So, not my imagination, then.
“You mean to the pub.” Amusement lingers in my words.
“Oh, aye.” It’s hard to tell in the light, but I’d swear his cheeks turn a little pink. “Maybe to start, I reckon.”
“Oh, do you?”
He’s not so shy as I’d first imagined. Plus, he’s not bad looking. And the ninety-minute journey has flown by in his easy company. I find myself wondering what harm could come from a drink with him. I might make a friend. Maybe even something a little more, because Lord knows I need to stop obsessing about a certain someone. Because if a certain someone was interested, he would’ve asked for my number, not given me his assistant’s. “If I’m still here in a couple of days, I might just take you up on that.”
“You’re not worrit about Mari, are you?” Consternation flickers over his brow. “I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I thought—”
“No, it’s fine. Forearmed is forewarned.” Or something. My gaze is drawn to where light suddenly spills from a doorway opening in the cottage we’re parked next to.
“Mari won’t make a peep. Just you wait and see.”
“Will you be keeping the lassie all night, Cameron Stuart?”
At the woman’s pointed question, a grin cracks across Cameron’s face. He turns as, behind him, the car door creaks open. Cold, crisp air floods in as an antidote to the scent of a damp dog.
“Bide your passion, Chrissy. I was just talkin’ to the lass.”
“The lass?” I repeat, though not in the same tone.
“You’ll be Holly.” The woman’s smiling face appears at Cameron’s shoulder. Pale hair falls in a straight sheet to her jawline, and the hand she thrusts my way is kind of meaty. “Chrissy,” she offers. “I’m happy to meet you.”
“Hi.” I slide my hand in hers, and she treats it to a hearty handshake. “I’m happy to meet you, too.”
“I suppose you would call Chrissy the housekeeper,” Cameron supplies over the top of our joined hands. “Or maybe the chief cook and bottle washer.” He turns to the woman with a grin. “What do ye think? Jack of all trades and master of none? Ow!” The latter is in response to the slap she delivers to the back of his head. But there’s no malice in the exchange.
“Cheek,” she mutters, pursing her lips. But when she turns back to me, her face is wreathed in a welcoming smile. “Will ye be comin’ in, then?”
“Oh, we’re here? This is where I’ll . . .”
“Be staying? Aye. Help the lassie in wi’ her bags,” she instructs. “You might’ve washed your car before picking the lass up,” she adds, though not unkindly as she straightens and Cameron climbs out of the Land Rover.
“What for.” Whit fir, sounds nearer to his reply. He opens the rear passenger door, and the bulky Labrador jumps out.
“Because it’s clarty, that’s what for.”
“Why wash it only for it to get dirty again?”
The pair continue their bickering, which is more like light-hearted banter over the condition of my transport, as my suitcases find themselves in a tiny hallway off the open front door.
“I’ve put the hot water on,” Chrissy says over her shoulder, disappearing deeper into the cottage. “Come along, then!”
At the doorstep, I turn back to Cameron. “Are you coming in, too?”
“I—ah. No.” His boots scuff against the gravel. “I’d best be off home, but I’ll see you around.”
“Sure.” I try to tamp back my smile. I think I’m relieved that he’s leaving, oddly. “I mean, I don’t know exactly where I’ll be, but . . .” My words trail off as his smile grows.
“I’m sure I’ll find you.” With that, he turns back to the car. “Or you can ask around to find me.”
“They know you around here, huh?”
“Aye, just ask for Cameron the not murderer.”
I duck my head and huff a small chuckle. “Well, that’s good to know.”
“Better they know me for my finger skills,” he says wiggling all ten of them in the air. I begin to laugh, slapping my hand to my mouth. And I swear, his cheeks turn red. “I mean my green fingers. I’m known for my green fingers, not . . . not anything else.”
It’s kind of cute that he’s embarrassed, and I’m still smiling as I close the front door.
“He’s gone then?” I find Chrissy in the tiny kitchen where she’s boiling an electric kettle. Now we’re in the light, I can see her pale hair is actually white and that’s she’s a little older than I’d originally thought. Upwards of sixty years old, maybe? But they’re years she’s wearing well, watching the way she almost wrestled Cameron for the smaller of my two cases.
“Yes, Cameron left.” I place my bag down on the countertop and stick my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. The air is kind of stale and the kitchen is worn and dated, but clean. Formica cabinets and cream tiles, dotted every so often with one featuring an urn, overflowing with fruit. I glance down at Gertie the dog, wondering if she comes as part of the job.
“He’s a good lad,” she asserts, busying herself with a solitary cup. “He has a big heart and he’s not too hard on the eyes.”
“I can’t say that I noticed.” My bland look meets her sly one and we both chuckle. Me and Chrissy are going to get along just fine, I can tell.
“Then you’d be the only one on the estate not to.”
“Popular, is he?” I know I need to move on, but there’s no way I’m getting involved with the local lothario, treading on toes before I’ve even had a chance to decide if I’ll like it here.
“Like I said, he’s a good lad.” I guess that was one way of putting me in my place. “You’ll have no trouble with him.” I sense the female population hereabouts might prove otherwise. Mari in particular.
“Right. The kettle is on, and so is the emersion heater, should you want a bath after your travels.” I’m not sure what that is but I don’t want to appear ignorant. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of opportunity for that in the coming weeks just listening to the Scots language. “There are a few basic staples in the fridge,” she says, pointing to the under counter appliance, “milk and the like to get you started. I’ll leave you the now to get settled, but my house is the last house on the end,” she adds, pointing left. “If you’re needing anything, just yell oot.”
“Okay. Right.” I might nod a little manically, not that she notices as she pours hot water over a teabag. Maybe the Scots are like the English in their belief that tea makes everything better.
“Dinnae fash about the morning.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Dinnae fash. Don’t worry about being at work first thing. Lady Isla isn’t due until mid-morning, and tomorrow the castle isn’t open to the public.” Oh, I remember that. It’s open to the public Wednesday to Sunday, unless advertised otherwise. And the woman I’ve been dealing with via email is called Isla. Maybe Lady Isla, as in, a member of the aristocracy? Big whoop, I reassure myself. Blue blood or not, everyone puts on their underwear one leg at a time.