Page 62 of Wild Scottish Beauty

I guess we both were testing our strength now.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Willow

Iwas going to my first dance.

I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I could, because I was an adult and had gone to clubs and stuff in New York, but not while on a date.

Sixteen-year-old me was still freaking out, even though it had been over a week since Ramsay had asked me to go with him and thus far, he hadn’t retracted his invitation.

Time was already starting to fly by. Ramsay and I had neatly fallen into a rhythm where we spent an hour or so each day collaborating on ideas for the castle where time allowed, and the rest was trying to manage his admittedly impressive business. He still barely talked to me, grunting his answers most days, but that didn’t mean he was cold to me.

Not in the slightest.

He always had my favorite “biscuits” on hand. He’d smacked my hand—gently—when I’d called them cookies one morning. He noticed when I was cold, and would add a log to the fire, or if the music annoyed me, he’d switch the playlist. One day, I’d been struggling with a headache and two paracetamols had shown up with a glass of water by my desk. He badgered me into taking breaks, tried to force me into letting Calvin stay with him each night, and more often than not, gave me a ride home from work if the weather was bad. And still, getting him to open up was as easy as chipping away at marble.

I was beginning to learn a few things though. His dad had recently had a stroke, which was what had brought him back to Loren Brae. He and his brother didn’t speak anymore, which made me sad for him, but I didn’t remember his brother at all from our time in Scotland. He was older than Ramsay, and while I wasn’t sure where his brother had been when we’d been over to visit, I knew I’d never met him. It had always been just Ramsay and Miles, wreaking havoc around town. Ramsay made it clear he didn’t much care for small talk, even more so when it danced too close to anything personal. That didn’t stop me from talking to him though. I talked to him all day long, taking his grunts as encouragement, and told him random tidbits about my life as we worked together. I liked to chat, and since Ramsay hadn’t yet specifically told me to shut up, I figured he was accepting it. For now.

On one memorable occasion, Ramsay had startled me rearranging the closet, and I’d almost fallen off the small ladder I’d climbed up to reach the highest shelf. Which had landed me in the impossible situation of Ramsay’s facepressed firmly to my butt, his hands grazing my breasts, as he caught me before I broke every bone in my body.

Neither of us spoke about that moment.

Imayhave dreamt about it though.

In turn, I badgered him into trying new music, made sure he ate regularly, and encouraged him to be more sociable by inviting customers into the shop even when he skewered me with looks that would have made most grown men cry. I updated his website, researched ideas for our collaboration, and in general, fell in love with small-town life. Who knew that I’d love it so much more than the hustle and bustle of New York City?

When I’d finally called Dad, he’d been cautiously happy for me. At least he knew Ramsay. That had helped him accept where I’d landed. Naturally, there had been no talk of Kelpies, kittens who could somehow insert thoughts, or magick sewing scissors.

In all honesty, I felt as if I was where I was meant to be.

Now, we sat at the table after a walk-in client had just left, gushing about the cèilidh, ecstatic after having ordered a pink sash for her pink dress. Even I couldn’t believe it when Ramsay had calmly shown her a few swatches and promised it would be finished in time for the dance. And now my teenaged self was back to having an inner meltdown about the dance, because I didn’t even know what to wear, let alone how to dance.

But adult me was calmly sitting with Ramsay, showing him my sketches, trying to push down his monologue about my body the other day that surfaced every time he leaned his head close to me.

I think you’re mind-blowingly beautiful, and any man,or boy, who couldn’t see that needs to get their eyes checked. You’re a damn goddess. You would be at any size, because you have the personality of a fecking angel, but add in those killer curves and that damn mouth, and och, it’s enough to bring any man to his knees.

No one,and I meanno one, had ever made me feel so beautiful like I had that day. Somehow, though, I’d pretended that his words hadn’t made my insides go liquid. It had taken everything in my powernotto climb into his lap and kiss him until we both were senseless.

Because that would be wrong.

He was just being nice because he was my brother’s friend, I told myself, and helping me acclimate to a new town. He’d told me himself that groups of people attended these dances together and that nobody needed an invitation, hadn’t he? I really needed to not read into this. Particularly when he’d come back from showing Calvin the litterbox and had barely said two words to me afterward. In fact, his little rant about my body had probably been the most consecutive words the man had ever spoken to me yet. I’d just tuck that away to examine another time, because let me tell you, a man saying those things about me, in that delicious Scottish accent? Oh yeah, I had been secretly feasting off that compliment for days.

“Tartan fanny packs.” Ramsay eyed me in horror, and I rushed to explain.

“See? Look, I know they were popular in the eighties and all that, but they’re making a comeback. For real.”

Ramsay pointed carefully to a sketch of a bag that I had on my iPad.

“You want us to make afannypack?” Something indecipherable hovered in his expression.

“Um, yes?”

“How much can you fit in it?”

“Well, a good amount, I suppose. Depending on the size. We can try different types and see.”

Ramsay’s face remained passive, yet I sensed I was missing something.

---