Page 91 of Lochlan

It's packed tonight, we’re almost at the weekend, and I'm looking forward to a good meal.

“Logan,” I say as he pops up from his seat to catch me in an embrace as we do a manly beating of the backs.

“It's good to see you, and you brought a bottle of wine for dinner?”

“Aye, I have. There's more in the boot of my car. We can sample the rest when we’re in the studio. I brought a light Pinot Noir that should be suitable for anything you order tonight.”

The waitress comes with our menus, and I ask her to uncork the wine.

“I can do that right now,” she says, pulling out a corkscrew from her apron. “The owner says we'll waive the corking fee for tonight as a way of thanking you both for being regular patrons.”

After she pours the wine, we order.

“Thank you again for the painting. Since you sawGood Morning San Pacitas, then you saw the Catriona brand that features your painting,” I say.

“Your marketing department did a great job of creating a logo from my work.” He studies the wine in his glass for a moment. “I did a dozen sketches from the photographs you gave me and after I sent you the painting, the pictures still haunted me. There was a second-favorite shot from those images. I made another three more paintings. I'd like to keep these in my collection.”

The meal comes, interrupting our conversation. The waitress asks if we need anything else while topping off our glasses. When we respond no, she moves to the next table.

“Are you thinking of including them in your exhibition?”

“They wouldn't fit in the theme of the current collection. I might include them in a future exhibition. I'm assuming that you have permission from the model for her image to appear for Catriona only. Authorization for my work is something I'll need. Do you think Fiona will consent?”

“It has nothing to do with Fiona—”

He interrupts me before I can finish. “Jillian Barry announced that Fiona is the model. I assumed that was correct.”

As far as he and the rest of the world know, Fiona and I are together. I won't discuss our relationship, but at least I can give proper credit. “I understand your confusion; we haven't publicly corrected the mistake. The name of the model is Kenzie MacGregor.”

Excitement flashes in his eyes as he samples his wine. “Then you won't need to be an intermediary; give me her information and I'll contact her to request consent. In fact, I'd like to meet her. She's beautiful. I'm assuming she's unattached?”

I can't discourage him and claim she's mine. “As far as I know, she's available. But, let me speak to her first and provide an introduction. If I let her know what you want, it will save you some time.”

“I don't care how you handle this, as long as I get my permission.” He gives a predatory grin that I've seen before. “Maybe Ms. Kenzie would like to come to my studio to see my work.”

The talk of Fiona, Kenzie, and the painting has me in a dark mood. Would Kenzie find him suitable? There have been enough articles about Logan with photos of him working in his studio, in a tight, paint-splattered T-shirt. She might, since they named him one of Silicon Valley's most eligible bachelors. Could I stand seeing her on his arm?

“Are you alright, Lochlan?” Logan asks, and I realize I've been brooding in my head and not listening to the conversation.

“Aye, I'm fine.”

He nods, not believing my response. “When I've finished with this exhibition, I'd like to come back and pour for you in the tasting room.”

“It would be good to have you back; we need more associates with your wine knowledge. Patricia is the manager of the tasting room. Get in touch with her and she'll be glad to put you on the schedule.”

He chases a piece of pasta around his plate. “I'll do that.”

I try for some good-natured ribbing to lighten the mood; no need to burden him with my troubles.

“Logan, tell me what appeals to you more, meeting the lassies in the tasting room or being among your kin and wearing a tartan?”

His eyes light with the thought. “I've wanted to explore my roots; since you mentioned my surname is Scottish, I always thought we were English or Irish.”

“Have you forgotten that we're distant relations?”

He chuckles. “Yeah, although that's hard to believe I'm a distant cousin of the MacTavish clan. It's got me thinking ever since you sent me that information on ancestry. I've had a burst of inspiration since working on those photographs. What do you think of a Scottish-themed exhibition at MacTavish Cellars?”

“I don't think it will be a problem; let me discuss it with management.”

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