Page 93 of Lochlan

He hazards a glance over his shoulder. The women lounging at the counter stand up straight and smile back at him. He nods at them, continuing to keep his voice barely above a whisper. “All right, if you think it will help. I'll provide the entertainment.”

“I have the sizes in the styles you requested.” The woman offers an enormous pile of clothes. “I'll just put them in your changing room. Are all these clothes in the room now a definite no?”

Geordie glances at me for guidance.

“I don't think we're going to consider them; we'll start again with what you've just brought.”

She scoops up clothing, smiling up at Geordie, and he returns the smile with a nod.

After his fashion show, we select several tops, shorts, sandals, and a few cool baseball caps and place them on the counter. After I drop a couple of pair of sunglasses onto the pile, we're ready to check out.

“You know, you can work out in some of this stuff,” I say, watching the woman ring up his purchases, while the other one bags each item.

“I thought that myself,” he admits. “I haven't had anyone help me pick out my clothing since I was a bairn. Today was enjoyable. I'm looking forward to watching you in the Santa Cruz tournament in a few days and wearing my new gear.”

“That reminds me.” I select a T-shirt, shorts, hat, and sunglasses. “Wear this when you come to see me and you'll fit right in.”

He studies my choices for a bit. “I want to thank you for your help. I'd like to take you to dinner tonight.”

I immediately say yes to the invitation. I'm having fun during this no-pressure day, so why not keep the party going?

Geordie takes back his credit card and grabs his ABC shopping bag. “Is there somewhere you'd like to go for dinner?”

I shrug. “I'll eat just about anything, as long as it doesn't have goat cheese in or on it.” I mug a disgusted face.

He chuckles. “All right, I have your requirements, just leave it to me. I'll pick you up about 7:30. He reflects for a moment. “There's a place in Palo Alto I'd like to try; they call it Fusion. There are probably several things that you might like. Before we go to dinner, I have to drop off a couple cases of wine to a wine club member who wasn't able to pick up his order. It's on the way and it'll save us shipping charges.”

We leave the shop, halting under the broad awning, watching foot traffic hurrying into shops or down the sidewalk while the rain splashes down. I press a button on the handle of my umbrella and a bright burst of yellow shoots out a canopy to protect me from the rain, while Geordie flips up the hood of his jacket.

“Are you sure you want to go out in this tonight?” I ask. “They predict possible flooding in some areas in the South Bay. They've already evacuated Felton and Bonnie Doon.”

He zips his jacket. “I think we'll be alright; we're not going anywhere near that end of the Santa Cruz mountains tonight. The customer lives in Woodside, which is the northern end of the mountain range. I'll take one of the all-wheel-drive trucks from the winery vehicle pool; it should be fine.”

* * *

I keepmy thoughts to myself that traveling up this mountain road in the pouring rain is not the best idea. I have visions of me in my pretty dress and boots helping Geordie push this truck out of the mud. A quick glance at Geordie tells me he's not concerned as we round another tight turn on our way to the wine member's house. “This guy must really be a valued customer if you're willing to drive up here yourself.”

The vehicle takes another turn. Geordie hits the wipers to full tilt to get better visibility. “He buys several cases a month, more when he throws parties. I've been to his house before; it's a bonnie place. We could have a peek at how a billionaire lives.”

“Or I could just visit Ian MacTavish at his manor house on my next visit to Scotland.”

“You could. That drafty mansion in Edinburgh has been in the family for more than a hundred years. This place we're going to is sleek, modern, and has excellent central heating.”

I’m carrying two bottles and I follow Geordie, who's carrying a case of wine under each arm into a large cottage. This short distance from the truck to the front porch has our raincoats soaked. Geordie chucks his chin at the door. “Could you get the door, lass? It's open; he's expecting me.”

Despite the boast of central heating, there's a crackling fire in the rough stone fireplace. We continue inside, and I fear we're dripping a trail through the living room to a large kitchen of steel and dark-gray marble.

Geordie unloads his burden onto the counter and pulls down his hood, while I do the same, looking at the kitchen that doesn't appear to be used much, except for a spread inArchitectural Digest.

“Logan,” Geordie shouts, “come out, man. I've brought your precious cargo.”

When there's no answer, Geordie pulls his phone from his pocket and dials. “Aye, I'm here in your kitchen. Stop whatever you're doing, with whoever you're doing it with, and come here to sign the paperwork.”

A few seconds later, we hear the padding of feet on hardwood floors. A man almost as tall as Geordie appears in gray shirttails and black jeans with a lopsided grin on his face, staring at me. “Kenzie, I want you to meet Logan Haxton.”

I place the bottles I've been carrying on the counter and extend my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

He takes my offered hand and continues to study me. “You need to be careful of Logan,” Geordie warns. “He's a bit of a ladies' man. He's a painter, and if he asks you to model for him in his studio, you can bet you won't have a stitch on.”

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