Page 83 of Kilt Trip

Sitting up in bed, she pushed her bramble hair out of her face and took a big inhale of the rising steam. Saluting him with the teal mug, she sipped the tea and asked, “Where have you been?”

“I didn’t want to wake you, so I went exploring and met the owner. Did you know this structure has been an inn of sorts since the 1750s?”

“Look at you, tourist.”

Logan hadn’t felt like a tourist in...well, ever. Even growing up, they’d pop into a new place, and the owner Logan couldn’t remember would say, “The last time I saw you, you were but a wee bairn.”

The new connections were invigorating.

Logan rose and opened the curtains. Sleepy mountains blanketed in a dusting of snow curled around a valley painted in the sepia tones of winter. His heart thumped with the childhood excitement that came with orange plastic binoculars and treasure maps. “Wow.”

The river wound through the valley and swept past the hotel, but the jumbled river rocks gave the impression that the building sat in the middle of the water. The views were stunning. He’d love to bring guests through here.

Addie joined him at the window, wrapping her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his back. “I recognize that wanderlust.”

“Aye.” Logan was so used to feeling the pleasure in watching other people discover new places, he’d almost forgotten he could experience it, too. He had Addie to thank for that reawakening.

Turning in her arms, he moved her back toward the bed.

Their lovemaking was as soft and dreamy as the morning light. The intimacy of it kept him wrapped around her until they’d nearly missed the hotel’s breakfast, but he couldn’t part with the feel of her nestled against his heart.

For the rest of the morning, they pulled to the side of twisting roads and explored the wilderness. Held hands. Took pictures to capture a perfect day.

Addie led him through a craft room in Fort William packed to the rafters with wool clothing and scarves, Christmas ornaments, local whisky, and spools of yarn in every color of the rainbow. In the attached tearoom, she slurped soup while Logan chatted with the proprietor whose photography graced every available space on the walls.

At Inverlochy Castle, in ruins since the 1200s, Addie only rolled her eyes twice as he read every placard along the perimeter. He hadn’t spent much time on the west coast of Scotland, but the excitement of new discoveries, the reclaimed wanderlust, burned brightly in his chest. Right alongside this love for Addie he finally felt free to embrace.

In the late afternoon, they found themselves in the village of Corpach, walking along the canal, their footsteps muffled on the damp pavement. The gentle winter sun peeked out from behind the clouds to greet them.

“This is perfect. Exactly what I needed today.” Gesturing to the man-made waterway system connecting the west and east coasts of Scotland, Addie asked, “Don’t you want to tell me all about this?”

“Well, in the early 1800s—”

Addie cut him off with a kiss, slow and tender. He committed to memory exactly the way her lips pressed against his in this moment, the touch of her cold fingers tunneling into the hair at the nape of his neck. An overwhelming sense of rightness enveloped him, arms and hearts looped together like an unbreakable Celtic knot.

The sound of tires on pavement interrupted them, and they moved out of the road. Addie hopped onto his back, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

He followed the path down to a footbridge, and they stopped on the wooden planks, watching the rushing stream race to meet Loch Linnhe. The leafless trees partially obscured the view of the shoreline and the mountains in the distance.

“So peaceful,” Addie said, tucking her nose against his neck, soothing the cold with a kiss. Around the bend in the path, she gasped and squeezed his shoulders. “Wow.”

The view before them was breathtaking. Curved mountains towered over the loch, their tops obscured by the low clouds. Washed-up seaweed covered the rocky beach, and an old fishing boat lay shipwrecked by the shore, the black hull tilting away from the water.

“You know the name of that mountain?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“It’s Ben Nevis.”

She snorted. “No, it’s not.”

“Aye, it is. The highest mountain in Scotland. I haven’t seen it from this side of the loch before.”

“How could you let me miss the painted-pink sunrise? This is an outrage.”

“I had more important things on my mind this morning, lass,” he said, setting her on her feet.

She smiled at him, and he placed a kiss on her upturned nose, chilled and rosy from the January air. “We’ll have to come back another time.”

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