Page 80 of Some Like It Scot
“A little warning would have been nice,” I murmured after a swallow or two. “But it’s delicious.”
“Aye.” His gaze dropped to my lips before dragging back to my eyes. “It is.”
My face flamed for a whole new reason, and I forgot about my walrus appearance, the smeared handkerchief, and maybe even my name. I needed distance from this man just to protect my IQ.
With powers Superman should envy, I pulled my gaze away from his and turned back to Mirren, who stood sporting her own massive smile. Maybe she was trying to hide her laugh too. “But”—I waved toward the field with his handkerchief—“in answer to your question, this has been amazing. The dancing, the heavies, the piping.” I raised my half-eaten jammy. “The scran.”
He rewarded me with a wide grin I felt all the way down to my wellies. “You’re speakin’ like a Scot now, lass.”
Lass.That word from his lips and paired with such a look. Heaven above!
I glanced down with a loose hold on my composure and finished wiping my face. “Mirren has helped. Lachlan and Jamie too. Maybe they didn’t warn me about the jammy, but they’ve given me lots of other information, from the types of dances to the songs the pipers played.” I nodded over to Mirren, and the tender look in her eyes gave me pause for only a second.
She cared about me. And she’d sent Lachlan to seek me out so I could spend time with them.Me.
As weird and disastrous as I am. As tall and troublesome.
Without expecting me to be anyone else.
And Graeme had looked at my mouth as if—my face reheated enough to sizzle any residual cream—he were hungry. And it certainly wasn’t because I gave off seductive vibes. Could he really be attracted tome?
“Aren’t you meant to be off somewhere about now, Graeme MacKerrow?” Mirren’s question sliced into the stare linking my boiling body temperature to Graeme’s eyes.
He hesitated before pulling his attention from mine.
“What?” He blinked as if the contact impacted him as much as me. And then he gave his head a shake and looked down at his watch. “Aye.” The word shot from him, and he took a few steps backward, his gaze finding mine again. He even added a knee-weakening grin, as if to hold me over. “Come see how well I am at taking advice?”
“You’d better see it now because it may never happen again,” Mirren shot back, receiving a frown from over her son’s shoulder as he disappeared into the crowd at almost a run.
“What in the world is going on?”
“It’s a surprise.” Mirren linked her arm through mine and pulled mebetween the tents. “And you’ll want to have your camera ready because it’ll be worth givin’ folks a glimpse of your talented Scot, now won’t it?”
“Mytalented Scot?” But my protest disappeared into the noise of the passing crowd as Lachlan took my other hand and pulled me forward.
We stopped in front of a tent with a hand-painted sign that read: “Wildlife Sculpture Demonstration.” And beneath those words: “Watergaw Sculptures Demonstration.”
Watergaw? Was that some sort of family name?
“What sort of wood do you use?” The question came from an older man who stood among the group of observers facing the single occupant of the tent.
Graeme?
My bottom lip dropped. He sat behind a table beneath the tent with a finished sculpture of a barn owl on one side of him and directly in front of him an unfinished... puffin? Wait. Had he planned to show his work here? It didn’t sound like it from our conversation at his house. Had he taken my words to heart?
Mirren pulled me among the throng, closer to the front.
“In answer to your question, Mr. Cane”—Graeme patted the puffin—“I typically use tupelo wood since it’s a soft timber that still holds its strength.” He wiped his palms down the sides of his kilt. Was he nervous? I stepped closer, hoping to catch his eye. Reassure him. “But if I’m not painting the work, I tend toward oak or chestnut. The wood is good for carving and has some beautiful colors and grains.”
“You been doin’ this for years, have ye?” An older man waved toward the tent. “And we didnae know?”
“I began taking it seriously about five years ago, but... well, I... I’ve only been selling for about three years.” He cleared his throat, his smile tight.
“What a wonder!” came an older woman’s response. “Your grandpa would be fair proud of you, lad.”
Graeme’s gaze shot up to the woman. “Thank you, Mrs. MacRay. I hope so.”
“Hisgrandpa?” Another man called out. “The lad’s done usallproud with such work. The owl looks so lifelike I’m tempted to go hide my chicks.”
