“Well, you won’t have to deal with it once the Americans come, right?” She takes her books to the register. Before I can ask what she’s talking about, over her shoulder, she says, “If you don’t like it, you’re a monster, and I’ll buy you a pint.”
“Deal,” I say.
We take our books to the register, and I hand over my card. Gabby runs it, then tries the number. My cheeks burn as my stomach twists. I should’ve just asked her to hold them, but I thought I had enough to cover it. Kate swoops in, her red nails flashing as she hands over her card. “It’s on me.”
“Kate, you don’t have to.”
“It’s not a problem.”
Gabby swipes Kate’s card. “See you hens next week at the meeting. Skye, I read your latest pages, and I have thoughts. Oh, and if you can stay a little after, my nephew is in town from Edinburgh. He’s very handsome and has a good job in finance.”
“Is he 6’ 5”?” Kate asks, and I kick her behind the counter.
I’m not sure why everyone in town is so set on fixing me up, but not Kate. We’re both twenty-four and single, which in this town is practically unheard of, apparently.
I smile but avoid the question. After the way my last relationship ended, I’m not really interested in meeting anyone, especially not someone who lives nearly four hours away.
As we walk out the door, the cool September air feels amazing on my still-flushed cheeks.
“I get paid Friday. I can get you back then.”
Kate waves me away. “No worries. Once the Americans pay up, you’ll be swimming in it, right?”
The Americans, again? My brain understands all the words coming out of her mouth, but not one of them makes any sense. “What are you talking about?”
Kate’s already pale skin goes an unnatural shade of white. “Um, maybe you should talk to your dad. Oh, look at that…” She glances at her wrist, which has absolutely no watch on it. “I’m going to be late. Gotta run! Call me later.”
Pulling out my phone, I text Dad.
Me:Are you home? We need to talk.
He replies with a link to aYou Heard Firstarticle.
What the hell is going on?
I didn’t know Dad readYHF—he’s not really interested in celebrity gossip, that I know of.
Miles Casey’s career isn’t over yet.Hollywood heartthrob and the star of the box office flop Clean Up Hitter (featuring him as a washed-up pitcher and Travolta as a talking baseball) was recently spotted at Paris International Airport waiting on a flight to Scotland.
Sources close to Casey tell YHF he’s been preparing for the leading role in the latest Natalie Rodriguez film at his LA bungalow. The role as a Scottish recluse is a departure from his recent family-friendly and arguably terrible films to a film with what our source called “substance.” He’s been hitting the gym to?—
I stop reading. When I was younger, I had a massive crush on Miles Casey. I must’ve seenUndercover Quarterbacka billion times. He has dark eyes that made my heart race. They twinkle when he laughs and simmer when he looks at the love interest in the movie. I went down the full rabbit hole and read every magazine article about him I could get my hands on. Not only was he smoking hot, but he also volunteered at beach clean-ups and visited children’s hospitals. My crush was so overpowering that I even sent him fan mail. I close my eyes, cringing at the thought of it.
Dad used to tease me about it a fair amount, but that was over ten years ago.
Me:What’s with the article?
Three dots appear, disappear, then reappear.
Dad:Be home soon. Explain l8tr. Love you. Dad
Not only is that not an answer, but he insists on signing his texts. Putting my earbuds in, I press play on my favorite album at the moment. Mick Jagger fills my ears with a gutturalyeah,and sparklers ignite along my spine; all thoughts of Miles Casey fade to the background as I ride down the road toward home.
The pearly sky, flecked with dark-gray clouds, makes the hills look even greener,and in the distance, the loch sparkles. The crisp morning air rushes against my cheeks as a light drizzle mists everything with a glossy shine. Taking off my hat, I let the rain and wind run through my hair. I pedal harder and picture myself waving to Bessie and Nessie, our highland cows that like to hang out by the road, but when I round the corner, I throw on the brakes instead.
Standing there, whispering quietly and petting Bessie over the fence is Miles Casey —the Miles Casey.
In a kilt, no less.
