” Anna didn’t bother to suppress her teasing amusement. “Take them. If you must know, I haven’t needed them since Eddie moved.”
Izzy had been glad to see Eddie’s backside leave Highland. Anna had a strong personality and needed a man who could go toe-to-toe with her. Instead, she tended to pick easily manipulated men who drifted through life with little ambition. It was like Anna was only comfortable starting a relationship knowing it had an expiration date.
Izzy shoved the condom accordion into her purse. Anna glanced over Izzy’s shoulder at the clock on the wall. “Ticktock. You’d better head on over if you want to beat Holt to your non-date.”
A spate of nerves went off like a sparkler in Izzy’s belly. She grabbed Anna’s wrist. “Will you come with me?”
“I have no desire to be a third wheel or a crutch. Anyway, I have festival prep to do too.”
Izzy put on her best puppy eyes and whimpered.
Anna sighed and made a throaty sound of disgust. “Okay. Fine. I’ll head over in ten and grab a seat at the bar. If you really need an out, then signal me.”
“What kind of signal?”
Anna cupped her hands around her mouth and made like a crow. “Ca-caw. Ca-caw.”
Through her nervous laughter, Izzy said, “How about I give you the stink eye?”
“Fine. We’ll go with subtle.” Anna gave her a push on the shoulder. “Pull up your big-girl panties and remember the plan.”
Izzy trudged out of the door as if her sandals were made of concrete. Anna gave her a thumbs-up before flipping the sign to Closed and pulling the shade down. Izzy took comfort in the fact backup would be a mere stink eye away.
The Dancing Jig could have been picked up from a corner of Edinburgh and plopped down in Highland. The charming, old-world feel was both homey and foreign compared to the country bars that made up the rest of the Highland social scene on the edge of town. Wide, dark-stained planks on the ceiling, walls, and floors absorbed the light and cast long shadows.
A stage fanned out from one corner and hosted Celtic music on Friday and Saturday nights. Tonight it was empty, but most tables and booths were full and voices buzzed. She made her way toward the bar, which was a square in the middle of the pub. Step one of the “let’s just be friends plan:” order and pay for a drink before Holt had a chance to offer.
Holt emerged from the shadows with a smile on his face and wearing khakis and a blue striped button-down. His blond-brown hair was still damp and a subtle waft of cologne enveloped her. “I grabbed a table in the back. What would you like to drink?”
She looked over her shoulder, but Anna hadn’t arrived yet. “Gin and tonic, please.”
Holt passed her request on to the bartender and with a hand on the small of her back, led her to the table he’d snagged in the most remote corner possible. Izzy wasn’t sure Anna would even be able to see her stink eye from the deep shadows. She might have to resort to the crow call.
To make matters worse, the chair Holt held out would leave her back to the bar and the door. She hesitated, but perched on the edge, losing her balance and grabbing the table when he scooted the chair in for her unexpectedly. Along with the nice clothes and the cologne, his solicitous attitude was yet another sign this was a date. Not quite as fear inducing as the apocalypse, but close.
He took the chair not across from her but beside her so their elbows and knees brushed. Vonn, the bartender, bustled over and slid her gin and tonic onto the table. Holt smiled and said, “Put it on my tab.”
The not-date was unfolding in the exact opposite way Izzy and Anna had planned. She took a sip of her drink just as Holt asked, “Did you have an enjoyable day?”
Enjoyable? Gin burned down her windpipe. Rolling around in the field with Alasdair definitely qualified as enjoyable.
Holt patted her back until she quit coughing. Except, even after she caught her breath, he didn’t remove his hand, but draped his arm over the back of her chair. Her spine turned to steel and she made sure not to relax into his touch. Staring at the scarred tabletop, she said, “It was good. Normal. Nothing special. How was yours?”
“Great actually. Weather has been perfect for the soybeans. Apples are ripening for the picking. Hogs fetched a good price. Everyone loves bacon, right?”
Izzy did in fact love bacon, but not thinking about the journey from farm to skillet. She took another too-big sip of her drink. At this rate, she’d need another drink in seconds and would be drunk before Anna even made an appearance.
“Are you ready to compete in the games?” she asked, steering them into the conversational safety net of the festival.
With a teasing smile, he curled his arm and his biceps bulged against cotton. “I’m always ready to compete, and I plan to four-peat. I can’t wait to claim my prize.” His warm smile made her insides freeze as if a north wind had blown through.
She swallowed past a lump, unable to imagine kissing anyone besides Alasdair even if it was a mere peck on the cheek. This year, Izzy would claim halitosis or a cold sore or another horrible ailment and make her mom dole out kisses. She made a mental note to hit WebMD when she got home.
She glanced over her shoulder. Anna’s red hair glinted under the bar lights, but she was turned sideways in conversation. Izzy relaxed marginally. Worst case, Izzy could excuse herself for the bathroom and grab Anna for a toilet stall strategy session. Another sip and she hit ice on her gin and tonic. Holt held up two fingers, and Vonn hustled over with another beer and a gin and tonic.
“How do you think the Dawgs will fare this fall?” she asked. Surely, football was a safe, innocuous subject. Highland was close enough to Athens to be a breeding ground of University of Georgia football fans. Even though Holt hadn’t attended, he was rabid.
On ground not littered with emotional mines, her anxiety eased. She sipped her drink and interjected her opinions on the state of the team’s coaching and recruiting.
Eventually though, they exhausted all things football. Holt leaned forward and took her hand. It was clammy from nerves and clutching her sweating drink glass, but mostly from nerves.
“I appreciate you meeting me for a drink,” Holt said.
“No problem.” Her voice had risen at least an octave, and she fought the urge to shoot a stink eye over her shoulder like the bat signal.
“I’ve always gone for what I wanted, no holds barred. I really like you, but I don’t want to take a risk if I don’t have a chance. So, tell me now; do I have a chance?”
Ca-caw.
Alasdair parked in front of the Dapper Highlander. Gareth unfolded himself from the low-slung coupe, stood on the sidewalk with his hands on his hips, and surveyed the street like he was the laird. “It’s a corker of a village.”
Alasdair joined him, taking in the quaint shops, metal lampposts, and hanging baskets overflowing with colorful flowers. “It is picturesque, but you don’t think it’s over the top?”
“Highland is full of love for Scotland. To be honest, I’ve felt my ancestors more here than at Cairndow the last few years.” He let out a sigh that spoke of contentment.
Alasdair swung his gaze to Gareth. “You’re beholden to Cairndow. It needs you.”
“If things were different, I could be happy here.” Gareth’s buoyant happiness deflated.
Alasdair hated the thought he’d done that to his uncle, but what could he do to ease his uncle’s burden?
“Let’s forget about Cairndow for now,” Alasdair said with a forced lightness. “It’s survived hundreds of years and will survive a few more weeks without you.”
“Indeed. Let’s get you a kitted out.” Gareth opened the door to the Dapper Highlander for Alasdair.
Mr. Timmerman bustled from the back and gave Gareth a hearty handshake. “Good to see you, Gareth. And Mr. Blackmoor. Welcome.”
“Call me Alasdair, please.”
“Are you here for your kilt?” Mr. Timmerman asked Gareth.
“I was wondering if you could alter the kilt for my … for Alasdair. I have a kilt packed I can wear and he has nothing.”
Alasdair turned to Gareth. “You had the fabric ordered especially. I can’t.”
“You can and will. I insist.”
“As you’re the same height, it should only require a tuck or two around the waist, I should think.” Mr. Timmerman disappeared behind a curtain.
Gareth patted his belly. “His nice way of saying I’ve gone to fat.”
“You’re stout, not fat,” Alasdair teased.
Mr. Timmerman returned with a kilt made from the beautiful green and gray Blackmoor tartan wool. “Slip it on so I can make my marks.”
Alasdair followed Mr. Timmerman to a curtained-off room next to a floor-to-ceiling mirror. He took the proffered kilt and closed the curtain. Stripping down to his underwear, he slipped on the kilt and buckled the leather clasps. The wool was soft against his legs, the front flat, the back pleated. It hung slightly lower on his hips that it ought, but as he stared at himself a feeling of connection, not only to Gareth but to generations past, bound his chest so tightly he wasn’t sure he could speak.
Gareth whipped the curtain back, tossed him a black T-shirt, and reclosed the curtain. Alasdair pulled on the tee, tucking it into the kilt. It gave the look a modern twist.
Voices conferred too low to hear on the other side of the curtain. Stepping out, Alasdair held his arms out and did a slow turn for Gareth and Mr. Timmerman. “Not too shabby, eh?”
“A better fit than I anticipated.” Mr. Timmerman bustled over and tugged at the kilt, making marks with a fabric pencil he kept tucked behind his ear.
“You’ll need boots. Timmerman and I were discussing whether you should go traditional or not.” Gareth pointed to a display of shoes and boots along the wall. Traditional leather shoes took up a row. Next to them were a mix of brown and black knee-high riding boots and lace-up combat-style calf boots. “What do you prefer?”
Mr. Timmerman flanked his other side and tapped a pair of lace-up black leather combat boots. “As you’ll be competing, may I suggest a functional pair with good tread and ankle support?”
“I never agreed to compete.” Alasdair swung his gaze to Gareth with raised eyebrows.
“Fine. Let Holt steal the winner’s kiss.” Gareth’s eyes twinkled in a way that signaled a deep belly laugh was imminent.
“You sly fox,” Alasdair murmured. Louder, he said, “I’ll try them on.”
Mr. Timmerman retrieved the appropriate size and handed him a pair of dark gray wool knee socks. Once Alasdair was kitted out in boots, kilt, and T-shirt, he stood in front of the mirror. He’d let his wavy hair have its way in the Southern heat and humidity, and hadn’t shaved since he’d arrived in Georgia. His Wellington coworkers and clients wouldn’t recognize him, but the man reflected back was an old friend he’d ignored for too long.
The bell over the door tinkled and in the reflection of the mirror, Alasdair met Rose Buchanan’s wide eyes. A slow smile spread over her face. “My goodness, don’t you look the part of a wild Scottish Highlander, Alasdair. In fact—” She looked at Gareth and then back at Alasdair, a smile still on her face, but a quizzical wrinkle squeezing her brow. “The two of you could be father and son.”
“We’re not,” Gareth said sharply before modulating his voice to add, “although, if I had a son, I would be more than proud if he was like Alasdair.”
Emotion clawed its way up his throat. How often had he pretended Gareth was his father? Enough times to cause a fair amount of guilt. Alasdair wanted to tell Gareth how much he meant to him and how much he regretted the fracture in their relationship but not in front of Rose and Mr. Timmerman. It was a conversation meant for a cliffside sunset at Cairndow.
Gareth laid a tender kiss on Rose’s temple and she took his hand, her glow brightening. “What brought you by, Rosie?”
“I’m an interfering old biddy and wanted to peek in at the Dancing Jig. Izzy met Holt Pierson for drinks. I’m hoping it turns into dinner. Want to join me?”
Alasdair stalked to the front window and stared across the street at the pub entrance. The two kisses they’d shared weren’t a commitment, yet a fever came over him knowing she was with another man, even if it was only for a drink.
A hand came down on his shoulder and squeezed. “What’s your plan, lad?”
“What can I do?”
“Give her a decision to make.”
Considering his career had been all about mitigating risk, Alasdair had forgotten what it felt like to take a risk in real life. It was scary. And exhilarating.
Without second-guessing himself, Alasdair stalked out of the Dapper Highlander. Alasdair would leave Gareth to take care of things with Mr. Timmerman. He had more important things to do. Like wooing a woman.