“To be honest, I don’t recall adding salmon to my list for the food delivery.”
“That’s because you didn’t. I bought it. I thought maybe cooking dinner would convince you to let me stay that first night, but you already had the pizza thawing, so I went with that instead.”
“Probably a good thing because fish would not have won me over,” she laughed.
“I usually make it with dilly cream cheese, but this should be fine,” he told her, taking a large satisfying bite.
Nora eyed the sandwich, contemplating her level of hunger. A little voice inside her head nagged her to try something new. Getting outside of her comfort zone to help find her way was the whole idea behind the trip, after all. At that moment, her stomach emitted another audible growl that even Alistair couldn’t ignore.
“You better listen to your stomach. It knows best,” he joked, taking another bite.
Nora brought the sandwich up to her nose, taking in the medley of scents—the rich, smoky woodiness mixed with the briny scent of the fish and the enticing creaminess of the cheese. To her surprise, the first bite, cautious and small, was delicious, so she took a larger bite.
“See, I told ya,” Alistair remarked, raising his eyebrows.
They lingered in the candlelight, savoring their meal. Eventually, they cleaned up and returned to the living room, where a partially emptied whisky bottle awaited. While Alistair set two candles from the kitchen on the coffee table, Nora walked over to the bookcase.
“I read some of that book on Scottish folklore last night. There are some really interesting tales in there. What do you make of all the magical creatures and gods and goddesses of old? Do you think they really existed?” she asked, running her fingers across the old books that lined the shelves.
“That’s a hard question to answer. The journalist side of my brain thinks if you searched deep enough, most of those stories stem from some sort of truth. The stories were told so many times that they became twisted and spun into magical tales over the years. Then there is a part of me that believes that deep in the Scottish mountains there is ancient magic still alive. My rational mind always fights the part of me that wants to believe in magic and most of the time wins,” he said, taking another sip of whisky.
“I know what you mean,” Nora said under her breath, tucking a book back that she had pulled out. She turned around to face Alistair, curious to see his expression as she asked, “What about fate and coincidences? Do you believe in those things?”
Alistair paused, his gaze drifting toward the flickering candlelight. “I’m not entirely sold on fate,” he began slowly, his words mingling with the aroma of whisky in the air. “It feels like we carve our own paths in life, but then again, sometimes life throws unexpected curveballs that make you question everything.” He paused, taking another sip of whisky, the amber liquid glinting in the dim light.
“My mum used to work as a cleaning lady at The Crossroads Inn in Broxburn when I was a teenager. I was at a bit of a crossroads myself after finishing uni, not really sure what I wanted to do.” A faint sparkle danced in his eyes as he recalled the memory.
“One day, the woman who cleaned with my mum called in sick, and I had to step in and help her because there was a big business conference happening that evening in town. I had just finished tidying the last room on the second floor when I bumped into a man coming out of the stairwell,” he said, the memory painting his features with a sense of nostalgia.
“Turns out, it was the owner ofTartan and Thistle. We struck up a conversation, and six months later, I was working there. If it hadn’t been for that woman calling in sick that day, who knows where I’d be now? I guess one might call that fate or maybe it was just perfect timing.”
“I would say that was fate.” Nora smiled. “And what about unexplainable coincidences?”
Alistair’s eyes met hers, a hint of skepticism in his expression.
“Sure, strange things happen. Maybe the universe has a quirky sense of humor. But are they played like a hand of cards by something bigger than us, like a god? I’m not entirely sold on that,” he said as the shadow from the candlelight moved on the wall behind him, like the shadows of the very gods he questioned.
Lost in thought, Nora felt the butterflies return to her stomach as she watched him. She wished she could have blamed thefeeling on too much alcohol, but there was no more denying it—she was falling for the very man she could barely tolerate only a few days ago. She was falling for Alistair Grant.
Chapter Thirty-One
A Spark of Panic
The shadows danced around them to the sounds of the crackling logs, making the ancient discussions of fate and coincidence feel like a timeless exchange between two souls.
As Nora pondered Alistair’s words, she turned back around, letting her fingers glide over the spines of the books once again. One particular book caught her eye, and she pulled it from the shelf:The Unfortunate Travellerby Thomas Nashe. The title sparked a memory; where had she heard it before? Then recognition hit her like a wave—the little red book. It was the same book that Cora had told the duchess about during their dinner at the castle.
She pulled the book from the shelf, turning it in her hands. The serendipity of finding this particular book at this momentwasn’t lost on her. As she contemplated fate and its mysteries, the book seemed like a sign, a subtle nod from the universe.
Nora carefully thumbed through its pages, releasing the scent of aged paper and dust into the air. Closing the book, she returned it to its place on the shelf, her mind racing with all the bizarre things that had happened to her in just a few days since she stepped foot in Scotland.
“You know, I do think it’s strange that they have all these old rare books here. I wonder what the story is behind them?” Nora mused, turning around to find Alistair looking at her in a way she had not expected. A hint of longing showed in his eyes, for a fleeting moment before he looked away.
“I’m curious too. Why don’t we do a bit of digging?” he suggested, pulling his phone back out of his pocket. “Okay, we better do this quick; I only have ten percent of my battery left.”
He searched for the cabin rentals on Airbnb and then delved into researching the history of the rental company that owned them. A halo of blue light from his phone lit his face in the dim room, casting him in an ethereal light while he scrolled.
“It’s a small family-run business. Husband and wife, it looks. They have bought three parcels of land in the past four years and built tiny holiday cottages on them. One in Inverness, one in Carnach, and this one here in Letterfearn,” he said, reading from his phone. He scrolled for a few more minutes until he came upon something interesting.
