Page 159 of Well Played

“What’s the filling? Haggis?” she asked, referring to the savory pudding containing minced sheep offal, oats, and spices. She tore into the packaging and covers of the other food items so they could start eating. A triangle of thick-cut oatcake topped with a teaspoonful of chutney, a sliver of salmon, and a drizzle of vinegar comprised her first delicious mouthful.

“No, the traditional mutton filling. Have you had our national dish?”

Lana chased the first serving with a gulp of the chilled apple juice and shook her head. “Not yet, but I want to try it. If not this week, then definitely when I return for the Women’s Open in August.”

“Let me know when you’re ready. I’ll take you to the best place that makes it here.”

She beamed. More time together. That sounded promising.

“What of our local food have you tried since you arrived on …”

“Sunday. Hmm, let me think. It’s been cold, so stews and soups mainly—stovies and Cullen skink. The usual fish and chips, porridge for breakfast. Oh, and cranachan.” The dessert made of raspberries, whipped cream, honey, and oats with a dash of whisky was utterly delectable. She ran a finger dripping with honey across her lips, a devil of an idea forming in her head. “But you know what I want to try more than anything?”

Mitch swallowed after a bite of his pie. “What?”

“Cock …” she started, watching him flush as she drew out the name, “… a-leekie soup.” His coughing fit had her giggling.

Mitch threw a splash of whisky into a glass, barely a quarter inch, and drained it in one swallow. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said in a rough voice, “As I offered earlier, whenever you’re ready, I will take you.”

Oof.Now it was Lana’s turn to blush because that wasn’t what he said before. Similar words but entirely different meanings.I will take you.Heat that rivaled the temperature emanating from the fire in the grate filled her.Take me now, her body told her to say. “I will let you know,” she said instead.

Coward, her inner voice accused.Simmer down, she shushed it. Food first. They had hours to build the heat back up before the night was over. She’d make sure of that.

With that resolved, Lana turned to the food and to the topic of her winning the bet. “You look cute in your kilt.” She smiled as he winced at the word cute. “Is that the Morris tartan?”

“It’s Clan Mitchell’s.”

Lana nearly dropped her shortbread piled high with rough crumbles of the two cheeses in her surprise and confusion.“Mitchell like your first name Mitch … ell?” She bit into the crunchy cookie while she waited for his explanation.

“Yes.” Mitch brushed the crumbs off his hands with a napkin and angled his body to face her. “The name my parents gave me at birth was Morris Thomas Mitchell, but a clerical error at the hospital added a comma after Morris.”

“Oh! So your birth certificate reads Thomas Mitchell Morris like Old Tom,” she finished for him. “That’s why Mac calls you New Tom.” She grinned at the humor of it. “You’re not related by blood?”

“A few drops from my mother’s side, but not directly to my knowledge.”

“Still. You’re practically golf royalty.”

Mitch ducked his head. “Hardly. The name comes with lofty expectations. None of which I’m able to meet.”

So humble. Lana wanted to hug him. “I don’t believe that. Your golf knowledge is among the best of anyone I’ve ever met. Must be from being born and bred at the Home of Golf.”

“It only applies to St Andrews. I may be rubbish elsewhere.”

“Nonsense. I’m sure your skills would translate everywhere.”

“You really think so?”

In Lana’s world, self-deprecating men hardly existed. Remembering how he played cheerleader for her when she was getting down on herself, she had to uplift him in a similar way. She polished off her last bite and scooted closer to convey her message. “I know so. In a mere two hours of working together, you’ve already improved my grip. When to keep it loose, when to tighten it and bear down on the shaft. I’ve never been able to pound it down with the wood until you.” By the time she finished her innuendo-laden recitation, Mitch was once again looking flushed. Lana let out the laughter she’d been holding.

“Ms. Aguilar, are you teasing me?” he asked, blue eyes twinkling.

That was all the encouragement Lana needed. She fluttered her eyelashes. “Why, Mr. Mitchell, you are the one who’s been teasing me all night. Will you tell me what you have on under the kilt? I’ve heard rumors.”

Mitch rose to his feet and moved in front of her. “You have come to collect your winnings.”

Commando, Lana decided. The bulge tenting his kilt suggested it.

She stood languidly, positioning herself so they were face to face, chest to chest like they were yesterday after her hole-out. With a sultry voice, she said, “I’ve always considered winning a team effort. Tonight, you and I are a team.” She intertwined their hands. “Come.”

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