Page 28 of Some Like It Scot
“Diva.”
Now he’d thrown one of my least favorite insults. I lowered my fishing pole like a lance toward him. “You think I risked my life to get more visibility than you? Mark, I like my job, but not that much. You’re the one who wants to perform life-threatening feats, not me. I only plan about 20 percent of the misadventures that happen to me. The rest of the time is just”—I exaggerated my shrug—“luck?”
“Luck.” He scoffed and then leaned close. “I’m winning that award this year, Miss Adventure, and this trip is the award team’s final look at social media ratings, content, and writing before they make their decision, so don’t get in my way.”
That award meant another boost in salary, which always came as a boon, but I didn’t plan to wrestle, threaten, or swindle it fromanybody. I’d win it fair and square, which was more than I could say for Meddling Mark.
“I don’t even want to be in the same room with you, Mark.” I pointed the fishing pole lance close enough to his chest to almost make contact. “And just because you feel threatened by me, my writing, and my humor doesn’t mean that I’m trying to beat you. So get off your high horse.”
“Your silly little cyberworld doesn’t threaten me. I have plans, Miss Adventure.” He knocked the fishing pole away and leaned in, nose flaring in the special way he had that resembled a frustrated horse. “Plans to push my ratings well above yours. So just stay out of my way.”
With that somewhat anticlimactic warning, he turned and stomped from the room toward the kitchen. And with a look in Miss Dupont’s direction and a half curtsy to Mrs. Lennox, I scooted right out of the room.
There would be plenty of time to meet the guests when I didn’t look like a stand-in for the Goonies, but since I already had my fishing pole, rain jacket, and camera, I might as well take Mirren’s advice and visit the pools, whatever those were.
Plus get a few more videos and photos.
Maybe, just maybe, I’d uncover a faerie or two.
I grabbed a quick bite to eat from the sandwiches Mrs. Lennox had left for the guests and ran to my room, avoiding Mark, who had thankfully found a conversational partner in Miss Lennox. Or rather, she may have found him.
Shrugging off my backpack and setting out my wet shoes to dry, I prepared for my trek to the pools. My gaze fell on my notebook in the internal pocket of the backpack, and I looked at my watch. It wasn’t even one o’clock yet.
Definitely enough time to type up a few of my notes from the morning. My laptop looked a little out of place on the vintage desk, but I cozied up on the stiff-backed armchair (okay, not so cozy) and flipped open my computer. As the screen opened to reveal the last few documents I’d been working on, my attention caught on an open document at the bottom.Katie and the Lost Scarab of King Tut’s Tombshown as the title. I paused and then clicked open the page.
Talking to Brett about my dream of publishing these books always made me want to delve back into Katie’s world. My grin tipped as I gazed over the first few paragraphs, tickled at my little creation’s spunk and positivity. What little girl wouldn’t love to embark on such literary adventures? Books saved my sanity long before they became my refuge. They introduced me to braver girls. Daring ones. Kind and generous ones. Girls with warm, welcoming homes full of love and laughter and belonging.
This fictitious fourteen-year-old Katie was all the things I loved best about young fictional heroines... and so much cooler than twenty-eight-year-old Katie. She dashed boldly into adventure, built relationships without fear. Fictional Katie knew where she belonged and traveled with the knowledge she’d return home after each adventure to a safe, welcoming world that embraced her as she was.
A twinge of discomfort wiggled its way up through my chest to tighten my throat. What must it feel like to belong to fictional Katie’s world?
I closed the page and opened my notes, drowning out the thoughts with different ones describing my morning adventure in Glenkirk.
A half hour later, fishing pole in hand, I walked through the back garden again and took the trail behind the village toward the pools as Mirren had directed. The air smoothed over my skin with a cool touch, sending my hair flying about my face in a fury. I forged ahead toward some rocky hills beyond the village and nottoofar in the distance.
Well, they didn’tlooktoo far, but after walking a good half hour, I felt as if they weren’t getting as close as they ought. Lucky for me, I stumbled upon an inlet of sorts and just a distance from the shore, over a strip of land, was a scattering of small pools of water surrounded by massive stones.
VeryOutlander-ish stones.
Ah! This must be it. The Fey pools.
I paused to take in the view from the steep hillside and snapped a few pics, adding on a video to edit later. The scene beckoned me closer. I felt like Lucy Pevensie, being drawn deeper into the wardrobe to a world of magic and mystery. But this land wasn’t in a book. It pulsed with life and age and an unidentifiable allure. Perhaps there was something to all those legends and myths. I poised my fishing pole against my shoulder and made my way to the pools.
Cliffs lined the horizon beyond the loch in the distance. Stones were scattered haphazardly among the pools, as if tossed there by a giant from one of the caves in the cliffs across the way. I carefully descended a small ledge, lowering myself to a patio of rock and sand with bits of tall grass peeping in between. The ocean whispered to my left, just over a hillside, so close I could smell the salty air. What a wonderful place an island was! One could find mountains, seas, lakes, and countryside all wrapped up within a thirty-mile stretch!
Certainly, if magic belonged anywhere, here seemed as perfect a place as any I’d visited.
A combination of rust-colored, brown, green, and gray slate mixed with sand and seaweed created my floor as I wove between the scattered standing stones to reach a set of three larger pools with a few smaller ones sprinkled in various spots among the stones. A larger one on the nearby hillside even spilled over to create a small waterfall.
Tossing my backpack on the ground and placing my fishing rod down on a grassy spot, I poised my phone against a nearby rock andpushed record. Why not give the viewers my fresh attempts at fishing? Sure, it had been a few years, but it wasn’t a super complicated activity.
After a few maddening attempts at casting—and an episode of removing the hook from my hair—I finally succeeded in dropping the line quite perfectly in the spot I’d aimed for... mostly.
I squinted heavenward and sighed. Sometimes I wondered if God created me for comic relief. Oh well, it would be perfect fodder for the followers of Miss Adventure. Besides, fishing came with a much sweeter reward than a catch. My whole body relaxed into the warmth of sunshine, a cool breeze, and sweet memories.
After slipping off my wellies and socks to dip my feet over the edge of the rock into the pool, I basked in the glories of the day and the simple act of fishing. My grandfather had taken me fishing with him when I was younger, and though I caught more branches and weeds than fish most days, the whole point of fishing with Grandpa was enjoying the day and talking about something... or nothing at all. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized it had never been about the fish. In fact, he’d been one of the few people in my life who just wanted to spend time with me... as me. Nothing else. I think I missed that freedom most of all.
Maybe being with him was the last time I felt anything close to home.
