Not a chance. The visions of Little Orphan Annie were going to give her nightmares for weeks.
In the realm of things, of course it was silly to be attached to her hair, but she was. She’d had long hair her entire life, and maybe she’d gotten a little used to the “you have such pretty hair” comments.
Before they went into the store, he had her tuck her soon-to-be-short hair up into his cap. Inside he was the typical male shopper—quick, impatient, and overly efficient. He pickedup the bare necessities—toothbrushes, toothpaste, deodorant, razor, shaving cream, liquid detergent (presumably to wash out their clothes)—which she added to withherbare necessities of moisturizer, mascara, blush, eyeliner, mousse, and a hairbrush to go with the scissors that he’d tossed in. He frowned at the items before looking at her. “Why do you wear that stuff? You don’t need it.”
She supposed that was a backhanded compliment, but it didn’t matter. “No one does, but I like it.”
Especially if he was making her cut her hair.
Annie wasn’t normally vain, but looking like a drowned rat—a soon-to-be-shorn drowned rat—was bringing out a rather hefty streak of vanity now.
He gave her a whatever shrug and proceeded to the checkout. They passed by a refrigerated display of ready-made sandwiches, sausage rolls—yuck—and salads.
“You hungry?”
This time she knew he was messing with her. She didn’t bother responding. Instead she chose enough food to feed a small army: a caprese sandwich, fruit salad, salt and vinegar chips—or crisps as they were called here—and a couple of hard-boiled eggs.
Proving he was human, Dan doubled down on just about everything.
The store was quiet, and when they reached the checkout, the cashier was unusually talkative for an Islander. Most of the Scots Annie had met to this point were friendly but quiet. This woman was the first but not the second.
Reddish brown hair, apple-cheeked, with the windblown ruddy complexion that seemed commonplace, she had the sturdy build of someone who worked hard for a living outside and lived in green Wellies—a farmer or serious gardener. Maybe both.
“It’s too early for the ferry, so you must have flown in on the eight fifty from Glasgow.”
Dan nodded. “We did.”
Annie was too shocked that the small island had an airport to say anything.
The woman nodded toward the items Dan had just finished pulling from the basket. “And by the looks of it, they lost your luggage? They are usually pretty good with keeping track of bags on those small planes.”
Clearly she was poking around for more information. Dan didn’t disappoint her. “It wasn’t them. It was the international flight before.”
The woman nodded, pleased. She looked back and forth between them. “I thought so. Where are you from, the States?”
“Originally, but I live in Brazil now with my wife.”
“Brazil?” The woman looked at Annie with renewed interest. Annie was still digesting the wife part. “How wonderful.”
“She doesn’t speak much English,” Dan said before the woman could question her.
“You must be here for the windsurfing contest,” the woman said, only too happy to turn back to Dan. “You’re early. Most people won’t start arriving for a couple days.”
Dan gave her a killer grin that even made Annie, who was not the recipient, twitter a little. “How’d you guess?”
He might as well have added “dude” or “brah” to that surfer drawl.
If the woman wasn’t old enough to be his mother, Annie might be more angry by the clearly flirtatious and cheeky grin she gave him. “I can always pick out the athletes.”
Annie was surprised that she didn’t reach out and squeeze one of the muscular arms she was ogling. Apparently Annie wasn’t the only one in the room with a silly weakness for tall and built like a linebacker.
“Any idea where we can pick up a few things until our bags catch up?” he asked.
Annie wanted to snort. Mr. Hard-Ass was laying the laid-back-surfer—windsurfer—thing on a little thick, to Annie’s getting-annoyed mind. But the woman was eating it up.
“There’s a small boutique next to the big hotel. It has mostly women’s things, but Sara has a small men’s section of basics. Tell her Patsy sent you and she’ll take care of you. There are also a couple beach shops for T-shirts, sweatshirts,and bathing suits if you need those. And a charity shop further down the road.”
“That should be plenty to get us through,” Dan said, taking the package that Patsy seemed reluctant to let go of. “Thank you, Patsy.”
