Heavens, the lengths she went through to speak with the Penn-Leith men.
First traveling to Scotland for Ethan, and now this.
Truthfully, if one of her heroines behaved so ridiculously, Viola feared her readership would rebel at the sheer idiocy.
And yet,sheer idiocynow appeared to be a theme in her life.
Fortunately, it was a lovely evening in early June, the sun lingering long in the sky.
Unfortunately, Malcolm was not quick to appear.
A half-hour passed.
Viola rocked slowly back and forth on the swing, and then began twisting one way and then the next, the two ropes crisscrossing above her head.
A pair of red squirrels darted up an oak on the opposite side of the lane, chittering at one another.
Another quarter-hour passed.
In the distance, cows lowed. A soft breeze rustled through the ferns to her left.
Finally, Viola slumped against one of the swing ropes. Her left leg had gone quite numb, and her head was rather dizzy from the spinning.
Was Malcolm not coming, then? Had he returned home along another path? Or was Ethan’s knowledge of his brother’s habits faulty?
Obviously, she could not remain here all night.
Viola arched her back, stretching her sore muscles.
That initial encounter with Malcolm had likely been an anomaly.
Finally, after another quarter-hour and no sign of Malcolm, Viola bent down to retie her shoe in truth.
He would not be coming. The entire idea had been a mistak—
Beowoof abruptly appeared, rising from the tree-shrouded dip in the lane, loping toward her at a good clip.
Viola sat up higher, watching as Malcolm’s form slowly emerged from the same hollow.
Her heart panged in her chest.
Somehow, he appeared even taller than she remembered, broader in the chest, his ever-present great kilt wrapping across one shoulder and swishing as he walked.
And in that moment, she had an answer to her question—
Why didthisparticular man dominate her thoughts so?
Because he was simply . . . aman.
Amatureman, burnished and tattered from life’s heartbreaks but still striding forward.
In comparison, Ethan appeared a glass-house orchid. Lovely and exotic, to be sure, but temperamental, finicky, and perhaps a little too aware of its own beauty.
Malcolm was hardy heather, able to bloom and thrive in the harshest of conditions.
He stared at the ground, appearing lost in thought. But as if sensing her gaze, he raised his head.
That first lock of their eyes. The giddy butterflies winging through her chest.
