“Ahh, here it is.”
I take it from him, hoping that on the scrap of paper is some note for me. Something like:
My dearest Skye,
Please text me, and I will return post haste. I have only gone because I could not stand that I angered you, my red-haired beauty. I know we have only known each other for a matter of hours, but my feelings for you are as bright as a raging fire. Our connection was instant. Tell me you feel it too, and I will come running back.
Yours,
Miles
Not that I have any of those feelings for him. Not that he would suddenly turn into a Victorian nobleman either. Post haste? Who says that? Maybe I should be writing historical fiction. Or maybe I should lay off theBridgerton.
The paper only says Miles next to a scrawled, almost illegible number.
“Did he leave this for me or for you?”
Dad chews his eggs. Suddenly he’s worried about speaking with his mouth full. I’ve had entire conversations with the man through a rack of lamb. Where are these manners coming from?
“He just handed it to me and said here’s my number.”
I put the paper in my pocket and charge out of the kitchen.
MILES
When I woke up this morning after doing my two-minute plank, I looked up the bus schedule and made a plan. I tried apologizing, but she just ignored me, and I’ve found in situations like this, it’s best to give it a little space. It couldn’t hurt my character development to have some time on my own and explore Scotland a bit.
Callum graciously agreed to drive me to where the bus picks up. When he dropped me off, he said, “You don’t have to leave. Skye gets like this. She’ll tire of being angry and come around. Eventually.”
“It’s fine. She has every right to be upset. It’s an invasion of her privacy.” And it was all my fault. “Besides, it’ll be good to see a little of the surrounding area. My character is supposed to live and breathe Scotland.”
“Aye.”
Before I left the car, I gave him my number. I thought about leaving a note for Skye, too, but if she didn’t want to speak to me last night, she probably doesn’t want to hear from me this morning. What would I say, anyway? I cringe, remembering how I called her stunning. It’s true, but she must think of me as a lovesick puppy.
I’ve been walking around Foyers since. The streets are charmingbut small, and before I know it, I’m at the edge of the loch. The water is smooth this morning, like glass, not a ripple of movement in sight. But my eyes still scan, hoping I’ll see something. I stare until my face is so cold my cheeks are numb.
I find a local pub that’s already open for breakfast. An older woman greets me with a warm smile. “Ahh, you must be one of the film people?”
I return her smile. “Is it obvious I’m not from around here?”
“Aye. Too bonnie, for one. You must be the star.”
I laugh. But can’t deny it. “Apparently so.”
“I’m Margie. It’s nice to meet you. Have a seat, and I’ll fix you up.”
After a filling and delicious breakfast of eggs on top of the most scrumptious hash I’ve ever tasted, I sip my coffee and look out at Loch Ness again. It’s massive, the water receding into the horizon like it has no end. In the cool morning, a heavy mist, almost as thick as clouds, hovers over the water and clings to the tops of the trees as if the atmosphere is too tired to rise into the sky. Ahh, Skye.
What is it about her? She’s beautiful, sure, but it’s more than that. There’s something in her eyes. A challenge, but also a promise. Passion. That’s it. She’s filled to bursting with so much passion.I wish I had even half that much fire for anything in my life.
“Looking for the monster?” Margie stirs me out of my thoughts, topping up my coffee.
I smile. “Yeah.” Better that than admit I’m indulging a schoolboy-style crush while simultaneously having an existential crisis. “Ever seen it?”
“Aye.”
I freeze with my coffee midway to my mouth. She can’t be serious.
