Page 33 of Wild Scottish Rose

My phone rang, and I sighed, clicking the speaker button as I followed the road that wound along the banks of Loch Mirren. The loch itself was quite large, bigger than any lake we had back home, and it seemed to carry on for miles. Stunning green hills hugged the banks, jutting up into the air like proud protectors of the water below, and moody clouds did their best to hide the sunshine. God, the light here was killer. I could see why so many people returned from their travels inspired. Inspiration abounded, and even if I didn’t do anything with this myth of the Kelpies, there were likely a hundred other stories I could come up with.

“Owen.”

“Mother.” I mimicked her serious tone as a few colorful leaves swirled in the wind across the road. I loved when the wind would gust hard enough to shake the trees, gold leaves fluttering, mother nature’s glitter.

“When are you coming home?”

“Not for a while. I told you that.”

“That’s too bad. I met the loveliest woman yesterday. She’s a lawyer.”

“Mom, why were you speaking with lawyers?” Mythoughts skidded away from the leaves and back to my mother’s constant issues.

“Your father is contesting his alimony payments again.”

As he rightly should be seeing as how my mother had screamed her way through a slew of husbands since then. I filed that thought away in the “Things you don’t say to your mother unless you want her to dissolve into hysterics” pile.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Anything that I can do?”

“Steal that tart of his away from him?”

Well, this was new. I paused, gulping for air, as I tried to steady my hands on the wheel. Surely my mother had not just asked me to pursue my own stepmother romantically. Even for her this was far-fetched.

“I have to go.” For the first time in years, I hung up on my mother midsentence. There was only so much a man could take, and since any response to a comment like that wouldn’t be in the neighborhood of polite or respectful, silence would have to do. Not that she was being particularly respectful of me with her shitty comments, but it had never been about me, had it? The focus had always been on Angela, and I was never to forget it for a moment.

When the phone immediately buzzed again, I ignored it, turning up the radio, and hummed along to a Flogging Molly song that I hadn’t heard in a while. The Celtic lilt and heavy guitar perked my mood, and by the time I pulled into the gravel driveway at Shona’s, I had largely put my mother’s comment to rest.

Not entirely. But enough that I could compartmentalize it.

I suspect my therapist would say that was not healthy, but he’d likely applaud me for hanging up on her.

Movement caught my eye, and Shona exited her house with a laundry basket on her hip. Charmed, I slipped from the car, the bouquet of flowers at my side and wandered up the path to her patio where lines hung for laundry. There was something so provincial about hanging clothes out to dry. It just wasn’t as common in the States. I watched as she put the basket down and reached up for her clothes and my mouth went dry. I’d been so fixated on her that I hadn’t noticed the brightly colored underwear pinned to the clotheslines.

My imagination had a field day.

Putting the flowers down on a small table, I crossed the patio in two steps, and stopped Shona in midreach.

“What the …Owen,” Shona gasped, startled, as I whirled her to me. Before she could speak another word, I crushed her lips to mine, needing the taste of her kiss more than I needed my morning cup of coffee. The world stilled, all thoughts faded away, and all I could do was feel.

Her kiss lit me up in a way that I hadn’t known that I’d needed. Had a part of me been dead inside for so long that I’d needed someone with some sort of proverbial special key to unlock my emotions again? Perhaps. My therapist would likely call it a defense mechanism based on a trauma response. All I knew was that I’d felt numb toward women for quite a while now, but kissing Shona ignited me, and made me, for the first time in a long time, crave someone. I wanted to peel back her layers, to learn what made her tick, to figure out how her brainworked.

Much like the roses she so loved, I wanted her to bloom for me.

She pulled back, her chest heaving, and I let her go, knowing that I’d been rude with stealing a kiss without warning and hoped I hadn’t angered her.

“I’d apologize, but that would imply I regretted kissing you and I do not,” I said, brushing my thumb over her lip. Her eyebrows lifted, and she visibly swallowed.

“Um,” Shona began, but then stalled, just looking up at me with those eyes that reminded me of the sea on a fresh spring morning.

“I got you something,” I said. Retrieving the flowers, I presented them to her. Her eyes widened, and that luscious mouth of hers rounded in surprise.

“You boughtmeflowers?” Shona looked from the bouquet to me with surprise. She didn’t reach for them, instead wringing her hands in front of her as though she was unsure what to do with flowers.

“You did mention that roses are your favorite flower.”

“But I have roses. Out there.” Shona gestured weakly to the gardens behind us. I didn’t dare turn to look, knowing I’d fixate on an emerald-green bra that would look decadent against her skin, and kept my eyes trained on hers.

“And now you have roses. Forinthere.” I nodded toward her cottage, hoping she’d invite me in while she put them in water.

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