Page 20 of Lochlan

She moves a wee closer, regarding me with those large, brown eyes. “I wouldn't have thought of you as a creative; your nature seems more practical.”

It's not like me to let down my guard, but there's nothing at stake; we're just two people talking. “I have a practical side, but photography is how I relax. How about you? Do you have some hidden talent?”

A slight smile teases her lips. “My sport is where I'm creative. It might not seem like it, but I think I create art on sand.”

“You said you're a volleyball player; were your parents players as well?”

“My father played when he was younger, and he introduced me to the sport. He's a judge in Santa Barbara and my mother is a linguistics professor in Edinburgh.”

That's valuable information; she's more connected than I thought. “Were you all born in Scotland?”

“Dad and I were born here; he's a first-generation. Mom was born in Edinburgh; she's a Mackenzie.”

The connection is through her parents. There are enough MacGregors and Mackenzies back home; it depends on which branch of the tree her family fell from.

“Do you have more photos?” she asks, cutting into my thoughts.

“Aye, I have enough to fill a few galleries.”

She glances back at the photo. “Are they all landscapes?”

“No, they're mostly portraits. People are the most interesting subjects. I like to take candid shots of strangers, but that's not always possible.”

“Where do you keep these photos? Do you have a storage or are they hanging in a gallery?”

I chuckle at the absurdity of my pictures being publicly displayed. It would disgust my granda that a MacTavish male would make his living from an unmanly profession. “No, I keep them in my room, on a number of thumb drives.”

“Can I see them?”

I mask my reaction to her surprising request because I still don't completely trust her. “One day, maybe?”

“Why can't that one day be now?”

The pleading smile is hard to resist. I'm facing a long night of solitary drinking with a television as a background to stave off the quiet. She'd be a bonnie distraction for a little while. I'm not interested in her and she prefers Connell, so what's the harm? I shrug. “You can see them, if that's what you want, but I'm no professional. My room is across from the storage; we can go there for the viewing.” Saying that out loud sounds like I'm a vagrant, working here for board. I've never wanted to live in big places with lots of things I don't need. Just enough suits me…it always has.

“One thing,” she says, grasping my arm. “I'm starving. Do you have any food in this place?”

There's a moment of concern while I think about how to feed her. The breakroom is where I usually go for my meals. I can't offer her the pastries she brought; that would be bad form. There's an arrangement I have with a restaurant that will deliver. I'm about to suggest this when I remember that we have a private tasting tomorrow that includes appetizers. We had charcuterie plates made up from a gourmet deli for the event. We store the food in our small industrial kitchen.

“Follow me,” I say. On our way out, I dart behind the bar to grab two bottles of wine, something premium that's reserved for wine club members when they visit. She trails me down the corridor, through a side hallway into the gleaming stainless-steel kitchen. I set the bottles on the counter to pull open the refrigerator and retrieve two plates with meats, cheeses, olives with other items I can't identify, but which must be good because customers are mad about it. “Could you carry the wine?” I ask. “These plates are heavy and I can't manage all of it alone.”

She takes the wine, and we walk through the building, while I check the remaining locks before heading out and walking between the structures. It's dark early, so only the lights from the buildings light our way. I can't remember the last time I was with a woman like this. With Amber and the others, they'd just show up at my door and we'd fuck, nohow was your day? Seen any movies lately?We'd do it on the bed or sometimes on the couch if we wanted to mix it up. I'd pump her until I had enough, then do what I could to help make her visit worth it. I always wake to an empty bed because they'd slip away before the morning, making me wonder if they had visited me in a dream.

I was careful not to promise anything lasting, like a proper relationship. If I had, it would have been a lie and I couldn't do that. I'd tried with each one to feel something; I couldn't. It was like that part of me that gave a shite was burned out of me.

Kenzie stands in the middle of my room, taking in my home for the past three years. I call it a room, but it actually looks like a large loft apartment.

Her gaze lights on something until another object catches her attention. I tend to buy things in blues and grays because those colors suit me. There's a king bed, standing closet, couch, chairs, and other things to fill the room, along with a TV, some paintings, and small sculptures. I saw this furniture staged in a two-page magazine spread and bought it all from an upscale furniture shop. The store provided someone to stage my room, and that was the extent of my home decorating.

I set the feast on the small coffee table and look for a couple of glasses. Kenzie seats herself on the couch and tucks her legs underneath her, watching me move around the room.

“Do you have music?” she asks, searching for something that might produce sound.

This is beginning to feel like a date instead of a photo viewing. I pull out my phone to bring up a playlist. It's nothing specific—background music from around 2010. She might not know these bands; they were mostly famous in Scotland or Europe.

She smiles when the music blast through the speakers. “Cool,” she says, “I love Biffy Clyro.”

I drop my phone on the table. “You know this band? How is it possible?”

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