Page 47 of Priceless
"Jocko is a nickname for Jacob, which is the Scottish version of James. James was the name of many of our kings, so, in some stretches of history, a quarter of the male population have been named James. The followers of James Stuart and his son, Bonnie Prince Charlie, were called Jacobites. So aye, ye’ll find Jacobs and Jockos a bit thick on the ground. Have ye many Jocko’s in Denver?”
“No. No Jockos that I know.”
I took a deep breath to shake the odd feeling away, then forgot it altogether as we walked along through the process of making whisky—from malting floor to copper stills to aging warehouses—Jacob's knowledge and passion were obvious. He knew the technical details, yes, but more than that, he understood whisky the way some people understand music orpoetry. The guide deferred to him several times, and I could see other visitors listening to his explanations as much as hers.
At the tasting, I was grateful I’d eaten that sandwich. Even with food in my stomach, the whisky burned in my chest and made me a little light-headed. Jacob's eyes lit up as he described each dram—the influence of different cask types, the regional characteristics, the subtle notes most people missed.
Watching him, I realized how much he loved this world he'd inherited. There was pride in his voice when he talked about his grandfather, about the pub, about carrying on traditions that stretched back generations.
Even though Paul had inherited his family’s business, he’d never talked about his work with anything approaching passion. Though, to be fair, he always showed appreciation for the lifestyle the laundry business afforded us.
There I went again, thinking about Paul. And worse, when was the last time I had a positive thought about him? When had I become so aggressively critical? Since I’d met Jacob? Or when I first started chatting with Jocko?
I had to stop comparing them. Two different men, two definitely different worlds. If Paul had experienced Scotland, maybe?—
Oh, who was I kidding? Paul would have been blind here.
But I wasn’t. And I was going to take a page out of Paul’s Standard Operating Procedure. I was going to stop looking back.
After we left the distillery, we headed for Eilean Donan Castle, something Jocko had suggested for my itinerary. Jacob said it was the most photographed castle in the country, and when we came up on it, I laughed. I guess I was expecting it to be some massive Disney Castle on a hill, but instead, it was a little bitty thing that sat on its own little island, not too far from the road. The ground around it was sort of marshy, and the onlyway to get to it was a charming stone bridge with arches running beneath it.
"Picture time," Jacob announced, producing his phone from his pocket. "Cannae visit Scotland without getting’ this shot."
He handed me his phone, then, without giving me a chance to protest, he grabbed me by the waist and lifted me onto the little wall. Thankfully, the rocks standing up along the length of the bridge were nicely rounded, instead of sharp like the ones that lined many local roads. So it wasn’t too uncomfortable.
Once I was stable, he took his phone and stepped back to take my picture. I made a dozen different faces while he clicked away. I kept expecting a security guard to come running, to bawl us out again for acting younger than we were. But no one cared.
He lifted me down—which embarrassed the crap out of me, until I realized I probably didn’t weigh too much more than a giant cask of whisky. Then he held out his hand again, like he had when I’d tried to leave the pub that first day. He was asking for my hand, yeah. But there was something in his eyes that took me right back to that first time.
He was asking for something. Trust? A blind commitment? Or just my hand.
He was definitely asking for more than just permission to hold my hand, but he wasn’t about to explain. So he wanted me to trust him too.
I narrowed my eyes and hesitated, teasing him. Forcing him to speak.
“Give me what I want, woman. Give me what I’m asking for.”
“You don’t just want my hand.”
“True,” he said. Then he let that one word linger, let it scare the crap out of me, while he stared into my eyes, barely smiling. “But I’ll settle for the hand…for the now.”
My hand decided for itself and reached for him before I told it to. But this time, he didn’t make me close the distance allon my own. As soon as I moved in his direction, he came for me, taking my hand and then some. Swallowing up every inch between us until we stood flush against each other. The move literally stole my breath.
He lowered his head, but instead of kissing me, he pressed his head to the side of mine like he had before. “Before this day is out, Laira, ye will ask me to kiss ye. Do ye hear?”
He stayed there, waiting for my answer.
“I hear,” I said, so breathy I gave myself away, let him know exactly what effect he had on me.
He held there long enough to send a low laugh down my neck and into my blood stream, before turning away from me. But he still had my hand, so I was pulled along, hurrying to keep up while he tucked my hand around his arm and held on.
That’s how we toured that castle, what little of it they allowed us to see. Arm in arm, clinging to each other.
To be honest, I don’t remember anything about Eilean Donan Castle…except that bridge.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The sun was going down when we headed back to Inverness. We held hands in the car. Mutual consent. "So," he said, his voice soft and serious. "Whatdoye think of…all things Scottish?"
