Page 56 of Some Like It Scot
I knew the idea of dipping into this attraction was ridiculous. But I grinned down at the paper anyway, our last few meetings flipping through my mind like a movie reel. The loch rescue was one thing, but dancing with him yesterday and the unexpected note today only secured the very real idea that Graeme MacKerrow was dangerous.
Highly dangerous.
I could have blamed the eyes, which were fascinating. Or the shoulders. I sighed in appreciation. Or the accent and the way his voice curled around the wordlass. Honestly, those were dangerous enough to a single American woman who’d never really been in love. But then you add dancing and banter and this weird sort of tug-of-war between sweetness and grumpiness?
The entire package gripped my unwritten list of Mr. Right qualities and dangled them in front of me like a carrot for a starving rabbit. My lonely heart clawed at the possibility. My mind kept screaming,Whoa there, Katie-girl!(But in Mirren MacKerrow’s voice in my mind. Not sure why it was hers, but it was.)
I ran a finger over the words on the paper, imagining him taking the time to write it. What an anomaly he was. With his gruffness, I wouldn’t have expected it, so what else was he hiding behind that devastating smile?
Whew. I fanned the paper in front of my face as my grin kept growing. I don’t think I’d ever been so attracted to a real person so quickly before, and the idea sent another tremble to my terrified heart. Because of one very obvious thing: Scotland wasn’t my home. And Graeme certainly didn’t have plans to leave. He owned a manor house, for heaven’s sake!
I was afraid all the way down to my walking shoes. Afraid I’d mess it up like I did so many other things, except I couldn’t write my way into making it a funny happily-ever-after. I’d just get my heart broken all over again in a new way. Then what would be left of me?
My thumb trailed over the words on the paper. They didn’t mean love. They were just a really nice sentiment from a hot Scot who gave off hot/cold vibes and leathery cologne. But still, they hinted at a connection I didn’t fully understand.
I swallowed through the emotions rallying in my throat before they could turn into tears, a skill I’d almost perfected from years of practice. Tears didn’t help. They didn’t change things. Theydidn’t make me feel any better or smarter. They just dripped down my nose and turned my eyes red so my face resembled a leaking tomato. And how many people really want to love on something like that!
Love?
Silly idea for someone who was on her way to the next adventure.
But then I reread the simple sentence, and a vision of Graeme drawing me close to him during the dance made me smile all over again. And caused an explosion of glorious tingles to travel up my arms. Then we’d chased the dreaded parrot through Craighill with an entourage of a few other guests running behind us.
I’d offered a helpful pun as we skated around a doorway into a ballroom. “Isn’t thisegg-citing?”
Graeme nearly stopped running to look over at me and then rolled his eyes, continuing the chase. But he did call back to me. “If my ancestors were here right now, we’d be eating parrot for supper.”
As we raced up a flight of stairs, he asked, “Why would a parrot need a hairband?”
To which I replied, “Well, it doesn’t look like much of abirden at the speed he’s flying.”
It took Graeme a second, but then he did stop and turn all the way around on the landing of the stairs. “You’re a bampot, you are.”
Which then made me smile even more because of how hard he fought to hide his smile. He really didn’t like to smile. What was that about?
“I’ve been called worse.” I shrugged a shoulder and shot him a wink. “At least you didn’t call mequackers.”
His eyelids pinched closed along with the battle he kept having with his lips. And then the thought of a battle between his lips and mine sounded way too distracting and exhilarating and positively perilous, so I rushed past him on the stairs after the feathered felon.
When we finally found the bird’s hoard of pinched items, sans Merlin, we distributed the findings to a very flustered Mrs. Lennox and everyone was sent off to ready for supper.
I probably should have tried to ignore Graeme the rest of the evening for no other reason than to preserve my blood pressure. But he cut such a fine figure in that butler’s uniform, poised at the corner of the room to serve, I found my gaze constantly moving in his direction.
Me, my lips, and my blood pressure were in so much trouble.
And as I stared down at the note, realizing the grumpy Scot had taken my interests into account? Well, I kind of swooned. Almost as thoroughly as when he rumbled the wordlassby my ear.
Ach!
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had plenty of swoony encounters—encounters I happened to accidentally and thoroughly botch like a pro. There was the time in Italy when a deliciously attractive native rode up beside me on his moped, lowered his sunglasses, and winked. I must say I did look rather cute in the red floral dress I was wearing. Though it was the last time I wore that dress, because instead of responding with the suave and alluring reaction I had in my head, I tripped over an overly excited cockapoo and landed in the middle of a café table, sending a few bellinis flying in one direction and a few stradiottos in the other, leaving me, the people at the table, and the cockapoo smelling like a winery and sufficiently splashed with enough caffeine to run a cappuccino machine. The liquid explosion even made it to the handsome moped driver’s sunglasses. Needless to say, he drove off without a glance back at me or my wonderfully stained floral dress.
And then there was the instance where I almost strangled a very handsome Parisian vendor with my purse strap. I blame the pigeons. The only consolations to the fiasco were the excellent cream puffs and the fact that the vendor didn’t press charges.
There was also the time in Mexico with the scuba equipment and the sea urchins. The doctor said the swoony instructor should heal without a scar.
I’ve clearly left a long trail of reasons (and hospital bills) to support my fear of romance. Not just for my own heart, but for my possible leading man’s lifespan.
I rested my chin on my palm as I took a bite of my tattie scone. But Graeme looked like he could take the risk. If his massive shoulders and steely eyes didn’t prove it, the six-foot-twenty rest of him should. Right?
