"Gretchen Carver."
"How did you know?"
Iona smiles."Everyone knows you're searching for her.And I can tell ye exactly where she is."
"Tell me then."
Her smile turns into a wide grin as she laughs."She's standing right behind ye,gràidh."
Chapter Seven
Gretchen
The nice gray-haired Scottish lady who told me I should go to the newspaper office never explained why I should do that.She said her name was Mrs.McKinley, and she'd been eating an Empire biscuit at the time, delicately breaking off chunks to avoid getting powdered sugar on the doily.I'd never heard of Empire biscuits until today.Is it a Scottish thing?Or a British thing?Maybe it's both.
"Ye ask for Iona," she'd said, eyes twinkling over the rim of her teacup, "and tell her Elsie McKinley sent ye.She'll ken what to do."
Which would've sounded more like a spy mission if we weren't standing inside a church hall, flanked by three crumbling statues of St.Michael slaying the devil and one glowering portrait of Robert the Bruce.But if there's anything I've learned in the past two days, it's that small towns run on secrets the way the rest of the world runs on data coverage.
So, I obey Mrs.McKinley's advice---partly because the gray sky suddenly decided to dump bucketfuls of rain on me.I rush toward the squat stone building labeled "THE LOCH FAIRBAIRN DAILY NEWS."I'm soggy from head to toe, and I have never felt more like a duck in my whole life than I do right now.As I slip inside the newspaper office, the clang of the bell on the door makes me jump.All I can do is stand here with my clothes and hair drenched.
My arrival has triggered a tinkling bell that alerts my presence.The other two people inside the office take notice of me too.And I suddenly recognize the muscular figure before me, despite only seeing his back.I've seen and fondled every inch of that body.
It's Kirk Balfour, the jackass who did the old screw-and-run routine on me.Well, it was more like screw-and-get-kicked-out-the-door.Either way, I wish with all my might that I could slug him in the gut.
The woman who stands behind the newspaper's desk---Iona, I presume---speaks to the jackass whose body prevents me from seeing anything else in this space.I want to evince righteous indignation.But I'm too soggy to pull that off.
Kirk blocks my way, and yup, it's impossible not to gawk at that body, that stance, the way he cocks one hip against the counter, portraying cocky attitude and casual disinterest all at once.And he's still facing away.On purpose, I bet.Since I've become frozen in this spot, I can't help noticing his clothes.A soft flannel shirt, the kind with pearl snaps that always makes guys seem just a little more touchable.I can't tell whether the woman behind the desk is the mysterious Iona, or even if she's friend or foe.My worldview has condensed to Kirk's rippling back muscles, Kirk's tight jeans, and Kirk's bulging biceps.
But oh, that sexy body...
Don't think about the jerk.Grr, how I wish I could whack him in the head hard enough that he won't wake up again until after I've left the country.
Kirk glances over his shoulder at me.Naturally, he aims that cocky smirk at me.Like a cartoon character, his eyebrows hike up and then lower into a frown as if he's debating whether to bolt out the nearest window.I stare back, not blinking, trying to project the vibes of "you don't make me tingly inside just seeing you, and I definitely don't give a hoot if I ever see you again."
I mean, after I leave the newspaper office I won't care.
When did I revert to teenage behavior?I blame Heather for that, with all her Gen Z slang.I'm a proud Millennial.
The woman behind the desk stops talking mid-sentence.
I stand here with my rain-soaked hair still dripping onto my clothes, and my sneakers making that embarrassing squelch on the tile.The three of us share a moment where we pretend this collision is completely unremarkable.Kirk clears his throat.Iona---at least, by elimination, she clearly is Iona---leans sideways, peering around Kirk's linebacker shoulders.
"Elsie sent you," Iona states matter-of-factly."Well, at least you two bloody eejits finally found each other again.
I throw my hands up."Don't rope me into this weird Scottish game you people are playing.I'm outta here."
Just as I begin to turn away, Kirk spins around, seizing my wrist, and stares at me intently.His gaze feels like laser beams boring into my brain."Dinnae leave, Gretchen.Please.Let me take you to lunch and explain why, ah...Well, I'd rather do my explaining in a less public place."
"Do you mean mansplaining?"
"Whatever that is, I dinnae ken."
"Never mind."No hot, naked sex for you this time, jackass.If you want it, you've got to earn it.
Kirk clasps my hands in an almost endearing manner.Then he gazes deeply into my eyes and smiles in the sweetest, most honest way.I think he genuinely means what he just said.
A sigh rushes out of him."What do ye say, lass?"
