Page 32 of Lochlan

“It's been me, Geordie, and my older brother Harris since we were kids. We were raised by my granda.”

She resumes her tapping. “I'd read your grandfather was your guardian,” she says idly.

“Geordie's and my parents were vacationing in Thailand. He'd sent them there as a reward for a job well done on a project. They were to return to Scotland the next day when a typhoon devastated the island they were on. Ian MacTavish lost his two sons and their wives that day and took over the guardianship of three boys.”

I receive the expected show of uncomfortable sympathy someone displays when they hear the story. “I'm sorry,” she mumbles and turns her attention back to her screen.

“I was a toddler when they died. I've only known Granda as a parental figure, since my granny passed even before my parents. Harris, who is ten years older than me, had a harder time with the loss. Geordie is a few months younger than me, and he has no memory of his parents. When we were in primary school, he insisted our parents were still alive, that they were held captive in Thailand and it would be up to us one day to free them. He held on to that hope for a long time until it finally faded.”

“I had no idea,” she says. “I've only seen the press releases about your family. I should have done more extensive research.”

“You were applying for a tasting room position. I'm certain Layla didn't question you about my family; it wasn't relevant to your employment. But thank you, I appreciate the sympathy.”

She searches my face, her lips formed in a tight pink frown, uncertain how to take my comment. I would rather see the sexy smile she gave Geordie than have her look at me this way. Why would I expect anything, when I said I've no interest in her and I'm forcing her to be here?

“Do you need any more information?” I ask.

“I think I have what I need. The rendering you received from the artist will be the main focus while you address the audience. We'll cut to the phases of the project as you move forward, but I suggest condensing the figures you gave me to a simple chart to list their contribution levels and what profit that investment is projected to yield.”

“I haven't given you that much information. Should the presentation be longer?”

“You don't want the pitch to be long, then it morphs into vacation photos. This is a teaser, enough to get them wanting to know more. You'll want to invite the serious investors to a one-on-one meeting.”

My frustration surfaces at the pretense that has to be shown to potential investors. It's why I was never interested in the business side of MacTavish. “It would be easier to tell them I have a project that will make them richer. ‘Give me your backing, and I'll make you a pile of money’.”

Her smile is faint when she levels her gaze at me. “If you do that, your project is dead in the water. The secret is to tell a story. We come from the likes of Robert Burns, Walter Scott, and Jackie Kay. You must remember the storytelling festivals in Edinburgh; oral history is in our blood.”

It's not her words, but the tenacity behind them. She's at a disadvantage in this situation, but there's a determination to make this work. She must be a force when she meets her opponents on the sand.

“It might appear that you have more of that in your blood than I do. At least show me how to start this performance.”

She stands and motions me to do the same. “Let me hear your opening line.”

I straighten my shoulders and look out at a bored, imaginary audience that's waiting for me to finish, so they can begin lunch. “Hello, my name is Lochlan MacTavish and I have an exciting proposal to talk about.”

She blows out a breath. “That's a start. You can drop your name. I'm sure they'll introduce you. As for the exciting proposal, how about telling them a childhood story, something that relates to wanting to build a wine destination in Silicon Valley.”

“I have no such story. The idea came to me to avoid being sent to New Zealand.”

She tilts her head. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Alright,” she says, drawing the word out. “Let's create a story later. Maybe now is a good time to change your delivery.”

I feel less manly taking criticism from his woman, but I endure her assessment of me stoically. “What do you mean? They can't understand me?”

“Your English is clear enough for an American audience. I want you to relax and stop looking like you're getting an enema. Your audience wants to hear what you have to say.”

She places her hands on my biceps and begins massaging. “You're tense,” she says, moving her hands to my shoulders. “I can show you some stretches to loosen up. What do you do to relax?”

The hard fingers digging into my muscles feel surprisingly good, but it's the notes of cinnamon and vanilla from her body wash that have me switching to other thoughts.

“I drink. That's what relaxes me.”

“Do you exercise?”

“There's gym equipment behind that screen. I jog when I have a mind to.”

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