Izzy slipped out of her room. The shower was running and all she could imagine was a wet, naked Alasdair. Part of her wanted to bust through the door like the Kool-Aid Man, but most of her wanted to curl up like a pillbug and hide under a rock.
Their kiss in the church closet had been a revelation. She’d never felt comfortable in her own skin. As a child, she’d been aware the grace her mom possessed hadn’t made it into her DNA. Then, as she grew older, her imagination became a source of praise from teachers and ridicule from kids in school.
As a result, she hadn’t dated until college, and even then, she’d never been a hundred percent sure what to do with her hands or her tongue or if she should talk less and do other stuff with her mouth.
But the darkness had stripped all her insecurities away. She’d given herself over to Alasdair’s kiss and hadn’t worried about anything. His kiss had even drowned out the humming anxiety over the festival.
The mood flipped as soon as the defective closet door had opened, and she hadn’t been able to think of a single thing to say on their awkward ride back to Stonehaven. In fact, after she had taken refuge in the barn, she began to question herself. Had it even happened?
She touched her still tender lips. No, it had happened. Even now, her body buzzed in the aftermath as if she’d had a shot of good Scottish whisky. Yet, he’d asked if he needed to apologize like he’d bumped into a stranger on the street.
A glass of wine called. And food. It was almost dinner, and she still hadn’t made up for her missed lunch. At least, she could count on her mom and Gareth acting as a buffer during dinner so she wouldn’t have to pretend she hadn’t enjoyed kissing Alasdair. Heck, without them around, she might be tempted to repeat the mistake until they made another, bigger mistake.
Gareth and her mom were in the kitchen talking in low voices in an embrace like they were slow dancing. Her mom’s pink and white wraparound dress and heels complimented Gareth’s dark gray slacks, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and blue and green tartan vest. They looked good together. More than good, they looked happy.
Izzy cleared her throat upon entering.
“Darlin’, how did things go with Loretta? Let me apologize again for dropping that hot potato in your lap. I called the other delinquent vendors by the way.” Her mom didn’t step away from Gareth, only turned and leaned back against his chest. While her mom was comfortable charming men and women alike, this was the first time Izzy had seen her charmed in return.
“I squeezed the deposit out of Loretta and I hope she and I have reached a new understanding.” A hamper stood on the kitchen island. “Aren’t you two a tad overdressed for a romantic picnic?”
Her mom exchanged a glance with Gareth, a blush coming to her cheeks. “Actually, the hamper is for you and Alasdair.”
“What?” She really hadn’t meant to yell, but the word echoed back against the kitchen tile.
“Not romantic, of course. Just a friendly picnic. Gareth offered to take Alasdair to the river earlier, but I had already arranged for the two of us to meet Mike and Sally at Clarkson’s for dinner. We were hoping you’d step in and take Alasdair down to the river. You know all the best spots anyway. Do you mind?”
Her heart thudded so hard and painfully, Izzy glanced down surprised not to see an arrow protruding from her chest. Mike and Sally had been her parents’ best friends. They had hosted parties together and had gone to dinner as a foursome on a regular basis.
“Mike and Sally. Wow. A double date just like you and Daddy used to go on.” Izzy had gotten used to seeing Gareth and her mom kiss and cuddle and whisper sweet nothings. Her mom deserved to be happy, and Gareth made her happy, but this date weaved Gareth into their lives in Highland like plucking old stitching out and remaking the fabric.
It was a shock, but Izzy would adjust. And until she did, she’d fake her pleasure at the turn of events. “I’d be happy to show Alasdair the river. You guys have fun. Make sure Gareth tries the catfish.”
Her mom slipped from Gareth’s arms, and after giving him a pointed look—which signaled his retreat—she took Izzy by the shoulders. “I know this is difficult.”
Izzy pretended to misunderstand. “Entertaining Alasdair will be easy as long as you packed BLTs.”
“Of course, I did, but that’s not what I was referring to and you know it.” Her mom tucked a piece of Izzy’s still-damp hair behind her ear like she had when she was little.
“I know I should be used to it by now, but sometimes I miss Daddy so much.” Izzy clenched her teeth like a dam keeping flood waters at bay.
A crease marred her mom’s brow. “Me too, honey. I always will. Your dad was special and unique and we had a wonderful marriage.”
Izzy filled in the word left hanging unsaid. “But?”
“But”—her mom shrugged—“I’m lonely. Was lonely. I didn’t realize how much until I found Gareth.”
“You have me.” As soon as it was out of her mouth, Izzy recognized the naivete of her declaration.
“You’ll understand someday.” Her mom’s smile hinted at a puzzle Izzy didn’t have the key to decipher. “Perhaps even sooner than you think.”
Heat flushed through Izzy like a wildfire sparked by memories of a dark closet and a hot half-Scot. “What are you talking about? Nothing happened.”
“Not yet, but Holt won’t give up. He’s always liked you. Has he asked you out again?”
“No. Yes.” Izzy ran a hand through her hair to attempt to reorder her jumbled thoughts, surprised Alasdair’s kiss didn’t have an outward manifestation everyone could see like a scarlet letter. “Holt and I are getting a drink together at the Dancing Jig, but only to discuss the festival. He’s nice, but—”
“Give him a chance, darlin’. You might be surprised at what happens.” Her mom leaned in to give her a hug, and Izzy nodded into her shoulder. Something niggled as being wrong. No, not wrong, just different. Her mom was wearing a new perfume.
“You smell nice,” Izzy said when her mom pulled away. “And look amazing.”
Her mom popped an exaggerated hip and slicked her bob down, patting the underside like an old-fashioned ingenue. “Gareth got me a new perfume, and I got the dress down at Emmy’s shop.”
“Have fun, and tell Mike and Sally hello,” Izzy said with a smile she didn’t have to fake this time.
Her mom backed away. “You try to have fun too.”
Izzy opened her mouth then shut it so hard her teeth clicked. She remained in the kitchen after her mom and Gareth left. In the quiet, the creaks of Alasdair walking around in his room above her head was loud.
Now not only did she not have her mom and Gareth as a buffer, but they were headed into the woods together where anything could happen. Heat she couldn’t blame on the weather or her recent shower rushed her body, and she leaned over the kitchen island and laid her cheek against the cool countertop.
The stairs signaled Alasdair’s approach like a warning siren. Casual, she needed to look casual. Ending up with her elbow propped on the counter at an awkward height, her other hand on her hip, and her torso in an uncomfortable curl, she slapped on a smile.
Alasdair stopped in the doorway to the kitchen, his eyes narrowing. “Why do you look like you just killed someone and are about to ask me to help bury the body?”
Izzy harrumphed and straightened, fighting unexpected giggles. Any lingering awkwardness evaporated. “I was going for inviting and friendly.”
“You might want to practice in the mirror before you unleash it on the tourists.” He wore a pair of jeans and a white undershirt but no button-down or shoes. “I was looking for Gareth. He promised me a walk.”
“Mom and Gareth left to have dinner in town with friends.” His shoulders slumped, his disappointment palpable. Her offer came out sunnier than she’d planned. “I’m offering myself as a substitute. I know all the good places anyway. You’ll have way more fun with me.”
“Of that I have no doubt.” Was that innuendo in his voice? She didn’t have time to evaluate when he moved toward the hamper. “What’s for dinner?”
“BLTs.”
“Sounds delicious.
“It will be.” She swung the basket to the crook of her arm. “Let’s go.”
“How’s the festival coming along? I feel as if Gareth and I have been a distraction.”
She had work to do assigning the booths to vendors and double-checking with the booking agents for the bands and verifying the porta-potties would be set up on time. A million little details awaited. While she hadn’t played hooky from work in a long time, she used to escape to the woods on a regular basis to avoid homework.
“The calls will keep for tomorrow,” she said simply.
The heat had broken and orange streaked the sky, promising a spectacular sunset. The river would be cool and refreshing, and the meadow overrun with flowers just like in the stories she’d used to make up. A frisson of anticipation electrified her nerves.
They both stuck their feet into flip-flops and set off side by side, stepping from the patio to cut across the field toward the line of trees. Taking the hamper from her, he said, “Allow me.”
“Thanks.” She didn’t know what to do with her hands now, so she linked them behind her back. “It’s been ages since I’ve been to the swimming hole.”
“I don’t have a suit.”
“We can just put our feet in. The water will feel good.” The grasses and flowers brushed against her jeans-clad legs.
“This field is a true wonder.” The appreciation for something new and unusual was in his voice.
Izzy had grown up with the field outside of her back door. She had stared unseeing into the distance while she’d eaten her cereal before school every morning daydreaming of the woods beyond. Now, she took the time to appreciate what she had grown up with right outside her door.
“It really is beautiful. It’s a shame we have to mow it down.”
“Mow it down? Why?” He came to a stop surrounded by knee-high flowers.
“The bulk of the festival takes place in the field. The booths will be over there.” She pointed east. “And the stage for the pipers and dancers and bands will be on the south side. The athletic events happen in the far corner.”
He continued forward, but slower now as they entered the shadow of the woods. “When will the massacre take place?”
She snort-laughed. “Massacre is a strong word. Next summer, the flowers will be back and just as beautiful.”
He hummed. “Rejuvenation. Rebirth.”
“Exactly.” Countless paths meandered through the woods, some leading to the river, others heading toward the hills. “When I was a kid I pretended the paths all shifted and every day might bring a new adventure. Which path shall we choose today?”
The calls of birds—a blue jay squawked over the softer song of a whippoorwill—blended with the evening symphony of the insects. It was her favorite time to be outside.
Alasdair pointed. “That one looks promising.”
“Good choice. Let’s be off, fellow wanderer.” The path he chose meandered through the woods to the river. The trees grew dense overhead, filtering the sunlight into the premature dusk. As a child, she felt the woods had always been an otherworldly place full of a magic she might not be able to see but could surely feel in her innocent heart.
Many times she would turned at her head at shadows, expecting to catch sight of an elf or a wood sprite, but had always been too late. As she got older and wiser (some might say jaded), the magic faded until she accepted it had never existed.
“Was it solitary being an only child?” His voice was soft and knowing and drew her gaze to his as if he’d read her thoughts.
A waver in her smile revealed her childhood loneliness. With no kids she could play with close by, she’d grown up relying on her own imagination. Maybe too much. “This may shock you, but I found it hard to talk to kids and make friends in school.”
“Actually, that’s not at all surprising.” His voice was deadpan.
She punched his arm. “Hey, you could have feigned surprise.”
He rubbed his arm like her puny punch had actually done him injurious harm, but with a smile on his face.
“The girls I knew were obsessed with Disney princesses.” Even after the years gone by, disdain crept into her voice.
“And you weren’t? With a field of flowers and magical woods to play in?” He made an expansive gesture.
“I prefer more gumption and derring-do from my princesses. I spent my free time making up my own stories and scribbling them in notebooks. The other kids thought I was strange.” She rolled her eyes toward him. Even though she had friends now, the scars from those early days remained.
“It’s not a bad thing to be different.”
“Said by someone who, if I had to guess, was voted most popular by the boys and the girls. Especially the girls,” she said dryly.
He sobered with a sigh. “Aye, I was popular, but only because I wasn’t honest with any of them. I never told anyone about how watching my parents fight scared me so much I would hide under my covers. I never knew what kind of mood my da would be in when I walked in the door from school, so I went out for every sport—even cricket, which I absolutely loathed.”
While she didn’t have many friends growing up, what she did have were two parents who loved her unconditionally and provided not only a soft place to land, but were her bedrock. “That must have been so hard. It’s not fair that kids suffer when parents can’t keep it together.”
“Mum tried, but she loved my da despite everything and she couldn’t keep her hurt from coloring everything. Now that I’m older—I don’t know about wiser—I can empathize with both of them.”
“It’s strange to realize our parents are human beings who fall in love and make mistakes and suffer heartbreak, isn’t it?” she asked more to herself than expecting an answer.
“Do you ever resent the box you’ve been forced inside?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Duty versus passion has been on my mind of late. What we want versus what’s expected of us. Do you ever wish you didn’t bear the responsibility of the festival?” He seemed truly interested.
“No.” While the stark denial wasn’t a lie, neither was it completely accurate. “Maybe? Sometimes? It’s complicated. The festival is my birthright. I inherited it from my dad. I couldn’t imagine Highland without it.”
“The hard work is worth it?”
“You’ve seen the pictures in the office. Seeing how much everyone loves it makes all the hard work worth it.”
“Even though you’re sacrificing your dream to travel?”
“Not sacrificing. Postponing,” she said firmly.
“Don’t postpone it forever.”
His warning resonated with the restless spirit inside of her she kept on a tight leash. “Honestly, the planning portion of the festival is the easy part, because I can control it. The hard part is dealing with what we can’t control like the weather. Rain is bad; thunderstorms are worse. Starting around three weeks out, I have weather-related nightmares.”
“So if I hear you screaming about being attacked by a rain cloud, I should run in and wake you up?” His tease shifted to sympathy.
The image of Alasdair distracting her from her nightmares in the middle of the night flashed. She had almost gotten him naked in her imagination when he said, “There’s ancient magic all around us, isn’t there?”
She darted a sharp look at him. “Surely, you don’t believe in such nonsense.”
“Of course, I do. I’m Scottish. We come out of the womb believing. Whenever I misbehaved, my da claimed I was a changeling child. I’d wager, you’re a believer as well.”
“I’m a perfectly practical accountant,” she said primly.
“Who has a letter opener named Rupert,” he teased.
She pulled him to a stop. “Are you ever going to let that go?”
“It’s too delightful not to bring up whenever possible.”
She scuffed her flip-flops in the layer of dead leaves and pine needles on the path. “I used to believe in magic, but I grew up.”
“Hence your desire to write a serious novel with no magic.”
She stutter-stepped. “What made you say that just now?”
He shifted the picnic basket to his other arm and blocked the path forward. “You confessed you’re writing a serious novel, aren’t you?”
“Not that part. The bit about no magic. How did you know?”
“Know what?” His brow knitted together in what appeared to be genuine confusion.
“That’s been the biggest knock against my work. While I’m proficient at putting words together, according to my many—many—rejections, I lack the secret sauce to make them sing. In short, my writing lacks magic.” She air-quoted the last word.
His face cleared with a nod of understanding. “I see. I was actually referring to the real thing. Or at least, the kind of stories you made up as a kid.”
“Who on earth would want to read those?” She stepped around him even though her heart had kicked her in the ribs. “If we don’t keep moving, the mosquitos will feast on us.”
The faint whoosh of water grew louder in the background and offered a welcome distraction. The opening in the trees was wreathed in the glow of the setting sun like a magical portal into another world, but the closer they got, the more mundane the scene became. It was simply a wood giving way to a meadow cut through by a stream.
Alasdair stepped all the way to the bank looking out at the wide bend that formed the swimming hole. He set down the hamper, took a deep breath, and whispered, “This is peaceful. It reminds me of Cairndow.”
She opened the hamper and pulled out a blanket—red and black tartan, of course—and spread it over the grass. Flopping onto her back, she stared at the sky framed by the trees circling them. Alasdair lay down beside her, his shoulder nudging hers.
Colors streaked the sky like a finger painting, but at the edges was a deep orange giving the impression the tops of the trees were on fire. Summer sunsets were the most beautiful. If the festival didn’t keep her so busy, she might stop to enjoy them more.
All around them lightning bugs flashed in the grass. If she squinted, she could imagine they were beacons from distant lighthouses. The woods made stories take root in her imagination, but she’d stopped nurturing them, afraid if she put them out into the world she’d look silly.
Alasdair shifted to his side and propped his head up on his hand, looking down on her and wreathed in magical light. He was going to kiss her. Expectation sent her tongue out to daub her suddenly dry lips.
His chest brushed hers, and her back arched ever so slightly. His face shifted closer, and she tilted toward him, closing the distance between points A and B. He stretched across her body and her blood sang a welcome.
In a sexy, husky brogue, he whispered, “I’m bloody starving.”
He grabbed the handle of the hamper, lifted it over her body, and sat up, exclaiming in delight as he pulled out the food. She lay like a discarded rag doll. She was epically bad at reading signals. Confusing an imminent kiss with hunger was humiliating.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Everything about him was annoyingly cheery.
“Please tell me there’s alcohol.” She pushed up on her elbows.
“A chilled Chardonnay.” He pulled out the corkscrew and opened it with an efficient grace that made her wonder what those hands could do on skin.
He held out a red plastic cup with a generous amount of wine. Their fingers brushed on the handover, and she took several huge swallows to dull the edge of her arousal and embarrassment. God bless her dear sainted mother for not being a teetotaler.
They assembled BLTs and ate them on the blanket. There was no need to speak, because life teemed around them. Bullfrogs croaked and birds cawed. Crickets sang and squirrels rustled. The lightning bugs had risen into the brush, blinking their mating calls like Morse code.
“Did you know that lightning bugs can synchronize their blinks?” She kept her voice low.
“Really?” Either he was a good faker, or he was actually interested.
“Up in the Smokies, scientists study the flashes and try to make sense of them. What if they hear their own music?” She smiled. “Can’t you just picture a lightning bug orchestra in tuxedos?” Once upon a time, it was something she might have incorporated into one of her stories.
He cleared his throat and gave her an “I told you so look.” She shrugged. “What?”
“You are proving my point for me.”
She chose not to rise to his bait. “I’ll bet there’s nothing like this in London.”
“No, but there’s a glen with a crystal blue loch at Cairndow. My friend Iain and I would sneak off on moonlit nights.” His stared toward the river, but he was seeing his past, a smile turning his lips. He refilled both of their cups, and she drank deeply.
A buzz hit her quick and hard, and for some reason, she decided to try a Scottish accent. “Did you and Iain find a wee spot of trouble in the loch?”
The sparkle in his eyes lit fireworks in her chest. He deepened his brogue until it was thicker than even Gareth’s. “Ach, we’d drink and raise hell and use our silver tongues to lure bonny lasses into the water with us for some skinny-dipping.”
She laughed, but breathlessly, her insides melted into goo. “That sounds naughty. And fun.”
“Aye, it was.” He resumed his usual accent. “Or would have been if the water hadn’t been so blasted cold.”
She did her best to stifle her wine-giggles with another sip. “I’ve never been skinny-dipping.”
“That deficiency must be rectified immediately.” He stood and held out a hand.
Her giggles trickled to a stop like a spigot being turning off. “No way. Uh-uh. Forget it.”
“You can leave your knickers on if you want.” He stepped to the bank and grabbed the back of his shirt to pull it off. The diffused light accentuated the shift of muscle and tendon across his back and shoulders. The waistband of his jeans loosened.
Izzy drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs and watched in wide-eyed amazement as if a magical creature had wandered into her woods. Or more accurately, she was witnessing an audition for Chippendales. He stepped out of his jeans with athletic grace. She tensed. Would his boxer briefs follow?
With them still on, he waded into the shallows of the river. “It’s a mite warmer than the loch at Cairndow.”
Farther still he went, the water rushing to his thighs until he reached the drop-off and disappeared. She popped to her feet, her eyes itchy from not blinking. He breached the water, and a flick of his head sent droplets scattering. He turned on his back and floated. Dusk had overtaken them fully and darkness crept closer on cat paws.
She shuffled to the bank and stalled, holding out the neck of her shirt and evaluating her bra. It wouldn’t make the cut for the Victoria Secret fashion show, but it was lacy and white and newish. Her panties were plain pink cotton, no more revealing than bikini bottoms.
Did she take a chance or retreat?
“All I’m missing is a bonny lass.” His voice came from the shadows in the brogue she had no willpower to resist.
Was she actually doing this? She shucked her shirt, dropped it on top of his clothes, and worked the button and zipper of her jeans open. With a shot of courage—or madness. Did madness run in her family? A question to consider later—she pushed her jeans to her ankles.
In her haste to kick them off and get into the cover of the river, she lost her balance and toppled like a cut pine tree. Her hip hit the ground hard enough to bruise, and pebbles scraped her knee. Kicking her legs free of her prison of denim, she hop-skipped into the river and dove under the water.
Her hand brushed smooth, taut flesh and she startled to the surface with a gasp. Alasdair treaded water, the white of his teeth showing in a grin. “Are you okay?”
Her hope that he had been distracted by a frog or a fish withered. “Now do you see why I was banned from dance school?”
His laugh raced over the water like the flight of a bird, and her stomach fluttered as if trying to keep up. She swam toward a sandbar in an eddy, her feet finding purchase on the bottom. Water lapped at her collarbones, trying to draw her into the current.
Joining her, he skimmed his hands over his face and hair. “The water’s cooler than I expected, but nothing like the loch.”
“The river flows from the mountains.”
“What is winter like in Highland?”
“Changeable. A spate of warm days in the middle of January will see everyone in short sleeves. Then, a week later it might snow. We usually see flurries every year, and one significant snowfall. Even an inch will shut Highland down. Woe be it to you if you haven’t stocked up on milk and bread beforehand.”
“I got to spend a winter holiday with Gareth, and remember him driving us from the train station through a blinding snow in his old Land Rover. It was beautiful and scary and the best kind of exciting.”
A sudden surge of undercurrent tugged her feet. Before she could be swept downstream, Alasdair caught her around the waist, and she grabbed his arms. Even after she regained her feet, neither of them let go.
“Where would the river take you?” he asked.
She tried to ignore the way his thumb brushed her hip bone. A shiver cascaded through her. No one had ever discovered the sensitive place.
“The current slows around the bend. The river isn’t dangerous.” Except standing this close to Alasdair, it felt like the most dangerous place in the world.
“There are stories Gareth used to tell me about the ancient places in Scotland. Places that were traps set by beautiful, but deadly fairies. They lured young men to their doom in the moonlight. With one kiss they’d spirit the poor souls to the fae realm and they’d never be seen again.” He spoke with the rhythm of a natural storyteller. She’d heard the same cadence in Gareth’s voice. Maybe it was bred into Scottish men.
“How do you know they met their doom? Maybe the fae realm was so wondrous, those young men never wanted to leave.”
“Perhaps you’re right. I thought the fairies make-believe, but I’m beginning to wonder.”
Even Izzy, as unsophisticated as she felt with him, cottoned on to his meaning. If this place housed old magic, then she must be the deadly faerie. Beautiful too though, he’d said. A flush warmed her.
“I wouldn’t want to be a faerie in your story,” she said softly.
“Why not?” His thumb traced the delicate curve of her hip bone once more.
“Leading men to their doom wouldn’t be conducive to a second date,” she said with a breathless tease.
He laughed. “I suppose not. What kind of faerie would you like to be?”
“A faerie who would save a hapless man from his doom in the mortal world only to become accidently bound to him.” It popped into her head and out of her mouth as if the idea had been lurking for a long while. She poked his chest. “Don’t say it.”
His lips twitched, but stayed closed.
“You think I’m writing the wrong stories and have enslaved myself to Highland and the festival.”
“A mite dramatic, but not altogether wrong, wouldn’t you say?” With his hair slicked back, his sleek brows set off the strong bones of his face, masked by the growing stubble.
“You said earlier that passion versus duty had been on your mind. Why? Is it because of your half-brother?”
Humor leaked out of his face. “Not entirely.”
“Is your job a duty or a passion?” She tilted her head and wiped at the water running into her eyes.
“Definitely not a passion.”
“A duty, then. Does your boss inspire your loyalty?”
His laugh cracked and echoed off the water. “Hardly. Richard inspires fear, anxiety, competition. I looked up to him once. I think. Richard seemed strong where my da seemed weak, but everything has become twisted. Being here makes me forget why I’m killing myself to please him.”
“That’s good. Isn’t it?” She wasn’t sure if she should apologize or congratulate him on his enlightenment.
“Can we not talk about work?” Troubles ran deep under his outward stoicism, but she would respect his reluctance to delve deeper.
“What do you want to do then, Highlander?” The question came out suggestive.
He answered with an innuendo-laden smile. She scrunched her toes into the sand, anchoring herself in the expectation of having her world rocked. His lips brushed across her cheek, the rasp of his stubble sending chills through her. But, he didn’t quite close the deal.
“Are you drunk, fairie-girl?”
“What if I am?” She could close the distance in a heartbeat.
“I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
She jerked back to meet his gaze. “Now is not the time for you to play the gentleman, Blackmoor. I want you in the part of the marauding Highlander.”
“You’d better run then, before I catch you, lass.”
She giggled and shoved his shoulder. She’d only meant to playfully free herself from his arms, but his feet shot out from underneath him and the current carried him away as if fairies had ahold of him. She cackled a laugh and set out in the other direction toward the bank. He would catch his footing and be right behind her.
Hardly slowing, she grabbed the mound of clothes and skip-ran down the path barefoot. Only when she stubbed her toe on an exposed root did she slow and question her sanity and, frankly, her maturity level, which had dipped into negative territory with the addition of too much wine.
Stopping, she pulled on her T-shirt and jeans. Her clammy underwear made it difficult to maneuver the damp denim over her hips. She was left holding Alasdair’s jeans and T-shirt, which meant he was traipsing around in a pair of wet boxer briefs molded to … everything. Her heart kicked into a rhythm that would have raised alarms on an EKG.
She balled up Alasdair’s clothes and returned to the river. Except, he wasn’t there. She stood on the edge of the bank and called his name, hearing only her voice echoing back. Dire scenarios rampaged through her imagination.
The full moon illuminated the picnic basket and crushed grass. Crushed grass where the blanket had been. She fell to her knees and checked inside the basket. No blanket. She heaved a sigh. Alasdair had made it to the bank and was probably halfway back to the house by now.
Grabbing up the picnic basket, she ran as fast as the darkness would allow back to Stonehaven. Her mom and Gareth rocked on the patio swing with glasses of wine. Her mom was reclined on a pillow, her legs across Gareth’s lap while he swung them as if she were a baby he was coaxing asleep.
“Is Alasdair back?” she asked breathlessly.
Her mom raised herself to an elbow. “I thought he was with you.”
Izzy put the basket down and hugged his clothes to her chest. “I accidently lost him.”
Her mom swung her legs off Gareth’s lap. “He’s not a hat or a pair of sunglasses. How could you lose him?”
“Um.” She searched for an excuse that didn’t involve playacting as an innocent lass running from a sexy, marauding Highlander. “He got swept downriver.”
“And you didn’t go after him? Should we call the authorities?” Her mom was up and pacing now.
“No, he’s fine. Or at least, he didn’t drown, but I have his clothes.” She held up the bundle she clutched.
“Alasdair is lost in the woods … naked?”
“Not completely naked. He took the blanket and still has his underwear on. I … think.” Her voice petered into silence as her mom looked at her like she’d lost her mind.
“Hang on,” Gareth said. “I see the lad a’coming out of the woods.”
The three of them lined up to stare into the moonlight-dappled night. Alasdair was indeed stalking through the field. Izzy’s breath hitched and she shuffled to where the bricks gave way to grass.
He wore a plaid wrapped around his waist, the end thrown over his shoulder. The rest of him was beautifully bare. His hair was as black as the shadows that parted before him, his attitude positively primeval. Her knees wobbled. Not from fear but excitement fueled by the lowering of her inhibitions from the wine. Electricity like heat lightning arced between them.
He cleared the high grass. Closer now, she could see the clumsy way the tartan blanket hung around his waist, crudely tied with a vine. His feet were dirty in his flip-flops and his hair was still damp from his trip downriver. His exasperation was also evident.
“I can’t believe you left me.” He propped his hands low on his hips, pulling his muscles tight. So tight and hard she was having a hard time tearing her gaze from his chest to his face.
“I came back, but you had already taken the blanket and left. I thought you might have beat me home.”
“I got lost on the millions of blasted trails in that godforsaken wood.”
“So no errant faeries lured you away to your doom?” She tried on a smile, but let it fall when he didn’t return it. It appeared that they would not be resuming their little game.
He harrumphed and snatched his clothes from where she was hugging them. “I’m going to shower off the muck.”
Once he was gone, her mom said in a chiding voice, “That wasn’t very hospitable of you, Izzy.”
Any explanations she offered would embarrass them both. “I’ll apologize in the morning.”
Her mom and Gareth retreated to the house, and Izzy took up their spot on the swing. Her mom had left a half glass of wine on the table. Izzy finished it off in two swallows, used one of the cushions as a pillow, and stared up at the night sky.
If her mom could have a fling with an attractive Scotsman, why couldn’t Izzy? Just because she had never participated in a fling didn’t mean she wouldn’t be good at it. In fact, if she put her mind to it, there’s nothing she couldn’t excel at.
Even writing? Her gut begged her to listen to Alasdair’s advice. What if she attempted one story of adventure and magic? What did she have to lose but time she would have spent churning out more “trite and amateurish” literature?
What’s the worst that could happen? She could get her heart broken, her soul crushed, and experience utter humiliation. All three applied to writing and to initiating a fling with Alasdair. But if her mom was brave enough to put herself out there, couldn’t Izzy give it a shot too? She sat up, holding her head, when the world spun around her.
She would try her hand at new things—writing and fling related—as soon as she sobered up.