Page 5 of Kilt Trip

But it was in her best interest to be curious about Logan—professionally, of course. The promise of whisky and a warm pub after a hectic travel day was simply a bonus. Besides, what was the harm in one drink?

She joined the end of the line in her rubber-duck raincoat.

Logan wouldn’t even notice her.

2

Logan ranked the success of his trips by the tourists’ faces. Glassy-eyed from Scotch whisky—at least a six. Smiling at their own Scottish-folklore jokes—a sure eight. He lived for the groups that came for immersion in his land and history.

The tour today was a solid ten, due to one woman in particular.

Heather sat on the far end of the community table, her blond hair curling around her temples and backlit by the hearth. She chatted with the mother and daughter from Spain, all big hand gestures and bright laughter that continued to snag his attention from Ling asking the most direct route to Skye.

As Logan detailed the complicated public transport to the remote island, he sank into the comforting bustle around him. Nothing about this pub had changed in the ten years since he and his brother Jack had known exactly how many drunken, shuffling steps it took from the brass-plated front door to the university residence halls. His old friend, Gavin, tended bar like always. The scent of stale beer greeted him at every visit, the shelf of books ringing the perimeter of the room remained undusted, and the same tweed-outfitted men congregated in front of the footie match.

Logan had brought thousands of tourists through this pub over the years—they’d end up at The White Hart if left to their own guidebook-influenced devices—but he’d never been quite so pleased to see someone settle in here as he was watching Heather unwind her scarf and roll her shoulders against the heat of the fire.

His favorite tourists were the ones who came here for an experience and a connection instead of rushing to cram in the sites. There was no greater joy than knowing someone carried a piece of his world in their hearts when they returned home.

Heather understood the beauty of living in the moment, forgoing the distraction of a camera, and gazing out at the city as if his stories had moved her. When she’d pressed her hand against her chest, taking in the skyline, the same thrill had pulsed through him as the first time his dad had taken him up Calton Hill.

She undid her braid and the firelight sifted through the blond strands, damp from the rain. Her dark, wistful eyes conjured to his mind a selkie—the seal folk—a beautiful creature of ancient legend rising from the sea.

She wasn’t alluring, she was fucking ethereal.

A glass shattering across the room and the subsequent “Ooh” from the patrons dragged him from his musings, and Logan refocused on the tourists gathered round him. He wasn’t one to cheat his guests from the sights and stories they might otherwise miss. “Have you heard the selkie’s tale?” he asked the group.

Met with interested expressions and elbows placed on the worn wooden table, he began. “These mythological beings, who transform from seal to human and back again, are said to be graceful and enchanting. Legend has it, a lonely man, tired of returning every night to a house that was never a home, came upon an astonishingly beautiful selkie sunbathing on a rocky shore.”

Heather watched him, amusement dancing in her eyes. And maybe something heavier, like interest. She dragged her thumbnail across her bottom lip in a particularly distracting manner.

“He stole her sealskin, and because each skin is unique and irreplaceable, the selkie was forced to stay with him. She made a fine wife, but she longed for the ocean. Whenever the man was away, she searched the house for her skin and, one day, found it hidden in the rafters. She disappeared forever, and the man lived out his days with a broken heart. A selkie will always return to the sea.”

While the woman across from him cooed over the sad story, Heather looked at him from underneath her lashes as she sipped her drink. Her tongue teased the corner of her lip to catch a drop of whisky, and his blood pounded in his veins.

There was a reason they called whisky the water of life in Gaelic.

For the next hour, Logan shared stories and answered travel questions, unsuccessfully keeping his gaze off Heather. By the time the last tourist clapped him on the shoulder in parting, she was still at the far end of the table, flipping through a stack of postcards.

It was his duty as the guide to check in with all guests before they left, but the excuse sounded flimsy at best as he slid down the bench. He couldn’t help imagining his knees brushing hers under the table or stop himself from leaning in on his elbows and closing the space between them.

“Can I help you with anything before you leave?”

“I’m waiting for my suitcase. It took a side trip to Berlin.”

“Mind if I join you? I’m sticking around a bit.” He tipped his head toward his mate sliding open a keyboard stand on the makeshift stage. “My friend’s in the band.”

“I take it you come here a lot?”

He nodded, raising his hands to encompass the room. “Best pub in Edinburgh.”

“And best kickbacks?” Heather quirked an eyebrow.

“No. But they do appreciate the business. Tourists spend more on drinks than these chaps—” he jerked a thumb at the driving-capped group currently pounding their fists on the tables to punctuate the Hibernian FC fight song “—cheering for whoever’s playing against Manchester United.”

Heather’s smile lit up her face, as blinding as the first clear day of spring.

Logan gestured to the russet-haired barkeep. “The pub’s been in Gavin’s family for generations. I’m happy to help in whatever small way I can.”

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