Page 7 of Wild Scottish Fortune

“Just like…I don’t know. What’s the word in tennis? Parry? Lob back and forth? I say one thing and you toss it back at me?”

A flash of amusement heightened Finlay’s good looks and my annoyance deepened that I was even remotely aware of how this man looked. I shouldn’t care. He was my client’s manager, technically a boss of sorts to me, and exceptionally not my type. Remembering how he’d flicked the dog hair off his trousers, I tried to imagine this man hunkered down in the middle of dirt and sawdust.

Nope. Couldn’t see it.

Even now, surrounded by the mess of a construction zone, Finlay looked like he’d just walked out of a boardroom. A gold watch flashed at his wrist, his trousers showed no wrinkles, and only the tiniest of smudgesat the cuff of his shirt indicated any sort of struggle in the cottage earlier today. And there had been. I’d heard him banging to get out.

Which reminded me. I needed to detour past that cottage on the way out today. I needed Finlay to wrap this conversation up so I could be on my way.

“Parry can be used in tennis. It can also be used in sword fighting. Or boxing even. Lobbing is when you toss something lightly to another person.”

“So both would work here.”

“Lob would only apply if you lobbed something back at me, which would then turn it into a parry.”

“Mr. Thompson, may I be frank?”

“Oh, please do.” Finlay’s grin deepened, even though I sensed he was annoyed at me calling him Mr. Thompson.

“I’m finding this conversation a wee bit tedious, and I’d like to finish up my work so I can crack on with my evening plans. Is there anything you’re needing?”

“What are your plans?”

“Is divulging my evening plans required as part of my job description?” I raised an accusatory brow at him.

“Now who is parrying?”

“See earlier note about my annoyance.” I put my hand on the handle of the sander, indicating I was about to drown his words out.

Finlay simply crossed his arms and rocked back on his feet, clearly amused by me.

“My plans are much the same as they are most nights. To crochet and listen to murder podcasts. Any other questions?”

“More than before, certainly.”

“Technically I’m off the clock, so you’ll have to ask them another time.” Bending over, I flicked the sander on, the loud noise drowning out any follow-up questions. I didn’t look up as I moved the machine over the floor, concentrating on the rhythmic motion, watching as the grain of the old wood exposed itself to me. By the time I switched the machine off, having sanded far more than I had planned to avoid having to converse further with Finlay, the ache in my neck had intensified.

I added a neck massage to my evening plans.

I’d recently splurged on one of those personal massagers that wrap around your neck and shoulders and plugged directly into the power point. I had to say, next to a very different type of massager that I had tucked in my bedside drawer, it was my new favorite toy at home.

The evening air was damp, bringing with it the scent of musty earth after a soft rain, and I lingered for a moment as the last of the light held on. I always loved this shift of winter giving over to late spring, when the daylight hours became much longer, and we could say goodbye to blustery winter weather. MacAlpine Castle stood, proud as she ever was, the waters of Loch Mirren a mirror at her back.

What would it be like to live in a castle?

I honestly couldn’t wrap my head around having so much space to myself. Well, not by myself, since loads of people needed to live in a castle to keep it running, at least in olden days, but still—calling such an impressive structure your home had to be kind of mind-blowing. I’d grown up basically on the streets, in a wee town outside Edinburgh. My mother’s half-sister had barely been able to provide for her own children, let alone the added burden of myself afteraddiction had claimed my mother’s life. Four of us children had shared a bedroom, and I was outside more often than not, which is why I always loved the shift of winter giving up the last of its hold and settling over to the gentler days of spring.

Not that spring in Scotland was all that warm, but when you spent a lot of time in the elements, even the smallest shift in temperature was deeply noticeable. By the time I’d turned sixteen I was largely on my own, barely passing by to check in with my frazzled aunt, and I wasn’t sure which one of us had been more relieved when I’d finally stopped going around to the house. By then, I’d found a crew of others just like me, but it had been Jacob, sweet silly Jacob, who had saved my life.

His grandfather had owned a workshop. It was where Jacob had disappeared to when the bruises from his father were too large to hide. There, his grandfather had first taught him, and then me, how to build.

I’d forever be grateful for the gentle teachings of Grandpa Lou. He never once made me feel unwelcome for being a girl or not part of his family, and it was there I’d learned a very important lesson.

Nobody was going to save me but myself.

Having a skill such as being able to build with your own two hands? Well, it had opened a world of possibilities for me.

“A man has a fortune in his hands, Orla. You just need the right tools.” Grandpa Lou had lectured me over and over, in one form or another. “As long as you can build something for yourself, Orla, you’ll have all the fortune you ever need.”

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