Page 112 of Some Like It Scot
I paused on the idea. No, not necessarily her.
Love did.
Air burst from me as I took another walk around the main corridors of Craighill in search of her. Love for her wound its way into the bruised and scarred places I’d pushed to the side since Allison—and deepened by Greer’s loss—and shored them up. Braced my heart to love again, whatever may come.
Her weaknesses, her genuineness, even her ridiculous mishaps, called for love—practically pleaded for it.
And I wanted to give it. To her.
I nearly laughed again. It didn’t make sense. It seemed too impossible in such a brief amount of time, but there it was. I wanted more conversations. More teasing. More laughter. And definitely more of those world-shattering kisses.
Dressed for my butler duties, I watched out for her at breakfast, but she didn’t show. With the house buzzing about the end of the inaugural Edwardian Experience, the wrath of Lennox on Mark the Eejit (who was sent packing yesterday), the upcoming ball, and the special gowns created for the women from some designer in Edinburgh, the morning class on ballroom etiquette had been moved to the afternoon. So, perhaps, Katie hadn’t left her room.
But with her penchant for running away, I imagined she was trying to avoid me.
And to avoid a determined butler took quite the feat.
I could be as stubborn as her, if not more so.
I was in this chase for the prize—Katie Campbell’s heart. And I might not know how it would all turn out—including the possibility of getting my own heart thoroughly smashed—but I knew I’d regret not trying at all.
Her care for others, her humor, her intelligence and passion.
And just the thought of such passion turned my thoughts directly back to kissing her quite thoroughly in my house and wishing for a repeat as soon as possible.
It was then I heard her voice coming down the hallway. A one-way conversation. Possibly mobile?
“And this is the hallway to the ballroom, everyone.”
Was she making a video? I slipped into the narrow door of the linen closet and waited.
“Tomorrow the grand ball will happen, bringing this marvelous Edwardian adventure to an end. I can’t wait to show you the gown specifically designed for me. If I ever hoped to feel like Cinderella, this dress is the one to do it. I’ll also be interviewing the designer tomorrow so you can learn more about her vision for the dresses and what led to her design choices.” She drew closer. “I’ll pop in later today to give you a tour of the ballroom as we take our next class. See you later, and may you turn your misadventures into the best adventures.”
Her sign-off line. I’d heard it several times since following her online. And I smiled. Despite the hurts she’d known and her proclivity toward disaster, she aimed to take the difficulties and find the good within them. Perhaps we wanted exactly the same thing. Making something beautiful out of something broken.
Her cleverness and kindness shone through in the videos and articles as clearly as in person, proving her even more genuine.
Beautifully genuine.
Just as she made it to the open door, I slipped my arm around herwaist and pulled her inside the closet. Her eyes widened just before I claimed her lovely, shocked mouth with my own.
A hum of appreciation curled up from her, and for a second she melted against me like she had yesterday, giving me full permission to tug her even closer. But then she pushed back.
“What—” she sputtered, blinking. “Why are you kissing me?”
A laugh burst out of me. “Because I like kissing you?”
Her bottom lip dropped again, and I moved in for another taste, but her palm stopped me. “But... but you’re not supposed to like kissing me. Not after yesterday. You’re not even supposed to really likeme.”
“I assure ye, yesterday only made me like you—and kissing you—even more.”
She shook her head, her brow puckering with wrinkles. “But... Graeme.” She looked at me as if trying to console me. “I’m a mess. A big mess. I even make messes. You said so yourself that death is practically nipping at my heels. You can’t”—her voice trembled ever so slightly, and my chest ached—“you can’t like me.”
“Prepare yourself, Katie.” I raised a palm to her cheek and smoothed back a few stray hairs that had fallen from whatever hair twist she wore. “I like you. A lot. And I’m not certain why trouble likes to follow you, but Iamcertain that I want to be there to help you out of it. If you’ll have me.”
***
Katie
