Chapter Five

“Rupert?” Alasdair asked with a blank look on his face.

The letter opener was one of Izzy’s favorite things despite the fact she rarely needed to use it. Everything was electronic these days, but even the act of polishing it made her smile. Because its silver molded face had been mischievious, she had named it Rupert and had made up an origin story that involved magic and quests and queens.

She picked up the letter opener and held it up. “Meet Rupert.” Then, she addressed the opener. “Rupert, meet Alasdair. I’m sure there’s a good reason he stuffed you in his pants, although I can imagine it was quite traumatic for you.”

“I’m hurt that you think being in my pants would be a traumatic experience.” Alasdair gave her a lopsided grin.

Her gaze dropped to the pants in question—a pair of worn athletic shorts that were thin and left little to the imagination. What popped into her head came straight out of her mouth. “I pictured you sleeping in a pair of fancy pinstriped button-up pajamas with cuffs and a collar.”

“Actually, I usually sleep in the buff.”

Great. Now her brain was going to have to contend with that image when she went back to bed. She was never going to get to sleep. Or worse, she would dream about him naked on the other side of the wall from her.

Her blush didn’t contain itself to her face, but superheated her entire body. She stood and his foot thumped from her lap to the floor. “Do you want a snack?”

“A snack?”

“That’s why I came down in the first place. I’m stressed out, which means I don’t sleep well and the only thing that helps is comfort food. Are you in or out?”

“All in.”

“Grilled cheese is my go-to.” She bent over and pulled the electric griddle out of the bottom cabinet. When she turned, his gaze skittered away. Had he been staring at her butt? It made her very aware she was wearing a tank top and tiny shorts. She had an inkling that her nipples were up to no good, but was afraid to look down and draw even more attention to them.

“One or two?” she asked, holding the bread in front of her chest as camouflage. His stomach rumbled loud enough to make them both laugh awkwardly. “Two it is.”

“Dinner this evening was delicious, by the way. I’m not sure why I’m so famished.”

“It’s the stress. I can relate.” She gathered the cheese, mayonnaise, and butter from the fridge.

“How did the festival come about?” He sat on one of the barstools across the island from her, his stance casual, but his gaze following her every move.

“It was Daddy’s passion project. A way to draw tourists when the economics of small towns became untenable. After Daddy died, Mom and I took over. We make a good team.” Or had they made a good team? Was it ending?

Thoughts of beginnings and endings swirled in her head as she buttered bread and added cheese, not having to concentrate on the familiar task. The silence that gathered as she cooked was a surprisingly comfortable one. She flipped three grilled cheeses onto plates—two for him, one for her—poured two glasses of milk, and joined him on a neighboring stool. Her elbow jostled his and his knee bumped hers, but neither of them jerked away. His body heat was welcome in the cool of the air-conditioning.

He took a bite of his sandwich, let out a little moan, and closed his eyes. The first sandwich disappeared in seconds. “This beats room service at the best hotel in New York.”

Pleasure at his pleasure suffused her. Attraction vibrated the air like staticky radio waves not quite dialed in to a song she could distinguish. Oh, this was dangerous. Especially since she’d caught him in her office. Her sleep-fuzzed brain hadn’t moved fast enough at the time, but now she wondered and worried.

Before she could question him, he asked, “If the games are such a stressor, why not take a year or two off from hosting them? You could use your vacation traveling instead of working.”

“It’s not just Stonehaven that benefits from the festival. Most of the businesses in Highland count on the influx of visitors, and their money, to stay afloat. If we don’t hold the games, it would cause real hurt to people I care about in Highland.”

“You’re like a feudal lord,” he said.

She barked a laugh. “If only we could demand a tithe.” Brushing her fingers together and pushing her plate away, she propped her elbow on the counter and shifted to look at him, her head in her head. “Are you going to tell me about Rupert?”

He did the same, facing her. “Rupert is a numpty who wouldn’t stop talking about his mushroom, if you know what I mean. I told him if he didn’t shut his geggie, he would get a close-up of my bollocks.”

“Maybe you’re the numpty.” How could she not smile? “What is a numpty, anyway?”

“An idiot.”

Still smiling, she asked, “You know I don’t trust you, right?”

“I’m fully expecting to keel over from arsenic poisoning any minute. This may have been my last meal.”

“Finding you at my desk in the middle of the night literally trying to steal the silver is disturbing.” What if he’d done more than stuff Rupert in his pants? Her manuscript had been front and center. Plus, the folder detailing expenditures on Stonehaven. She couldn’t say which discovery by him would be worse.

“I promise I was in your office because I couldn’t sleep and had to return phone calls. That’s it.”

“And Rupert?”

“A misunderstanding. You startled me, and I stuck him in my pocket. It was reflex. Believe me, I don’t want Rupert or his mushroom anywhere near my pants. Anyway, haven’t I suffered enough?” He raised his large foot, the Snoopy Band-Aid incongruous yet charming.

“I suppose you have.” It scared her how much she wanted to believe him.

He straightened, rubbed his hands down his thighs, and half rose. “I have to find my mobile now.”

She dumped the plates in the sink and caught his arm halfway to the door. “No. We’re going to bed.”

His eyes widened and he leaned closer to her. So close, she could see the black of his pupils flare. It was only when he asked, “Are we, lass?” in a rumbly brogue that made her stomach flutter and her body scream an affirmative, did her bossy declaration register.

“Gah.” She inhaled, her throat dry and her tongue working hard to form words. “Not together. Separately. In different beds. And rooms.”

“Probably for the best.” He cast a glance toward the back door, worry shadowing his face. “But I need my mobile.”

“Call it. We can follow the ringing,” she said.

“It’s on vibrate.”

She retrieved a cordless phone. “Try it anyway. Maybe the screen will light up enough for us to find it.”

He punched in numbers as they made their way outside, then stood at the edge of the patio with the phone to his ear. “It should be ringing.”

She peered into the darkness, seeing nothing that resembled a phone lighting up and hearing nothing except for the call of crickets. “It’ll be easier to find in the morning.” When still he hesitated, she added. “Nothing will happen to it. A raccoon won’t rack up a bunch of phone sex charges. Surely even your crazy boss understands time zones. You need sleep.”

He heaved a sigh and handed her the cordless phone. “I am bone-tired and not in the mood to tramp through the field.”

She led the way inside, throwing glances behind her to assure herself he followed. Despite the explanations he gave, she couldn’t leave him downstairs on his own. It didn’t matter that he made her laugh and attraction buzzed between them, she couldn’t afford to trust him.

The “good nights” they exchanged were strangely formal considering the odd last half hour they’d spent together. She lay down on her bed, doing her best to stay awake in case Alasdair tried to slip out again, but sleep claimed her with a swiftness that was rare.


Izzy clutched Alasdair’s phone and stood in front of the connecting bathroom door to his room. With rain imminent, she’d spent a half hour searching the field, underestimating how far he’d thrown it. She realized she should have added distance based on the unexpected brawn of his arms in the T-shirt last night. Finally, black and silver had glinted through the grass and flowers. Unfortunately, the screen was a web of cracks, the LCD glitchy when she’d surreptitiously checked to see if it was password-protected.

No sound emerged to indicate he was awake. He would want the phone back as soon as possible. That’s the only reason she wasn’t waiting downstairs for him. It had nothing to do with his admission about sleeping naked. In fact, she hoped he wasn’t naked. Of course she did. She didn’t need the embarrassment of walking in and seeing him lying on his bed as naked as the day he was born. But bigger. Way bigger and way sexier.

She knocked, but heard no reply. There was her answer. She would go downstairs and wait. She made it two steps before she turned back around. What if he was sick? The cut on his foot could have turned septic. Or he could have fallen out of bed and hit his head on the nightstand. He might even need help but be unable to call for her.

Her hand found its way to the knob and turned it before a dissenting argument could be lodged. The door creaked open, and she popped her head through. The man-sized lump under the covers jump-started her lungs. Not hurt or naked.

“Alasdair,” she said softly. “Are you awake?”

She shuffled farther into the room until she stood next to the bed. He was curled on his side, hugging a pillow. His dark hair was mussed and stubble darkened his jaw. Parts of her body she’d thought had died had apparently only gone into hibernation and were now roaring to life. Why with him? A temporary guest who may or may not be in Georgia to bilk them.

The small smile tipping the corner of his lips made her wonder at his dreams. Dark smudged his eyes. Was sleep his only escape from the crushing pressure that had driven him to hurl his phone into a field?

Intending to leave his phone on the nightstand, she pulled it from her back pocket, moving slowly so as not to disturb him. Alasdair bolted upright as if he’d exited the Land of Nod on a bullet train. Surprise had her fumbling his phone like a piece of wet soap. It hit him on the bridge of his nose.

With a groan, he covered his face with one hand and sprawled backward. “What in blazes did you hit me for?”

“I didn’t! At least, not intentionally.” She patted the folds of the quilt in search for the phone, her right hand landing on his thigh. It twitched, and she yanked her hand away. His phone peeked out of a fold near his crotch.

“Did you request a wake-up call?” Her tattered self-control kept her from making an embarrassing grab for the phone. “I found your phone in the field this morning. It’s right there near your…” She pointed.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he propped himself up on his elbow, retrieved the phone, and stared at the spiderweb of cracks. “It’s broken.”

“Probably hit a rock. I hope your nose hasn’t suffered the same fate.” He took his hand away from his face, and Izzy gasped. “Oh my God, your face!”

“That god-awful ugly, is it?” His attempt at a smile turned into a wince.

Without answering, she pulled out several tissues and held them to his nose, sitting on the side of his bed. “Dizzy Izzy strikes again. Lean your head back.”

He obeyed. “Dizzy Izzy? Have you been drinking already?”

“I wish I’d earned the nickname after a wild night out. Alas, it was from the seventh-graders who witnessed my cartwheels in gym class. I got off course and crashed into the wall. See, I still have the scar.” She held up her elbow.

He wrapped his hand around her upper arm and pulled her elbow closer for an examination. Her torso shifted to hover over his. His hand could almost circle her entire arm, which meant either she was exceptionally puny (she wasn’t) or his hand was unusually big. She swallowed hard trying not to do the math, equating his big hands with other body parts.

“It’s a wee thing.”

“It hurt like the dickens at the time.”

He let her go, and for a second her torso swayed closer to his chest before she caught her balance and pulled away. “That’s not all. Most of the town was in attendance when Mom made me dance in the festival when I was around eight. I fell off the stage.”

His lips twitched and his eyes twinkled over the tissues she held to his nose. “Sounds charming.”

“Uh-oh, you’ve got brain damage.”

This time he laughed and pushed himself up on the pillows. “Thank you for finding my mobile. What time is it?”

“Ten thirty.” The overcast skies had masked the sunrise. “A rainstorm blew through but it’s all clear now.”

His smile disappeared and he blinked. “Ten-thirty?”

She nodded. “I take it you don’t normally sleep in.”

“Never.”

“Not even when you travel overseas?”

“I’ve disciplined myself to adjust immediately. Mind over matter.”

“You were up in the middle of the night. You needed the sleep.”

“You were up in the middle of the night too,” he said almost accusingly.

“Yeah, but I know my terrible dreams and anxiety will end as soon as the festival is over. Yours seem constant. Why do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Stay at a job you hate?”

“I don’t hate it.” He heaved a sigh. “I’m up for a promotion. More responsibility and more money.”

Why did he sound as if he’d been tasked to drown puppies for a living? “Congrats?”

“My boss is a right bastard sometimes.” He stared at something over her shoulder, but it felt like he wanted to say more. She waited, but nothing else came.

She rose. “I’ll leave you to get dressed. I’m headed to town in a bit. If you want, I can drop you by Bubba’s Fix-it shop.”

“Can I trust a man named Bubba with my mobile?”

“If it settles your mind, his real name is Bocephus. His daddy was a big Hank Williams Jr fan. He can fix anything and everything.”

“I think I prefer Bubba.” He tossed the tissues in the can next to the bed. “How does it look?”

She propped her hands on her hips and examined him. His nose had stopped bleeding, but a red knot marred the bridge. With the dark stubble shading his jaw, he reminded her of a rakish highwayman. “You’ll live.”

His smile wasn’t practiced or fake. It drew faint crinkles at the corners of his eyes and conveyed enough warmth to kindle a fire in her belly. Her cheeks ached and she laid her palm on one to find she was smiling back. “Come on down whenever you’re ready.”

She didn’t stop to take the cold shower she needed, but made a beeline toward normalcy. Except, she came upon her mom and Gareth in the office canoodling in front of her mom’s computer. She almost turned around.

“What if you included a stock show and utilize this area?” Gareth used a pen to point on the zoomed-in satellite map of Stonehaven.

“That’s for parking,” her mother said with nary a flirtatious giggle.

“You could move parking across the lane. Here and here.” Gareth tapped his pen on the monitor.

Okay, not canoodling. They appeared to actually be working on the festival. Which was good, except it was supposed to be Izzy and her mom working together.

“What are you two discussing?” The defensiveness in Izzy’s voice was peevish.

Her mom tossed Gareth a look Izzy had seen her parents exchange on occasion when she had been an adolescent. “Options for expansion next year, darlin’. That’s all.”

Gareth straightened and cleared his throat. “I was telling your mother that authentic Highland festivals include a stock show. Highland cows and sheep mostly, but the bairns show off their chickens and bunnies and such. Blue ribbons are awarded. It makes for a grand time.”

“Having animals at the festival introduces a host of issues.”

“What sort of issues, dear?” Her mom swiveled in the office chair with an effortless grace.

“The poopy kind.”

“Excuse me?” Gareth looked confused.

“You know, feces. Excrement. Dung. Guano. Crap.”

Alasdair made the turn into the office just as the last word landed in the middle of the room. “Morning. Sounds like I’ve interrupted something interesting.”

Izzy closed her eyes. Of course, he would walk in when she was acting like a toddler forced to share a favorite toy. She needed to pull up her big-girl panties, not get them in a wad, and apply all other panty metaphors involving maturity as needed.

Izzy hoped her faked sunny smile saved the moment from descending into awkwardness. “Actually, a stock show might draw a new crowd. We’ve never tackled the logistics of animal trailers and runoff, but looking into what it would take is smart business planning.”

“I agree. What a good idea.” Her mom leaned over and planted a kiss on Gareth’s cheek.

“Can I talk to you for a sec, Mom?” Izzy dipped her chin toward the entry and left Gareth and Alasdair in the office, but within sight. Just in case.

“It really is a good idea, isn’t it, Izzy? A stock show?” Her mom was smiling and flushed with energy.

“Yeah, sure. Did you get Loretta’s deposit?”

“Oh no.” Her mom’s forehead crinkled. “I forgot. Gareth and I were—”

Izzy held up a hand. “I don’t need to know the specifics. Can you run by today?”

“Actually, Gareth and I have plans.” Her mom put on the puppy dog eyes that lulled people into thinking she was demure and beseeching when behind them, she was a bulldog. She clasped her hands under her chin. “Will you handle Loretta?”

Her mom was an expert at finagling money from reluctant or tight-fisted vendors without causing any hard feelings. She was also good at getting her way. Izzy felt herself caving.

“You know I’m not good at this sort of thing. She’ll probably withdraw from the festival entirely.” When Izzy got nervous, she couldn’t be held responsible for the things that came out of her mouth. Spreadsheets and budgets were easy for Izzy to manipulate and bend to her will—people were not.

“A couple of others have ignored my emails. Can I count on you to at least give them a follow-up call?” Izzy asked.

“Of course. As soon as Gareth and I get back from our hike. I’m taking him to Raven Cliff for a picnic.”

“Fun times.” For her mom and Gareth. Not for Izzy who felt like she was getting ready to take a test she hadn’t studied for. Dropping her voice, she asked, “Have you heard from the bank about the loan yet?”

“Nothing, but I heard Sterling left town for a family emergency.” Her mom expressed no worry about the loan they needed to replace the roof before winter. And, she was probably right. Stonehaven was a good investment for the bank. There was no reason to deny them. But, until she had the money in her account and the roofers booked, Izzy would worry. She trailed her mom back to the office.

Gareth said, “Alasdair has been to his share of Highland games and volunteered to brainstorm later.”

“Wonderful!” Her mom tucked her hand into the crook of Gareth’s arm. They only had eyes for each other, and a strange feeling of not belonging in her own home crept up Izzy’s neck.

“We’re headed to town then.” When Izzy’s announcement garnered nothing more than a slight wave and smile from her mom, she tucked a festival folder under her arm and turned to Alasdair. “Ready?”

He made a “ladies’ first” gesture and followed her. She stopped at the front door and took inventory. Her striped cotton skirt, scooped neck T-shirt, and flipflops might be standard wear during Highland summers, but she wasn’t exactly putting on a professional front to meet with Loretta.

“Should I change?” She tugged on the hem of her skirt.

“Why? You look fresh and summery.”

“I sound like a dryer sheet.” She bit the inside of her lip and looked up the stairs. “I have black pants and pumps I can change into.”

“Stop it. You look lovely.” He teetered toward laughter. The kind that was at her and not with her.

“I don’t want to look lovely. I want to look like a professional ass-kicker like you.” She outlined him with both hands.

Same fancy brown shoes. A different pair of slim-fitting pants that did amazing things for his legs and butt. A light blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms, revealing black hair over corded muscles. Granted, he hadn’t shaved, but his finger-combed hair looked delightfully rumpled.

If anything, his rough-and-ready appearance made him even more intimidating. She could imagine him striding into a boardroom to wreak havoc on subordinates. One look at Alasdair, and Loretta would hand over her deposit lickety-split. Probably her underwear too.

He crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes. “Dare I ask what’s going on in that head of yours?”

“You don’t want to know,” she muttered as Alasdair took her by the elbow and led her outside.

The morning rainstorm had left behind a sticky steam. She allowed him to guide her to his car, and he opened the car door and gestured her in.

She hesitated with one foot in and one out. “Are you offering to drive because I almost hit you the other day? I have an excellent driving record, minus the time I didn’t see a speedbump and launched my car like the Dukes of Hazard.”

His lips twitched. “You don’t have dukes in America.”

“Oh, not fancy dukes; redneck ones. Can you imagine an actual duke or earl or whatever in Highland? That would be hilarious. The dude would think we were supreme bumpkins.”

His amusement dimmed. “I doubt that. He’d think Highland was charming.”

“Sure he would.” In her imitation British accent that sounded like the queen had swallowed a cat, she said, “Iced tea? How vulgar!”

“Alright, your majesty. Get in the car.”

“Seriously though, I should drive. I know where I’m going.”

“The air-con in my rental is stellar.”

She couldn’t argue with that. The only time her truck was a pleasure to drive was in the spring and fall when she could open the windows and let the cool mountain air flow through the cab. Also, she’d never been in a car as sophisticated and sleek and … sexy as his car.

She slid onto the buttery leather and wiggled, letting her head fall back in pleasure. She could get used to the finer things in life. He leaned over her in the open door, his forearm propped on the roof. “Comfortable?”

She grinned up at him. “Can you imagine how amazing it would feel to sit here naked?”

Alasdair’s jaw went slack and his gaze skimmed down her body. Her knees clamped together. A combination of embarrassment and arousal ignited between them.

“I didn’t mean … I wouldn’t actually … It would be super unsanitary to be naked in a rental. I want you to know I would never violate your car like that.” She swallowed to stem the tide of words.

“I wouldn’t complain if—”

“Good, I caught you!” Her mom jogged down the front stairs. “Preacher Hopkins just called. The decorations are ready to be picked up at the church. He has a couple more tables as well. You don’t mind taking the truck, do you?”

“Nope. We’ll grab everything,” she called out.

As soon as Alasdair stepped back, Izzy popped out of his car. On one hand, she was glad to be saved. On the other, she wanted Alasdair to finish his thought. What wouldn’t he complain about? Did it have something to do with her clothing or lack of?

She shot Alasdair a glance on her way to the truck. “I’ll try not to hit anyone or anything.”

Alasdair slid onto the bench seat of the truck and rolled down the window as soon as she started the car. The hand of God hadn’t healed the truck overnight. The vents still pumped out ambient air, which was only a few degrees cooler than the superheated cab.

“Is it always this blasted hot? You could steam a pudding in here,” Alasdair said.

The truck jounced them over the gravel toward the main road. “Steamed pudding? Is that really a thing? Sounds disgusting.”

“It’s not like the pudding you serve in the states. You Americans gum more than eat pudding.” His obvious dissatisfaction made her huff a laugh. Puddings did make regular appearances on hospital menus. “A Scottish pudding is hearty. It can be a meal in and of itself.”

“But puddings are sweet.”

“The Scottish variety can be sweet and bready or savory. Haggis is a pudding.”

She made a gagging sound.

“Have you eaten haggis?” He set his back in the corner and draped his arm along the top of the seat, shifting to watch her.

The wind played in his hair and flipped his collar open to reveal the cut of one collarbone. Nearly breaking her promise and driving them into a gulley, she forced her focus back to the road.

“They sell haggis at the festival, but I’ve managed to avoid it.” Incredulity lilted her voice. “Do you expect me to believe you actually like it?”

“It’s delicious.” His slow smile made the temperature rise a few more degrees. “How can I convince you to give it a try?”

“Uh, tie me down and force-feed me? Offering me an obscene amount of money would work too.”

They shared a laugh. The fact she was comfortable around him made her uncomfortable. At best, Alasdair was a distraction. At worst, he and Gareth were plotting to take advantage of them in some way she hadn’t figured out.

“I will never eat haggis. Just like I will never dance in front of an audience.” Her prim tone might have been put on, but she stood by the declaration.

“Not dance? Because of your mishap at age eight? That seems like an overreaction.”

“Not just because of my humiliation at age eight. Although, developmentally speaking, eight is a pivotal year for the foundation of self-confidence in girls.” She smiled and shot him a glance to gauge his reaction to her next bit of family lore. “Mom was a ballerina with the Atlanta Ballet before Daddy whisked her to Stonehaven. If I dance, I’m inevitably compared to her and come up way short. She opens the games at the whisky tasting with a dance and leaves everyone in awe.”

“She is very graceful and serene,” he said thoughtfully.

“Exactly. And I’m neither.”

He didn’t immediately contradict her, which pricked her feelings even though it shouldn’t. “You certainly aren’t serene,” he finally said.

“Gee, thanks.”

“You’re better than serene.”

“Better?”

He studied her from the corner of the truck for so long, she hunched over the steering wheel and fiddled with the hair tucked behind her ear. “You have an energy that’s magnetic. You never slow down, do you?”

“I like to keep busy,” she said weakly as she turned his assessment over in her head. Alasdair thought she was magnetic? Was that better than graceful or serene? She pictured two magnets drawn together by forces beyond their control.

“So you don’t dance or eat. Do you have any fun at your own festival?”

She let out an exasperated huff. “The festival isn’t about having fun for me. Too many people depend on me to do a good job to slack off eating and drinking and being merry.”

She parked in a small lot at the end of the main drag of Highland, close to Bubba’s Fix-it Shop. A giant sign with a hammer hitting a nail marked the entrance. “Bubba will be able to help you. I’m going to face the dragon in All Things Bright and Beautiful. Do you want to meet at the Brown Cow for a coffee?”

“Caffeine is a solid plan.” He gave her a crisp salute and stepped through Bubba’s door, the tinkle of the bell following her around the corner.

Normally, she loved strolling through town, window-shopping and watching the tourists be charmed by Highland. If the brick fronts and flower baskets and tartan ribbons weren’t Technicolor bright, she could imagine the street as the setting for a black-and-white TV show. It was picturesque.

But this morning was different. Every step down the sidewalk built her sense of dread. Sweat dampened the back of her neck, and her hands turned clammy.

A banner stretched across the street advertised the festival, as did flyers stuck in every business window. The festival was as important for the town as it was for Stonehaven. This year was especially crucial because of the repairs Stonehaven required. Besides the new roof, the gutters and shutters needed to be replaced and a drainage issue at the barn had resulted in rotting boards.

The loan waiting for approval would help, but a profitable festival would go a long way to defraying the costs. And part of a successful festival was filling all the vendor booths.

She wouldn’t go home until she had Loretta’s deposit. If she couldn’t manufacture real confidence, she’d have to fake some. Smile pasted on, check. Shoulders squared, check. Stride long, check.

“Izzy, dearheart!” A voice creaky with age stopped her on the sidewalk.

Izzy turned to see Mrs. Fortunato shuffling toward her and waving a hanky embroidered with her initials. She never left home without one.

“How is your arthritis faring this morning, Mrs. F?” Izzy leaned down to give her a gentle hug.

Mrs. Fortunato held up a hand with swollen knuckles. “Fair to middling. I was able to play the organ at church last Sunday. You should have been there.” After a reproachful frown was aimed at Izzy, her face cleared. “Have you finished the next chapter?”

Mrs. Fortunato was not only a church organist, but Izzy’s former English teacher and one of the only people she let read her work. “Not yet. The festival is keeping me hopping. Do you think I’m on the right track with this one?”

“You’re getting closer every manuscript.”

It wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement.

Mrs. Fortunato tapped her nose and fell back into her teacher pose as if she hadn’t retired a decade earlier. “It’s missing something. A bit of magic. I can’t quite put my finger on it though.”

Izzy wanted to pull at her hair and scream. It’s the same vague statement she’d gotten in more than one rejection. No one could tell her what was missing from her writing, which meant she couldn’t figure out how to fix it. The feedback veered from simply frustrating to totally disheartening.

“As soon as I have something ready, I’ll send it over.” Izzy tried to smile, but it was limp.

Mrs. Fortunato patted her hand. “You always were my favorite, Izzy.”

“Ditto, Mrs. F.”

After seeing Mrs. Fortunato into her car, Izzy pushed through the door of the All Things Bright and Beautiful shop, triggering an electronic tone.

Scents of potpourri and candles tussled for dominance, so strong she could almost taste dried rose and lavender. Bric-a-brac made in China jumbled with antiques on bookcases and shelving and tables around the store. The excitement of a treasure hunt imbued the atmosphere. In fact, Izzy had found Rupert hanging out on a shelf with a set of porcelain frogs a few years earlier.

Loretta floated from the back in a loose tunic that fluttered with her every movement. In her mid-fifties and still trim and attractive, Loretta projected a genteel Southerness that was fading from subsequent generations. Not that Izzy was fooled by the other woman’s demure expression and small, folded hands. Loretta had a sharp business acumen and a will to survive.

“Nice to see you, Izzy.” Her smile was wide and white but not warm in the least.

“I hope you’re doing well.” Izzy did her best to project professionalism, but her voice wavered.

“Just the usual aches and pains. What are you in the market for this fine morning?”

“I’m wrapping up some loose ends when it comes to tables and tents for the festival.” Izzy tapped the folder she held to her chest like a shield.

“Oh really? How are vendor bookings coming along?”

“Swiftly. We’ve got new craft vendors coming from the Carolinas.”

“Excellent news.” Loretta moved away to rearrange a display of tartan scarves. “I’ve noticed your mother has been … distracted. I hope the festival doesn’t suffer.”

Even with the air-conditioning, Izzy fought the need to flap her shirt. Loretta had located Izzy’s vulnerability in record time. “We have everything under control. In fact, I’m here because we haven’t received your booth deposit.”

“Your mother and I have known each other forever, Izzy. She’s never had an issue giving me a little extra time.” Loretta turned away as if the conversation was complete to her satisfaction. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a delivery I must see to in the back. Toodle-oo, honey. Let me know if I can help with anything else.”

Loretta disappeared through a hanging curtain to the storeroom, leaving Izzy at a loss. What would her mom do in the situation? The truth of the matter was that it would never have come to this point. Her mom would have gotten the money long before now.

Discarding the options of stalking through the curtain and demanding the money or staging a sit-in, Izzy chose to retreat and regroup outside. The bricks retained a hint of the night’s chill, and she pressed her forehead against the rough wall.

“Things went that well, did they?” Although the voice came from behind her, Alasdair’s brogue was unmistakable.

“I knew I should have changed into pants and a turtleneck.”

His laugh echoed, and she turned her head, but didn’t lift it off the brick wall. Alasdair propped his shoulder against the bricks and ducked his head to meet her eyes. Her gaze coasted down his body and back up to his face.

“What did you do?” She shifted until she faced him, mirroring his stance against the wall.

“It was either this or a tartan T-shirt that made my eyes cross. Plus, my shoes were still wet from the soaking you gave them yesterday. I didn’t fancy contracting trench foot.”

His blue button-down had been traded for a black T-shirt with the Scottish flag printed on the front that molded to every muscle of his chest and arms. While he still wore his dress pants, flip-flops had replaced his wingtips. The more casual look suited him as well if not better than Mr. Town and Country.

“They didn’t have any shorts?”

“My choices were a pair that would fall to my ankles given the slightest tug or a pair that would rip along the seam the first time I bent over.”

Thankful to have a wall for support, she blinked and stared at the zipper of his pants, wishing her imagination was a little less active.

“I look like a fool, don’t I? You don’t have to be nice.” He tugged at the hem of the T-shirt. Was that a hint of self-consciousness reddening his cheeks or the start of heatstroke?

“You look…” Hot. Sexy. Mouthwatering. “… like a Highlander. A native of Highland, Georgia, that is.”

He nudged his chin toward the door of All Things Bright and Beautiful. “Did you slay the dragon?”

“No, I got singed.”

“What can I do to help?” He raised an eyebrow, the gray of his eyes appearing slivery against the darkness of his stubble.

“Can you perform a personality transplant?”

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Tell me what happened.”

She beat back the blush his words incited. “She blew me off. I’ll have to send Mom down to deal with her.”

“Knowing how to handle confrontation takes practice. I promise you can do it with a little coaching.”

“Who’s going to coach me?”

He grabbed his heart like she’d delivered a mortal blow. “Ach, you wound me. Most of my job involves negotiation. The key is to be firm yet friendly.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“Then you have to be firm and not friendly, but let’s go with step one for a start.”

She didn’t like asking for help or admitting a weakness, but she had a feeling Alasdair wouldn’t hold it against her. “Alright, lay it on me.”

They went over various scenarios and practiced with Alasdair playing the part of Loretta. His ridiculous feminine Southern accent and playacting made it almost fun. He took her by the shoulders and turned her to face the door, his stubble grazing the shell of her ear as he rumbled. “You can do this, Isabel. Trust me.”

She put her hand on top of his and looked over her shoulder at him. “Will you come in with me for moral support?”

He nodded, and she led the way into the shop. While she would never classify herself as confident, Alasdair had managed to instill some conviction. It might not be easy, but she could do this.

Loretta sat behind the counter on a stool and flipped through a magazine. Her urgent delivery had either been very small or an excuse. She glanced up, but flipped another page, her attention on her magazine. “Back so soon?”

Alasdair veered toward a display of Highland souvenir magnets.

Izzy took a deep breath and pasted on a smile. “I must get the vendor booths verified.”

“You know I’ll be there. I’m there every year.”

“Yes, you are. And you know that a deposit is required every year. The festival has upfront costs that are defrayed by the vendor deposits.”

“Honey, you’re being unreasonable. Your mother has never had an issue letting me pay at my convenience.” Loretta’s voice edged toward annoyed, shedding its veil of politeness.

Was she being unreasonable? Should she back off? It was true Loretta had always paid. Eventually. Alasdair cleared his throat drawing her gaze. He gave her a subtle thumbs-up. His confidence had her shoulders unfurling from an inadvertent slump.

“Your delay is inconveniencing me, Loretta. Deposits were due two weeks ago. At this point, I can’t guarantee your usual spot.” Izzy consulted a sheet in her folder that was actually a diagram of where the portable potties would go. “I’ve got a very talented potter from the Carolinas that I’m sure will draw a crowd. He’s planning a demonstration.”

“I’m going to call Rose,” Loretta said, dropping her smile and picking up her cell phone.

Loretta was her elder, and elders were meant to be deferred to and respected. Izzy fought feeling like a little kid in trouble. She had never made the transition to adult in Loretta’s eyes. And whose fault was that? Not Loretta’s, but Izzy’s. She snapped her folder shut and tucked it under her arm.

“You do that. In the meantime, I can’t guarantee your spot over a vendor who chooses to put down a deposit. Have a good day, Loretta.”

She walked away on legs transformed into pudding—the Southern kind—fighting the urge to crawl back and apologize. A warm hand slipped to her lower back, offering support in more ways than one.

“Don’t look back. You did well. Very well.” His whisper held a smile.

They made it two steps down the sidewalk when Loretta pushed the door to her shop open, an envelope in hand. “Here. The deposit.”

“Thank you.” Izzy slipped it into the pocket of her folder without opening it.

“I expect my usual location.”

“Of course.” Izzy held Loretta’s narrowed eyes and put her hand out. A peace offering and a sign of equality. After a moment’s hesitation, Loretta took Izzy’s hand in a firm shake, a new respect sprouting between them.

Half a block away, the adrenaline rushing Izzy’s body exploded in a slightly hysterical laugh and fist pump. “I can’t freaking believe I did it!”

“I knew you could.”

“How could you possibly know? Loretta has railroaded me for years.”

“You stood up to me and to Gareth.”

“That’s different.”

“How so?”

“I was—am—protecting my mother.” She put her finger in his face as a warning.

He grabbed her finger and pulled it away. “After seeing Gareth and your mother together, how can you possibly suspect their affection isn’t genuine?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. She feared her mother’s affection for Gareth was one hundred and ten percent genuine. Now she was less concerned about Gareth stealing something than breaking it—namely her mother’s heart.

Izzy stepped in front of Alasdair and forced him to a stop. “I assume you’re aware of Gareth’s circumstances back in Scotland?”

His expression went bland. “Somewhat.”

“Would he ever leave Scotland? For good, I mean?”

Alasdair drew in a breath, but didn’t answer beyond a small shake of his head that might have been an “I don’t know” or a flat-out “no way.” Either didn’t bode well.

“My mother will never leave Highland.”

“Are you certain about that?”

She wasn’t certain. Unable to answer, she walked on.

Her mother was a romantic. A romantic who had given up a promising ballet career to move to the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains for love. Would she give up Stonehaven and move halfway around the world for Gareth?

“No use in worrying over something that will never come to pass, now is there?” she asked, not expecting or wanting an answer. The Brown Cow Coffee and Creamery beckoned them in with a bracing waft of fresh, strong coffee.

As she was most mornings, Mildred was behind the counter. Unlike most mornings when she acted like taking an order was a personal interruption, she popped off the stool with a smile aimed squarely at Alasdair.

“If it ain’t one of our genuine Highlanders.” She drawled out the word “gen-u-ine” to make it rhyme with swine. “I’m not sure I got around to introducing myself the other morning. I’m Mildred, but you can call me Millie.”

“Nice to meet you, Millie. My name’s Alasdair. Tea, if you please.”

“Iced or hot?”

“Hot. I don’t want dysentery.” Alasdair winked at Izzy and a smile turned her lips before she could stop it. How could they already share private jokes?

“Sure thing, Alasdair.” Millie said his name with satisfaction then poured hot water into a to-go cup and plopped a basket with an assortment of teas on the counter for him to choose from. “The honey ain’t too bad if’n you’re aiming to be healthy.”

Alasdair chose a classic Earl Grey. While it was steeping, Millie stared at him with slowly blinking cow eyes and a grin so wide a strip of pink gum was visible at the top of her teeth. “Anything else I can get you? A cinnamon bun or a blueberry muffin?”

“No, thank you, lass.” Alasdair’s lips quirked.

When Millie didn’t turn her brown cow eyes in Izzy’s direction, she cleared her throat and stepped forward. “Could I have a to-go coffee, Millie?”

Millie pried her attention from Alasdair with obvious difficulty. “Sorry, Izzy. I kind of forgot you were there.”

“We can’t all be tall, hot as sin, and in possession of a sexy accent, I suppose,” Izzy said dryly.

Alasdair swung around with wide eyes, and Izzy’s snicker got stuck in her throat. Thinking it was bad enough, why had the opinion migrated to her mouth?

“I mean, if you’re into that sort of thing. Which I’m not. At all. I prefer the complete opposite, in fact.” Why was she still talking?

“Short, ugly, and with a terrible accent?” Alasdair tossed his tea bag and sipped from the steaming cup, his eyes dancing over the rim. He propped his hand on the counter and leaned closer to Millie. “Do you know a man who fits that description, Millie?”

“No shortage of short, ugly men around here.” Millie handed Izzy her coffee. “Holt’s not bad to look at though, eh Izzy?”

Alasdair’s eyebrows hunched low with a scowl to match. “Who’s Holt?

“Izzy’s beau.”

“He’s not!” Izzy exclaimed.

“He’d sure like to be though, wouldn’t he?” Millie elbowed Alasdair’s arm. “He’s been pining for our Izzy going on two years. Local farmer. Soybeans and pigs mostly. He’s done well for himself even if he does trail eau de manure. But you’d never be short of barbecue or bacon, so that’s a plus.”

“A surplus of pork products is not a good enough reason to date someone,” Izzy finally said.

“Or is it?” Millie asked as if she was prescient. “I sense something big happening soon, Izzy. Be on the lookout for a sign.”

Old gossip about Millie’s grandmother having the sight sent Izzy shuffling backward toward the door. Had Millie inherited the ability? “A sign like a plague of locusts? I think I’ll pass. We’ll catch you later. Alasdair and I have to pick up decorations over at the church.”

Alasdair followed, albeit reluctantly and fighting laughter.

Millie called out, “You’re going to sign up for the competitions, aren’t you, Alasdair?”

He stopped at the door. “Competitions?”

“The athletic competitions. The caber. Hammer and stone throws. I’ll bet you’d be great.” Millie’s cow eyes and gummy smile were back. “Izzy and her mom give the winners a trophy and a kiss. I’ll bet Holt enters every single competition so he can get some of your sugar, Izzy.” She waggled her eyebrows.

“I’m afraid I won’t still be here for the festival,” Alasdair said.

“That’s a shame.” Millie’s smile had turned into a pout, and Izzy couldn’t tamp down her own disappointment.

Alasdair gestured Izzy through the door. Once they were out of earshot, he asked, “What did she mean by getting your sugar?”

“Sugar is Southern-speak for a kiss. If you give someone sugar, you’re kissing them.”

“This Holt bloke is after your sugar and is willing to win it by engaging in the Highland games competitions? Sounds like something out of Robin Hood.” The tease in his voice skated on the edge of laughter.

“It’s not like I’m going to French the winner. It’s a closed-mouth peck.” Izzy chewed the inside of her cheek and shot him a side-eye glance. As nonchalantly as possible, she said, “You’ll be missing a good time if you jet back to London before the festival.”

“It can’t be helped, I’m afraid. I’ve been gone too long as it is.” His laughter morphed to something closer to longing. He stopped on the sidewalk and looked up and down the street. “I’ll admit when I first drove up, Highland seemed like the punch line to a joke.”

“And now?”

“It’s growing on me.”

“Like a fungus? Maybe I’ll suggest that if we update our catchphrase.” She tapped the writing on the pocket of his T-shirt. “Stay awhile. Let us grow on you like fungus.”

All joking aside, she was proud of Highland. Maybe to outsiders Highland was a gimmick that provided a day or weekend of fun for tourists to laugh about later. Except, Izzy remembered what it had been like as a kid before the festival had taken hold. More storefronts had been empty and derelict than occupied. The gaily painted brick fronts had been blackened from time and inattention. Most young people left for college and never came back.

Izzy would never forget the wonder and excitement of attending her first festival as a seven-year-old. It started as a small county fair with a Scottish flair. The bagpipes and dancing had been magical, and that magic had breathed new life into the town. Now, they embraced and nurtured and protected Highland’s small town charm at all costs.

Millie had stepped outside the Brown Cow and was leaning on a broom and talking to a couple of tourists who were taking selfies with their phones. Mrs. Younts, the librarian, was watering the red cascading flower baskets hanging on the iron light pole in front of the library.

A man in tartan britches tucked into black rubber boots bustled toward them. Dr. Jameson was a veterinarian, the mayor, and the leader of the Highland Pipe and Drum Corps. He took all his jobs seriously. He was a bachelor and an eccentric and was dedicated to all things Scottish. The perfect ambassador for their town.

“Izzy! Glad I ran into you before practice.” His smile was a mile wide and all encompassing.

“Dr. Jameson. This is Alasdair Blackmoor, a friend of Gareth’s.” Izzy performed the requisite introductions with a true smile.

A small, wiry man with graying hair and boundless energy, Dr. Jameson took Alasdair’s hand in an energetic shake, looking up and smiling into his face. “A real pleasure to meet yet another Scot. Believe it or not, we don’t see many of the real thing around here.” His old-fashioned drawl juxtaposed humorously with his all-Scottish all-the-time wardrobe.

“Nice to make your acquaintance as well.” Alasdair chuffed a charming laugh. “To be fair, I’m only half Scottish, although I grew up in Glasgow.”

“Half, whole, still a pleasure.” Dr. Jameson looked back and forth between them. “Are you helping our Izzy with the festival?”

“She’s got things well in hand and doesn’t need my paltry help.” Alasdair said it like he meant it.

“How are tickets to the opening night whisky tasting selling?” Izzy asked.

“Like hotcakes as usual. Preacher Hopkins left the storeroom door unlocked for one of us to pick up the table decorations. I’ve got practice then a foaling to attend. Would you mind running by and storing them in the barn?”

“I had already planned on it. Even better that I’ve got a pair of extra hands with me.”

Dr. Jameson was off like a dervish, jogging into the street, almost getting clipped by the bumper of a truck, then stopping to have a laughing conversation with the driver.

“Did you just volunteer me for manual labor?”

“Hey, you’re the one that keeps offering to help.” They strolled down the sidewalk toward Bubba’s Fix-it shop and her truck. “Is Bubba going to fix you up?”

“It will be ready before he closes up today.”

“Is twelve hours of no contact killing you?”

She was teasing, but his voice was thoughtful when he answered. “It’s been refreshing. Freeing even.”

Mr. Timmerman poked his head out of the Dapper Highlander like a turtle. His attention to detail and his keen eye made him an excellent tailor and purveyor of men’s clothes. “Excuse me, Izzy. I was wondering if you could take a tartan to Mr. Connors for his approval.”

“Sure, no problem.”

“Come in and cool down while I grab the sample.” Mr. Timmerman slid back inside and disappeared into a back room.

Izzy ran her fingers over a traditional red and green tartan cloth that reminded her of Christmas. Alasdair fingered the hem of a kilt adorning a headless mannequin who also wore knee socks and fancy black shoes.

“Do you have a closetful?” Izzy came up next to him.

“I vaguely remember donning one for a school play when I was young, but I don’t have one of my own.” His smile didn’t release into a frown, but she sensed a burgeoning tension around his mouth. “If my mum could have, I think she would have filtered my Scottish blood out.”

She blinked up at Alasdair, his stare boring through the mannequin to a time and place beyond where they stood. She wanted to drag him back from the cliff’s edge of sadness, but considering her track record of saying the wrong thing, she remained silent.

Still standing shoulder to shoulder, she brushed the back of his hand with her fingertips. His hand jerked, but instead of scuttling away like a crab, his fingers linked with hers, their palms pressed together.

Mr. Timmerman returned with a length of beautiful green and gray tartan fabric. A pair of reading glasses had scooched down his nose, held in place by the bulbous tip. His ruddy cheeks and barrel-like body meant he had been tapped as Highland’s Santa in the Christmas parade for the last decade or more.

“Gareth asked me if I could obtain his family’s tartan, and I believe I managed it.” Mr. Timmerman ran a hand over the folded sample as if it was shot with gold thread and precious.

Alasdair took the tartan out of his hands before Izzy could reach for it. He traced the lines of plaid with a finger. “It’s lovely.”

“It is rather. Not as vibrant as some, but I prefer the understated colors. I imagine the men wearing it would blend with the trees and grasses for successful hunts.”

“What you’re saying is this is the tartan version of our camouflage?” Izzy grinned, but both men ignored her. Mr. Timmerman had tilted his head to study Alasdair.

“Are you and Gareth kin?” Mr. Timmerman asked.

Alasdair pressed his lips together and bobbed his head in what could have been a yes or a no. “We’re friends.”

When it became clear Alasdair wasn’t offering additional insights, Mr. Timmerman stepped back with a salesmanlike smile. “If you’re in the market for a kilt for the games, come and see me.”

With Alasdair still in possession of the fabric, Izzy led them back outside. He glanced over his shoulder. “How does a specialty store like that survive in such a small town?”

“Mr. Timmerman has orders come in from all over the United States and even other countries. He’s the real deal when it comes to kitting out people for reunions or Highland games or simply because they love the look.”

Alasdair made a sound of disbelief. “It boggles the mind that many people want to live in the past.”

Izzy rolled her eyes. “You haven’t spent enough time in the South. As a people, Southerners are obsessed with the past, no matter how problematic and complicated. But you should be proud of your Scottish roots.”

As if the universe was trying to prove something, a single clear note from a bagpipe reverberated off the brick to settle in her chest. The Highland Pipe and Drum Corps had commenced their practice in the courtyard behind the Dancing Jig.

More bagpipes joined in, and the march they played made her heart ache with an emotion she couldn’t categorize. Sometimes it was better to feel than understand. She and Alasdair locked eyes, and she grabbed his forearm to strengthen the connection.

“Do you feel it?” she whispered.

His lips parted but he didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. She could sense the effect the music had on him. They remained locked together on the sidewalk for the duration of the march. Izzy had a vague recognition of people walking past them, but it was like they were invisible to everyone but each other.

The note faded and clapping erupted from the tourists and locals alike. The noise broke the spell binding them. Alasdair pulled his arm from her grasp and rubbed the heel of his hand over his breastbone.

“I left Glasgow for Cambridge with conflicted feelings about Scotland. I even tried to shed my accent and adopt something more posh sounding, but I soon gave that up as impossible. Whenever I get upset or excited, my brogue intensifies.”

“Why were you so conflicted?”

“Because my da was Scottish and I wanted no part of him after … after everything that happened.”

All Izzy knew was that his father had died in a car accident. Whatever else had happened seemed equally as devastating as the loss. Not sure if he would welcome her prying, she bit her lip and worked to formulate a reply.

“Izzy!” A familiar deep baritone had her tensing and looking around like a hunted animal. Holt Pierson took ground-swallowing lopes across the street toward them. “I was going to ride out to Stonehaven this afternoon.” Holt towered over her and had at least three inches on Alasdair, who he favored with a curious glance.

Whereas Alasdair moved with a feline, arresting grace, Holt was more like a bull. He was attractive in a good-old-boy way, his smile ready and wide, his blond hair sunstreaked, and his blue eyes crinkled in the corners from being outside. He was open and honest and uncomplicated. Because Izzy’s mind never seemed to slow, his simple approach to life both attracted and repelled her.

Even though there was absolutely nothing going on with Alasdair—or Holt for that matter—Izzy’s face went hot. Holt had been forthright about his interest in her. It had been refreshing and flattering and convenient. Except for the very inconvenient fact that she wasn’t drawn to him.

She’d hoped she could cultivate an attraction, like tending a fragile green shoot in the garden. But that shoot withered and died right there on the sidewalk between them. Her instant attraction to Alasdair hadn’t required tending; it grew like she had planted magic beans.

Forcing a polite smile, Izzy said, “I got your messages. I’m so sorry I didn’t call you back, but I’ve been super busy with the festival. Are you entering the games this year?”

“Of course. I have to keep the streak alive.” Holt curled his right arm and made his biceps strain at his T-shirt. He had won the Laird of the Games athletic prize three years running. It was given to the man who averaged the highest over all the events.

Holt turned his focus on Alasdair, his eyes narrowing as if was assessing how far he could toss the other man. Alasdair met the semi-civilized aggression with his own brand of belligerence, his arms crossed over his chest, his jaw set. The cloud of testosterone and posturing confused her.

Darting a glance back and forth between them, she said, “Where are my manners? Alasdair Blackmoor, Holt Pierson.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Alasdair stuck a hand out.

Holt stared at Alasdair’s outstretched hand for a heartbeat too long before meeting him halfway for a perfunctory shake. The toothy smile that spread over Holt’s face didn’t lighten the contentious atmosphere. “Likewise. Sounds to me like you’re kin to Ms. Rose’s Scottish friend.”

“Not kin, but a mate of Gareth’s, yes.”

“Will you be entering the games?” Holt asked.

“Unfortunately, I won’t still be here.”

“Oh well.” Holt flicked his gaze up and down Alasdair. “You don’t look like you’ve ever handled a caber anyhow.”

“I can’t say I make a habit of tossing around trees,” Alasdair said as coolly as James Bond facing down a nemesis.

“Izzy and I went through school together.” Holt’s voice was oddly territorial. “We’ve been friends for years now.”

“That’s nice. How long have we known each other, Isabel?” Alasdair raised his eyebrows, the twinkle of amusement in his eyes surprising her.

“Two days?” How was that possible? Already Alasdair had planted roots in her head like kudzu.

“No one calls her Isabel.” Holt snorted. “She hates it.”

“Do you hate it?” Alasdair cocked his head and regarded her, waiting for her to confirm or deny.

She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been called Izzy by almost everyone. It had been her daddy’s nickname for her. “Isabel” belonged to a ballerina or a socialite who dressed to impress. Someone sophisticated. “Izzy” belonged to an awkward girl who fell off stages and too often said the wrong thing.

Except hearing her given name roll off Alasdair’s tongue in his husky brogue made her insides tingle like she’d plugged into an electrical source. “I like it when you call me Isabel.”

Alasdair and Izzy exchanged a smile that left Holt out.

“You mind if I borrow Izzy for a second?” Holt was an unwelcome insertion.

“Isabel isn’t an umbrella to be loaned, but if you’d like a moment of privacy, by all means…” Alasdair linked his hands behind his back and strolled away.

“That was rude, don’t you think?” Holt asked.

Izzy didn’t give Holt the agreement he sought. She stared at Alasdair’s broad back as he stopped to window-shop at Frannie’s Antiques and Florist. With effort, she returned her focus to Holt. “What’s up?”

A deep nervous rumble came from Holt’s throat. “I was wondering if you want to get dinner with me this week. I had a great time the other night and … well, I’d like to see you again.”

A second date. She hadn’t even been sure their first dinner had been a date until he’d picked up the check at the end. She and Holt had known each other since kindergarten. Through playground antics and acne and prom (which they had attended with different people). The transition from old friends to a romantic couple had seemed a stretch a week ago. Now, it felt downright impossible.

When she didn’t immediately answer, his voice took on a cajoling tone. “If not dinner, how about a drink at the Dancing Jig? I actually had an idea for the festival I wanted to run by you. Come on. No pressure. Please?”

Except, he was pressuring her. The Piersons were supportive of the festival and sponsored one of the food tents. She didn’t want to jeopardize that relationship by hurting Holt’s feelings, even if accepting left her with a squirmy feeling in her stomach. “Okay. A quick drink to discuss your idea. I’m slammed right now.”

They firmed up the time. Izzy walked away feeling like she’d made a bargain with the devil. After only two days, Alasdair knew more about her than Holt did, which was disturbing on multiple fronts. Why was she allowing herself to get close to a man who was leaving in days? Or was that exactly why she felt safe enough to share with him?

“What did your erstwhile suitor want?” Alasdair asked when she joined him in front of Frannie’s, the explosive display of flowers and greenery beautiful.

The admission she’d agreed to meet Holt for drinks got stuck in her throat, though she couldn’t say why. Alasdair wouldn’t care, and she wasn’t interested in Holt anyway. She and Alasdair might even share a laugh over it. Nonetheless, the not-date felt like a breach of a trust—a breach that was wholly in her imagination.

“The Piersons have been festival sponsors for years.” Nervous heat flared at her non-answer.

“Isn’t that nice,” Alasdair said in not very nice voice.

Unable to read the situation and feeling uncomfortable, she shifted and restarted their stroll. It was times like this when her mouth ran away from her brain. Not this time though. She consciously steered them to a different topic. “You know, if you keep growing a beard, you and Gareth will look like father and son.”

It took her two steps to realize he’d stopped in his tracks.

“Why would you say that?” The tension pulling his mouth into a frown gave her the impression of anger. But why?

“I don’t know. Mr. Timmerman got me thinking about how much you favor Gareth.”

“Gareth is not my da. My da is dead.” His voice was flat and emotionless.

“I know. Sorry I brought it up.” She waved toward the white steeple soaring behind them to stabilize the shaky ground she found herself on with him and gestured toward the truck. “Let’s head over to the church and get the centerpieces and stuff.”

The church sat behind the main thoroughfare on an oak-lined street. Built in the late 1800s, the church was a picturesque white clapboard building set with stain-glassed windows and a tall steeple. The deep red front doors were bright and welcoming against the white, but she bypassed them to circle around back to the bricked two-story extension added in the seventies to accommodate a growing congregation.

She parked close to the utilitarian doors of the entrance and let down the tailgate to make loading easier. As promised, the church was unlocked. The white concrete-block hallway was oppressively quiet and Izzy found herself tiptoeing.

The storeroom’s dark gray metal door stood ajar at the end of a dim hallway. This part of the church smelled like crayons and cleaners. As a kid, she had spent every Sunday morning in one of the rooms learning Bible stories. Since she’d started writing, she skipped church in favor of working on her manuscript, showing up sporadically and only at her mom’s prodding.

“I’ll pull the stuff we need into the hall if you want to load it in the truck bed.” She kept her tone brisk and brief. The mood between them had shifted and she didn’t know how to get them back to their earlier ease.

With the door wedged three feet open with a wooden triangle, she slipped inside the crammed room, jamming her toe on the doorstop. She pulled the chain of a single light bulb swinging from the ceiling to reveal a catchall of items. Paper and pens and glass votives and silk flowers. Christmas decorations took up one corner and Easter another. An entire shelf was dedicated to the glory of tartan.

She squatted and pulled a cardboard box from under a length of fake garland, opening it to verify the contents. Red and green tapers lined the box. A deepening shadow cut across the room and spun her around. Alasdair was fully inside, examining a figurine stashed on a shelf. The door was swinging shut, gaining momentum as it strived to make fools of the unsuspecting.

“Don’t”—she barked the word and scrambled for the knob, finishing on a whisper of dread as the clang of it shutting faded into silence—“let the door close.”